Goin Goan Vol. II: Election Time

The first few weeks I spent in Goa were the build-up to elections, which provided a great deal of inconveniences to those who drink, go out, and drive without a license (which I was all 3 of).

After a few days of doing work at a Café Coffee Day© down the road (think more playful and bright colored Starbucks with lame jokes on the walls and menus e.g. ‘Pull to shed calories’ signs on the doors) and then jamming and drinking with Anirban and his roommates at night, I booked a bus ticket to head South to Kerala. The gods of bus travel disapproved, however, and my bus was cancelled.

Instead of getting another bus ticket, I decided to stay in Goa—I mean, why not? I had a place to stay with cool roommates, a motorbike, and tropical beaches all around me.

The only thing wrong with my surroundings was that they were undergoing elections.

In the few weeks prior to the bi-annual culmination of democracy in the state of Goa, the incumbent government likes to piss everyone in the state off by instating strict laws on curfews, noise ordinances, and alcohol sales, as well as an increased police presence at certain high traffic areas.

I’m not quite sure why they do this, I am convinced that no one really feels any safer when the Goan police are around; these guys pretty much just hang out at certain intersections and pull people over. They then proceed to write your name down on a clip board and usually ask for money (from the white folks, at least). I found out later that some of them like musicians more so I always kept my guitar on my back; one time I actually sang my way out of them fining some Russians I was hanging out with for not wearing helmets.  

Another part about elections that puzzles me is the dry days. In Latin America they prohibit the sale of alcohol the day before and the day of elections, presumably to have a more responsible, or at least less drunk, voter base. In Goa, they choose four seemingly random days per week in the two weeks prior to elections to ban all alcohol sales. If anything, we actually got drunker on dry days because we would stock up prior and it seemed like more of an event, a drinking holiday of sorts.

Then there was the noise ordinance that kept loud music from being played after 11pm for the two weeks prior to elections, because any fool knows a rock concert 12 days before you choose your local leaders will surely cause you to make a regrettable choice. I wouldn’t have had quite the problem with this rule that I did except some popular clubs had apparently paid the cops off to have late night parties any way, and all these clubs specialized in 220 bpm bass heavy electronic shit, oops I mean ‘trance.’ I found myself at least twice at said parties, wondering why I was there and not at home getting some rest.

It’s hard to believe it, but I survived the dreaded election time with minimal emotional scarring. And it would have taking a lot more than illogical party bans to keep me from smiling whilst I sat upon my steel-horse (read scooter) and cruised around a tropical paradise.

Goin Goan Vol. I

From time to time it is a fun thought experiment to consider how small decisions we make end up shaping our fate and future; for me and my trip in India, it was mustering up the courage to jump on stage and wail out ‘Red House’ as performed  by Jimi Hendrix with a local band that would shape the next 6 months of my life.

My friends had left, and I had just gotten a new editing assignment, so I figured I would stay in my cheap and clean guest room for another few days, paying my landlord on a day to day basis as to avoid paperwork (he told me that booking for 3 days or more would warrant paper work, with a dreadful tone of voice. Between my desire to feel off the grid and his lack of desire to fill out forms, we settled on me giving him cash roughly every morning). I also met some lovely Australian girls with a fondness for partying, so my days consisted of posting up at a beach shack and editing a journal on the provincial economies of China and then drinking heavily with a posse of ladies from the land down under.

They told me of an all you can eat seafood buffet with live music that was the cat’s pajamas at one of the original beach shacks at Anjuna beach (a party destination known throughout the subcontinent). I personally feel a bit guilty gorging on food when surrounded by poverty—or any time for that matter—but the live music caught my attention.

Anjuna beach is a long stretch of beach lined with shacks that fulfill most all beach going needs: shade, music, alcohol, people, hash, food, drinking water etc. There are hippy markets on both the North and South side of the town where you can score any last minute beach needs or tapestries.

In the stead of dinner, I drank Kingfisher© strong beer—the  thicker, more filling, sibling of the ubiquitous Indian beer. Despite the more than ample energy the band was giving off, no one was dancing, so I took it upon myself to be the crowd I always wish I had; I let my hair down and rocked the F out. Before too long, a dance party had commenced.

The guitar player/vocalist was wailing, shredding, jumping up and down, screaming, yelling, and all the other –ing verbs you would want a guitar hero to be doing. I felt a certain connection with him; his licks were not unlike mine, albeit better executed. His choice of songs was eclectic and at times ironic and humorous, at least by my standards (you know, like Bob Marley at Starbucks or something). His in between song banter was dry and funny. I liked this guy; he was good people.

The always necessary blues number began—‘Red House’ as performed by Jimi Hendrix. The music was tight, but the vocals were seriously lacking; I figured I could do better. I gestured to the microphone, and the guitar hero gestured back yes.

