Architecturally it’s a wonderful mix of cute and grand colonial Portuguese and delapidated Indian, nestled side by side in stark, striking, friendly contrast in the higgledy piggledy, up and down maze of streets. Catholic Cathedrals sit next to Hindu temples, Muslim mosques and truly prizewinning scaffolding structures . If I had a penny for every moment I’ve spent staring at, and photographing, amazing Indian scaffolding, I’d be a rich lady by now – this one, which is up there with the best, I stood opposite in open-mouthed wonder for nigh-on fifteen minutes as the builders scratched their heads at my bizarre taste in sightseeing.
But just LOOK AT IT – this isn’t construction – it’s ART!
Not quite in the same league, but here’s another runner up for the Indian construction collection, snapped in Panjim later on that day:
The people are a mellow, smiling bunch, eager to please but not pushy, the epitome of the peaceful Goan nature shared by the dosey dogs, cats, cows and goats. And the food is the creme-de-la-creme of the unique cuisine that you find all over Goa, a crazy mix of Indian and European; mainly Portuguese but drawing on a touch of French and Italian too. Of course most of the specialities are MEATY so I can’t say if they’re actually edible or not. Nonetheless, I thoroughly enjoyed wandering the sleepy backstreets and discovering quaint French-style bakeries selling recognisable breads, pastries and even a prizewinning cappuccino (a serious novelty in India), mixed in with little shops selling traditional Goan sweets, and, of course, the unforgettable, innumerable cashew nut sellers (how on earth do they all stay in business?). Days seem to pass by in a slow, timeless haze, the morning’s activities easefully slowing into the hot sleepy afternoons and quiet mellow evenings. What’s the hurry?
Due to a 9am checkout, rather than spending half the morning contemplating my navel (as has been known to happen) I actually had a full day to conquer the city. So, by 9.30am, after a sugar-fuelled bakery breakfast, I had climbed up to the Cathedral for a quick nose and photoshoot.
Outside the Hindu Temple down the road a little boy begging came up to ask me for a few rupees, but went away looking doubly chuffed at having gained a smart new hat and a handful of chocolates (the endless bag-reduction process in action again – this time I think I picked a more suiting benefactor). I followed my nose up one of Panjim’s most impressive hillls and ended up getting wonderfully lost snooping around the gorgeous mish-mash streets, but in the process discovered the gorgeous Sunaparanta Centre for the Arts.
Set in a stunning location right on top of the hill, it sits right next to this delapidated beauty, clearly its rebellious (not-so-little) sister:
The Arts Centre is a space mainly dedicated to visual arts, supporting and promoting both Indian and international artists – the current exhibition was of some really fantastic drawings (apparently – they looked more like photographs to me) of intricate, gnarly tree roots and bark, made by a local Indian guy, but at the time of my visit there was also an English artist in residence. Finally finding my bearings, I made my way into the more inhabited bit of the old town and had a good old snoop around some of the beautiful boutique hotels and quaint little restaurants before finally deciding to treat myself at the gorgeous Hotel Verite (with the equally gorgeous waiter).
Taking a pew in the window seats as I watched Panjim amble by beneath me, I felt like something out of romantic French movie and totally spoilt. What fun.
After fuelling up it was time to tackle the Indian Post. I’d been putting it off for weeks and I was determined to make that bag lighter; the homeopathic remedies suitcase, those extra books and gadgets I obviously don’t need, those organic spices – I know it seems harsh to deprive myself of such obvious essentials but, ruthlessly, they all had to go. Actually I couldn’t have picked a better place than Panjim for my first Indian post office experience – a big, clean, spacious building complete with gardens and fountain (!), INDIANS QUEUEING IN LINES (!), staff who spoke English (sort of)...amazing. And so I began to learn the intricacies of the Indian postal system; what a long, drawn out, beaurocratic mind-boggler, but one I was totally pleased to be a part of. Because I was sending ‘medicines’ (why do I have to be so bloody honest) I wasn’t allowed to use a normal box (?); I had to have the thing SEWN together with special labels and the works. Following the general direction of the nice lady’s finger, I went ambling down a dusty side street to find an old guy in a dark little shop waiting for me. I didn’t have to ask or explain a thing as he took my belongings from me, gestured me to take a pew, and proceeded to get on with focusing every ounce of his skill and energy into making me the most beautiful little sewn-up parcel. Talk about labour of love. This man’s whole purpose in life is to sit in this dark little room and create little parcels of beauty to be sent on their way through the Indian Postal system. It reminded me of the laundry people, infusing their simple work with equal care and devotion. Just sitting there watching it was a meditation in itself, as he measured, cut and sewed the cloth, measured, cut and sewed the clear plastic pockets, prepared the white paper labels, put everything inside, sewed the whole thing closed and handed it over to me with a beaming smile. All for a mere 80 rupees (about a pound). In the grand scheme of things the whole thing was actually totally unnecessary – what difference does it make whether it’s sewn or boxed? – but in practise this bizarre rule keeps this man, and doubtless many other people, in business, not to mention bringing a little bit more beauty into this world.
