Sacred Cows and Beach Hippies

Maybe because it took us so long to get to Goa, my sister and I had high expectations for our time there: white sand beaches, turquoise waters, fresh seafood, a plethora of sports and activities, and a great nightlife. We were expecting a meeting place for like-minded socially conscious backpackers, an Indian Zanzibar. Perhaps we were misguided by our guidebook, or perhaps we misunderstood what Goa was all about, but we found almost none of the above. Instead, we were confronted with the grim and grimy town of Anjuna.

The streets of Anjuna are lined with small tourist-trap road shacks selling identical cheap crafts and clothing. Small herds of humpbacked cows crowd around palm trees, seeking refuge from the hot midday sun. The paths leading down to the beach are crowded with street kids begging and young men simultaneously catcalling and selling drugs. Once you finally make it onto the beach, the assault continues. Hawkers selling fruit, massages, henna, bags, and cheap sunglasses stake their claims over sections of the beach. I can imagine them having territorial disputes, “these are my white people!” History sometimes reverses itself, bizarrely leaving power dynamics intact.
Children swarm around and literally pull you into their respective shops. But any resistance to their pestering is met with wide-eyed pleading and promises of low prices. They actually grab your arm or hand, a disconcerting violation of personal space that makes me want to both slap them and adopt them and take them all home with me. I can tell my sister is struggling with these same issues, as she sits next to me furiously scribbling in her notebook.

Most of the other tourists on the beach are of the crunchy hippie variety: leathery tan skin, a smattering of tattoos and piercings, the occasional dreadlock. They lay on the sand, baked and baking in the sun, no doubt recovering from their acid trip at previous evening’s rave.


I am so turned off by this disingenuous "drink til you drop dead" scene (see sign above) that I seek out other activities. I can't stand the beach and all of those kids, so I want to avoid it altogether. Instead, we take the time to actually visit Goa. We explore the old Portuguese cities, which include highlights such as a mini replica of the St. Peter's Basilica and lots of brightly painted houses reminiscent of the Bo-Kaap neighborhood in Cape Town. I also drag my sister along to a couple of amazing 8am yoga classes, which leave us both feeling centered and happy, but incredibly sore a few hours later.

Despite the daily annoyances and unfilled expectations, I'm glad we went to Goa. Not only to be able to plant the little flag and say "I have been there," but also because it stirred up a lot of challenging questions about the clashes between privilege and poverty, the potential for socially conscious and environmentally sustainable tourism, and ultimately the responsibility of us as travelers and global citizens.

My sister's thoughts on India

A perspective from my sister and travel companion:

As a small toddler reaches out to me, with a stub as a substitute for his arm, begging for money, on the beaches of Anjuna, Goa, I feel a sudden urge to write. I have only been in India for four days now, but it feels like so much longer. Arriving in India was startling, to say the least. After having been picked up at the Kochi airport, I got my first taste of the culture, watching for an hour and a half, behind the tinted windows of the taxi, feeling rather safe and excluded. Underneath the enormous commercial billboards, portraying a dreamy life unknown to the villagers, laid the life of Kerala. Skinny men talking and walking slowly, with their button-down shirts and mundus, were surrounded by stray cows, dogs and the occasional elephants. No woman walked alone, but families and friends gathered onto motorcycles in the dangerous and crowded streets. Little stands and broken-down buildings had signs in front of them for all sorts of merchandise, but they were empty, at the exception of some lonely shelves and a wrinkled woman, hunched over on a chair, squinting at the bright light of the sun and tired of the slow business. The odor of burnt trash fills the air, as the dusty ground is littered everywhere and no garbages are in sight.
Such things I took for granted previously- why weren't there any waste baskets around? And why were so many buildings run down? These seemed like easy problems to fix and at first, I was shocked by their presence. I had prepared myself psychologically for poverty and hunger before I arrived, but did not realize that such problems entailed others, such as filth, and other more general aspects, such as the attitude of the people here. They are eager to jump on tourists and attract business, but are simultaneously discouraged and tired of sitting in the hot sun waiting for it. India has the highest rate of child labor in the world, and it was not visible at first, but only hit me on the beaches of Goa. A girl, no older than seven, tugged on my elbow and stared into my eyes: "Come to my shop. I have no expensive blankets for you. Come, you promiss?" And here I stood, privileged enough to travel so and study in college in the US, when she has already experienced the world of work, without having hit puberty, not even had the time to play and laugh. It is difficult to walk through these streets in India, watching such people, not only because of the life they lead, but due to the way they approach you. Unlike any other country I've visited, the people here touch you. They have no problem coming up to you, tugging on your clothes and following you, and most of the time, there are about three women or small children begging simultaneously. Seeing is enough- to have to feel it rub against you is atrocious. Additionally, everything is cheap: forty cents for a rickshaw across town, three dollars for a shirt, not more than ten dollars for dinner. No wonder they beg for more, and sometimes, as I bargain with a sly smile on my face and Eve at my side, I feel like I'm in the wrong: what right do I have to demand less? These people live life as a struggle, I live it as a luxury.

