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I didn't really want to go to Goa because it sounded a bit generic, like a package-holiday nightmare in Spain. It did, in the end, resmble the Iberian Penninsula but in a really fantastic and interesting way. Where we were based, the state capital Panaji, is still dominated by Catholicism and its Portuguese heritage, comprised as it is almost entirely by Portuguese style housing and magnificent churches and cethedrals. We stayed in a partly open-plan house dating from the 1930's, run by an extremely friendly but pious elderly man: he maintains a strict 10pm curfew, 8am check-out time and ensures that no guest is ever short of religious iconography. (We had a picture of the Madonna, as opposed to the image we have here now in Hampi of a young Hindu deity suckling on a cow - have they never read Leviticus 18? I wanted to use square brackets there but I've just squished a mosquito on the left sided key and it's now covered in someone's blood; the curved brackets will have to do for all kinds of tangents and parenthetical bonus extras.) The three generations of family descending from him live in the downstairs section that opens directly onto the small garden, whilst we are tucked away up in one of two rickitty attic sections. It was fantastic to be in a real family home, to be up (without choice, of course) early enough to see the wee boy of 5 off to school, and generally to feel so welcome.
In fact, Panaji was the place where I shared my first genuine cross-cultural sentiment with an Indian who didn't have a pecuniary motive...Although, on reflection, he was the ticket man and I was handing him money at the time. Nonetheless, he wasn't trying to sell me anything or scam me. We shared a chuckle about the fact that I had exactly 16 rupees ready to pay him for myself and Jenny's bus fare to Anjuna. He didn't speak English, but I think he was saying 'where on earth did YOU get a denomination of Rupees smaller than one hundred, 50, or even 10??!!' to which I replied 'I asked for small money when buying water, to save you giving us ALL of your money just so we can use this bus. you're welcome!' (all done with a chuckle; hence, a genuine sentiment. No? Ok then. I might have read a bit much into that one, but still I was one of the very few foreigners on this very-much-for-local-people bus who weren't trying to use Maestro cards, travellers cheques or 1000 Rs bills. And I appreciated my own bleeding heart, cross-cultural, bridge-building gesture even if he and nobody else did.)
We weren't sure what to expect from Anjuna because it was described to us as being 'developed', meaning in our heads that it would be like Phuket, Bali, or Magaluf. Instead, there were some cows, some dried padi fields waiting for the monsoon, a good few scooters and tuk tuks, two elephants, some ramshackle wooden huts for tourists, and a few wooden bars and cafes on the deck chair-free beach. Not a hotel or an amusement arcade in sight. We had to walk for about 2.5kms just to reach the beach after alighting from our second bus. It was Wednesday, the highlight of the week in Anjuna, market day. Unfortunately, it was full of trinkets and souvenoirs, with a few interesting exceptions like spices, and so didn't seem to fulfil any economic function between the locals, only as a means for them to make money from tourism. Ashame to see an area dependent on tourism like that. Then again, many of the stalls were set up by tribal people and some Tibetan refugees: great that they have somewhere to make money, just ashame they were trying to cater for us I suppose.
Anyway, the (in)famous reputation of Goa is based on the Hippies, and they did not disappoint. The market spilled out onto the beach and completely overran the local bars and so on. So we sat in a bar on stilts, overhanging a strange rock formation that looked like Seal: black, acned. We had the chance to hear the real sound of Goa, some chilled out grooves. On stage were four bearded Amy Winehouses mumbling incoherently for minutes on end about 'I love you under the sun...in the desert...in the deepest jungle', 'we are the world', and the philosophical 'I climbed that mountain, and that mountain was myself'. It sounded likeHendrix with the tuning pegs slowly unravelling.We laughed because, despite them being stoned mountaineers of the self, Ian would still have been up at the front giving them respect, giving them 5s, if he was steaming.
We were glad to get back to our wee pious household in Panaji that night (before 10pm,of course).
Hope everyone is well.
Love,
Colin x x x
P.s. Old Goa (the crumbling old part of Panaji) houses the amazing remains of St Francis Xavier, at one of the most famous Catholic sites in the world. His body refused to decay, so the Vatican sent out two cardinals to investigate. They stuck their fingers inside a wound they inflicted on his side and his blood was indeed still blood, there was no sign of enbalming! He's a saint now. But his body is scattered all over Goa. We didn't actually make it to the site becuase we are still not very well. Still, Saint Francis Xavier is with us in spirit - he travelled all the way out here without a Lonely Planet! In fact it was 1600 or so, so he must have done it by scooter or bicycle. It's a good story. Good night.
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