After performing a number of songs with them that night, and having a plethora of drinks bought for me by people who appreciated what I had added to the evening, the clock struck midnight, meaning the music had to stop (this was my first experience with Goa's election time noise ordinance; I will address Goan elections at some point in the near future).

I joined the band for a post-performance smoke. I introduced myself to the guitar hero and told him I loved his style, he responded back with something similar and invited me to his apartment the next day to jam and crash for a day or two. This was the start of me and Anirban’s fruitful friendship.

I packed up and the next day hopped on a bus to Panjim, the capital and port city of Goa, as well as Anirban’s place of residence. He picked me up from the bus station on his sports bike and took me through Panjim, along the water. We crossed over a river that emptied into the bay on the right and was lined with old Portuguese style buildings to the left. Then we passed by downtown, a bustling urban area with some taller buildings to the left and casino boats in the bay on the right, all lit up with neon signs connoting royalty or luck or the likes (despite the 30 cent minimum bets and my love for casinos, I never made it out). Then we passed down a recently revamped road lined with new, old-looking, LED street lights. This long straight road was the site of Anirban’s most recent bike wreck—a comforting piece of information to hear as we are swerving through buses and cars going 60 mph.

The apartment was big and covered in posters of late and great rockstars. The guy who lived above Anirban heard us jamming and came and knocked on the door and offered beers and hash; we welcomed him and his gifts. This was Antonio, a super cool and passionate Spaniard from the Basque country who was really into sustainable farming. We spent the night playing songs and watching youtube videos of musicians we admired.

I felt quite comfortable in the apartment from day one—it was definitely a quintessential bachelor pad; full ash trays, dirty dishes, burn marks on the glass table, a toilet with a thin film covering, signifying the avoidance of scrubbing, and many other tell-tale signs that very few women enter the premises. Little did I know at that point that this would become my place of residence for the next two and a half months as I continued goin Goan.

The Coffee Shop Business

It was not my dream to own a fucking coffee shop. It was not my dream to see my fucking town—my beautifully simple town—turn into a fucking tourist trap.

I have lived in Goa for all 42 years of my life, and I have watched the trash, both literally and figuratively, from the rest of the world come in and pollute my home. Goa is not India, Goa is Goa. We didn’t want the Portuguese to leave, we liked what we had going; we had a perfect blend of Mediterranean simplicity and South Asian wisdom.  Now it’s a bunch of fucking Indians and Russians and whoever else on holiday dirtying our beaches with plastic bags and semen.  My kids can’t even ride their bikes on the street, like I did, without running the risk of some coked up, tripping, novice motorbiking piece of shit running them over .

My family sold our cashew farms, in part because of me. I didn't want to be a farmer and my dad knew it; I wanted to be a business man. I wanted to jet around the world, adorn my body with precious metals, and fuck lots of white women, all of which require a lot of money—more than cashews can provide. Now, instead of lamping in the Hamptons and falling in love in Paris and Moscow, I am selling coffees to Indians and foreigners at prices that equate to daily wages a block down the street.

I make enough to drive a decent car and keep my family in utilities, but I will never get over the fact that I have failed as a business man; I have not, and never will, achieve my dreams.

A commercial came on this morning that ruined my day. It was for Tata cars, or Kingfisher Air, or Johnson and Johnson—I can’t remember; but it featured a father working in Dubai and face chatting on an iPad with his 9 year old son. First of all, I want to be working in fucking Dubai; second of all, all I have is a fucking daughter, and she is so fat and ugly that I am probably going to have to spend half my bank account to get somebody to marry her; and thirdly, I was an early adopter, and my fucking iPad 1 doesn’t have video chat capability.

I thought about this while I had my morning tea, I thought about this on the drive to the coffee shop, I thought about this as I walked into the colorful and joyous hell hole I was the owner of.

And now this fuckhead waiter’s drawer is 200 rupees short.

I visit my place twice a week, and make sure the numbers are what they need to be; they are pretty good this week, but this motherfucker has somehow lost almost 2 coffees worth of rupees in the 2 hours the store has been open.

I can’t hold it in, plus I pay more than anybody else around so I can get away with letting loose on my workers. I scream at him. I call him a piece of shit peon. I call him the laziest Indian alive. I say his mother did a shit job of raising him. I say his father set a bad example for him. None of these words are making me feel better, though; the rage is still boiling up in me. I grab his arm and squeeze; he jumps back. I almost slap him. I have to keep my cool though, the foreigners are all looking now. I tell him to go to the utility closet. He doesn’t want to. I threaten to fire him. He contemplates this and ultimately hangs his head and drags his feet towards the closet.

I follow afterwards, put him over my knee, and spank the fuck out of him. For about 3 minutes I channel all the rage inside me into the palm of my hand. By the end of the spanking session I feel much better, and I feel as though I can make it at least one more week in the coffee shop business.