A little about the different places I've been: Kochi is a port, not the capital of the southern state of Kerala, but the second biggest city. A port, always filled with the smell of fresh fish and Kerala spices. Ancient Chinese fishing nets line up along the edge of the water, followed by stands selling the fish, and finally followed by restaurants. A major part of Kochi is called "Jew Town", the neighborhood in which basically the entire Jewish population of India is concentrated. There is not very much poverty in Kochi and in the surrounding parts, but the divide between the rich and the poor still remains obvious. This became clear as we passed a sumptuous mansion in a rickshaw and the driver revealed to us that it belonged to an old governmental figure. Eve, well-informed as usual, asked: "communist?" -"Yes, yes," he replied, without catching the irony of the situation. This divide is not the only one I've noticed: another is the divide between the beauty of India and its metaphorical filth. On one of the days we spent in Kerala, Eve and I first went to an elephant training camp (for religious or cultural events), where we were submerged into the countryside of Kerala, uncrowded and beautiful. Our next stop was mesmerizing: we visited waterfalls about three hours outside of Kochi. Not only was the drive into the mountains beautiful, but it was heavenly. The natural surroundings left me speechless; it is difficult to describe such beauty... let me just say that the "oneness" Buddhism searches for with nature is found here.

Our next destination, Goa, where I have been for only one night, is the party scene in India, but is far from a typical one. It is the smallest state in India, where I am reporting from, on the beach, on notepad papers taken from the bartender. Here, trance, all-night partying, and marijuana are king. There are as many locals as there are hippies. The beach is far from idyllic; the water is beige and the beach is rocky and noisy, but it does reflect the culture here. As a topless female tourist passes, I tisk: she should be more aware of the conservative culture that thrives here.
It is a fascinatingly intriguing one; marked by many different things. Genuine openness and hospitality is one of them. Men who are friends hold hands here when they walk together; it is such a delightful and pleasing sight. Another is the deep belief in a religion that prizes a sort of deep quiet and slow tranquility and oneness with body, soul and nature. But this is paired with an exuberance: mostly, the people are marked by bright smiles and colorful clothing. It is truly like nothing else I have ever seen, and as it is visible, it is very difficult to describe all the feelings I've had and everything I've seen since I've been here....
And it's only been four days. Yet, as I have said, it feels like months: I feel fully ingrained in the culture. Luckily, it has not been that long and I have much more time left to explore and discover.

A little detour

“I’m sorry but the plane is having problems. We’ll try to organize a flight in the morning, but you will have to stay here tonight. We have hotel for you.”
“No no no, you don’t know! I am very important person and I must get to Bangalore tonight!”
“Just shut up and get the hotel. People are waiting!”
“You don’t tell me to shut up! You don’t know who I am!”
“You don’t cut the line damn right!”

