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.

Catching Crabs in Colombia

Tayrona Park is a spiritual center of the pre-Incan natives of the North Colombian coast and the site of the world’s highest coastal mountain range. Just a decade or two ago this area was a big no-no for tourists; cocaine trafficking paramilitary groups used to control the area. These guys didn’t see gringos as humans, per say; they saw them more as a case of shiny new assault rifles thanks to mommy and daddy’s love and savings account. Tayrona is currently managed by a big hospitality corporation which has done well to build extravagant and exorbitantly priced beach front lodges, and the Colombian government has apparently done well to clean out the area of guerillas. Now this beautiful area is receiving a full-on gringo invasion, but the further in you go, the less fluffy white robes and mai tais are present, and the more once in a lifetime wilderness experiences materialize.

When hiking in hot weather, one should cool down
anyway possible.

After taking a cab with a Lil Wayne aficionado who’s forever banned to enter the US due to an illegal stay of over a decade in New York (see previous entry), we arrived at Tayrona. There were old Colombian men with horses attempting to push 10 minute rides on folks who had just arrived, with prices plummeting as we showed less interest (20 thousand... ok 14 thousand... ok 3 thousand!). The first ‘ecolodge’ (read luxury hotel in the jungle) we passed had big dumpsters outside; instead of raccoon, Cayman were digging through the trash, it was like a homeless Jurassic Park—my dreams were already coming true. We made our way down to the beaches and arrived at the ‘camping area’ in the mid afternoon. This ‘camping area’ turned out to be a field with a volleyball net, a restaurant, a covered area, and about 40 square feet with as many shitty tents and hammocks as they could stuff inside it. It was kind of like a KOA, but without the campers and NASCAR shirts. We decided to beat the system and go to the deserted cove next door (roughly 400 yards from the restaurant) and hang our hammocks there, forgoing the 10 dollars they were charging in the gringo ghetto dubbed the ‘camping area.’

The next day, faced with the dilemma of more possibly lame camping at the beaches further into the park or leaving, we opted to chance it and check out Playa Brava. After 4 hours of pretty intense hiking up and down hills in humid 100 degree Caribbean Jungles, we started hearing ocean waves. The jungle opened up into a lush field with an empty pool, a dilapidated volleyball net, some shacks, and cabanas. Past the cabanas was a giant, pristine, white-sand laden cove with 6 to 8 foot waves crashing upon each other. Our inner children took the reins and we sprinted for the monstrous surf; for the next half hour, we were 6 year olds being thrown around like rag dolls by the forces of nature.

We found out later that Playa Brava started out as a cocaine shipping port, due to its remoteness and proximity to the Caribbean and US. As a cover, they installed a swimming pool, volley ball court and a few half built buildings and called it a resort under construction. As the smuggling shifted away from the Caribbean and to the Pacific, there still remained a really sweet vacation spot. The buildings were never finished (and the shells are still there) and a few Cabanas were built next to the beach. Andres, a Colombian writer who weathered the intense hike out to Playa Brava, said that he had been coming here for almost 20 years now, and literally nothing had changed about the place, which he attributes to the difficulty of getting there and the laziness of Colombians to undergo the hike and eventually trash the place.

To the left....

To the right...

On the far end of the cove there was a river that fed into the ocean with mangroves growing around it. While checking it out, we spotted blue crabs. We felt it would be quite appropriate, since we were pretty much in the middle of nowhere with minimal clothing and food, to unleash the hunters inside us. We crafted devices made out of sticks, duct tape, and knives and went about capturing hard-shelled protein sources. We devised a pretty decent system by nightfall, and equipped with our head lamps and spears, we would corner crabs, pin them down with our make-shift tools and grab them from behind by hand. After a few hours we had a pot full of crabs to boil on the beach with the few other adventurous souls that took the hike out.

The cabanas and jungle behind the beach...

The folks that ran the place were a husband and wife, their kids, and one other guy. They lived in a little house in the middle of the property and had a few light bulbs powered by a car battery. Once a week Francisco, the other guy, would take a donkey into town and load it up with supplies—this was pretty much the extent of their outside world connection.

Bonfire with other folks that made the hike out, a couple of writers (left), Ludo (closest), a couple of Googlers (Center), and me and Fatimah.

Blue crabs roasting on an open fire... I know, pretty boss...

After a few days in Playa Brava, one could really start rethinking their life; electricity starts to not seem all that necessary, simple food starts to seem pretty acceptable, and anyplace else in the world starts to seem overcrowded and stressful. We didn’t need millions of LED lights from a TV screen or a busy road full of bars for entertainment—sitting on the beach at night was a subtle but satisfying feast for the senses; jungle noises behind us, ocean crashing in front, stars above us, salt water in our nostrils, and thoughts of simpler times in our heads… well, let’s just say it was a struggle to leave.