And so the comedic squabble proceeds as such. Argumentative Indians crowd around the desk at the humid and mosquito-infested Trivandrum airport, heads wobbling and voices raised. I feel like I’ve been caught in the middle of the famous “you kicked my dog” prank call and part of me is looking around for hidden cameras.
But this is no candid camera show. This is the reality of traveling in India. My sister and I are booked on a flight from Cochin to Bangalore, which, for some reason, stops over in Kerala’s capital of Trivandrum. Not only is it nearly 1,000km out of the way, we are missing our connecting flight to Goa and we’re stuck here overnight, if not longer. At first we are frustrated, we are tired and hungry and getting impatient with the general incompetence that seems to permeate the most basic interactions. However, after witnessing this entertaining scene, all we can do is laugh, accept the fact that we are totally powerless in this situation, pull out the deck of cards, and go with the flow…

Kerala Spices

A week in South India passed by in a flash, feeling like infinitely longer. A week slipped by, sunny and ethereal, in the comfort of a stunning lakeside resort in the company of friends. A week of luxury and insouciance, catching glimpses of the 'real' India through the windows of air-conditioned chauffeured cars. A light memory, easily forgotten when lounging by the pool, sipping a cocktail served by a discreetly courteous waiter in a crisp bright white uniform.

The state of Kerala, like the Chile of the subcontinent, lays low and narrow along India's west coast. Kerala has the highest per capita GDP and the highest standard of living in India, but a few days of travelling after New Years revealed that the state is not immune to India's glaring poverty and huge social inequalities. However, Kerala has its own brand of poverty, a reserved rural poverty, the kind that floats along the backwaters and quietly slips into coconut groves, seemingly melting away under the oppressive afternoon sun.

The urban center of Cochin bustles along, crowded and semi-chaotic, polluted and humid. Despite nearly 2 million people in the urban agglomeration, the city is not obtrusively loud and brash. In fact, Cochin, like the rest of Kerala, felt almost quiet. The normal daytime soundtrack--feet scuffling along cracked concrete sidewalks, strangers making small talk while waiting for overcrowded buses, groups of schoolgirls gossiping on their way home- is punctuated only by an intermittent and unique horn symphony; whimsically musical truck horns, the nasal beeps of auto rickshaws, the exasperated honk of a tired taxi driver.

The old city, known as Fort Cochin, has the feel of a touristy fishing village. Murders of crows caw loudly, calling out to friends perched on nearby palm trees. They mirror the beach hawkers who aggressively call out to tourists to pawn shoddily made crafts and curios. Children play cricket and football on grassy expanses under the patchy shade of centuries-old gnarly trees. Auto rickshaws half-heartedly call out to tourists, secretly hoping the prospective clients will ignore them so they can lie on backseats and nap in the shade. Cows graze on dry grass and munch on the garbage strewn along the streets. They saunter along slowly, like a quietly confused drunk weaving home at dawn. Young women gossip in Malayalam, the honeysweet syllables curling off their tongues like the hennalike curves of the unique Malayali script. If they caught me admiring their saris or peeking at their handiwork, they would shyly duck out of view behind doorways and folds of bright silk.

But away from the tourist sights in Fort Cochin, a familiar variety of poverty appears. Cheerfully colored homes are masks. The stained and chipped paint partly reveals the despair within. Old men, barely clothed in their paper-thin off-white mundus, lay folded on the sidewalk. Spindly once-loved ragdolls, abandoned and tossed aside, landing at impossible angles, the soursweet smell of their sweat mingling with day-old stale curries. Putrid urban slush, like stickysweet rice pudding or dark tree sap, dribbles thickly along the edges of old sewage canals.

But I can't help but see the underlying beauty. The bright colored gold-trimmed saris, the chocolate eyes trimmed with long lashes, the pastel sunsets... Life floating along slowly, languidly, quietly, like a broken coconut shell caught in the rivergrass.



More soon from India... With love and best wishes for 2007!!