Since then it seems to have become a bit of a mission of mine to test out the postal systems in various Indian states (and in Indonesia, Malaysia and Thailand, for comparison!), assessing both their wrapping and their delivery skills, and I can confirm that they are not all quite so well organised. In Bodh Gaya, land of the Buddha’s enlightenment in Bihar (India’s poorest and most notorious state), I didn’t even come close to achieving any of the above stages on my own. I found the post office, not so far from the main temple, but couldn’t even get in the door for the throngs of people bulging out of the building and filling all of the surrounding pavement space. I scouted around for someone who looked like a parcel-maker (sewn or otherwise), but couldn’t see any amidst the blaring music shops and fly-ridden street food vendors, and soon gave up due to the onset of heat exhaustion and nausea from what has to be the most intoxicating air pollution in all of India (and that’s saying something). But, later that day, with the help of an angel of a local Indian guy (friend of a friend) we had another shot at it. Well, I say ‘we’ but I did sweet nothing, just following eagerly as our friend took us to some tiny back alley tailor (three weathered guys hunched over Singers in a space the size of a small cupboard) who stitched up the package (despite the lack of medicines inside) for free and gave us a thick black marker to scrawl on the canvas (no fancy labels here). Things were reaching fever pitch back at the post office just before closing time as it appeared to be time for the payment of allowances or something, but somehow or other we managed to squeeze our way into the mass and, by the force of crowd peristalsis rather than any free will, were popped out into comfort of the back office. The clerk in charge was not best pleased at having to deal with an insignificant package to England when normal service hours were CLEARLY OVER MADAM but, according to my translator, he would do this as a VERY SPECIAL FAVOUR. Grunt, scowl, grab your money, throw the package onto the floor in the corner of the room. As we fought our way back through the mass of grasping hands I quietly bade farewell to the contents of my package, fairly sure that I would never see them again. But, to my enormous surprise, I was recently astonished to learn that my little parcel did indeed make it out of Bodh Gaya, out of Bihar, and even out of India, all the way to the London UK and safely onto the doormat of my London sister. Incredible India.
After my Panjim Post Office experience I took the local bus the short hop over to Old Goa, the old capital and now a preserved collection of churches and state buildings. I enjoyed snooping around and getting a sense of the bygone capital, but there are only so many churches in various states of preservation (or decay) that one can take in of a very hot Goan afternoon. Added to that was the fact that it turned out that apparently I was in attendance as the entertainment of the afternoon, as LITERALLY crowds of school children and their teachers (who dominate the patronage of the Old Goa sites) seemed to find me an absolutely hilarious site. I am not exaggerating one ounce when I say that they were literally standing in groups and pointing and laughing at me. Having been in India some six weeks, I was fairly hardened to being stared at pretty much everywhere I went, but this took it to a whole new level, one that I really wasn’t feeling best equipped to deal with in my slightly tired, monument-weary state. When it happened the first time I looked around to see the funny sight behind me – nothing there. “Could it be me they’re laughing at?” So I checked myself, wondering if I had made a classic social blunder - large stain down the top or skirt tucked into pants? All clear. Oh well, I walked on feeling bemused but let it pass over me as best I could. When it happened the second time it started to become clear that they were most definitely laughing at my hair. The new ‘do’, which hadn’t caused much more than a second glance or a nice compliment elsewhere I'd been in Goa, was apparently the wierdest, most unfathomable thing imaginable and they didn’t have any qualms about making this blindingly clear. What surprised me most was that it wasn’t just the little kids huddling and giggling; the teachers were at the forefront: “Look at the circus freak, ha ha ha”.
I guess this inhabits the same realm as the Indian staring thing, something which I met more full-frontal later on up in the North. There simply is NO social conditioning that says that staring is bad. Like so many other aspects of Indian mentality, the method here is just plain simple – see something wierd, enticing, intriguing; look at it (why wouldn’t you? ...It’s interesting...). No question of hiding your interest “to show face” or ‘polite’ concern for making that person feel uncomfortable – all of this is adding layers of confusion to the simplicity, the honesty, of the situation. Although being on the receiving end of it can be far from pleasant if you’ve grown up in a less brutally honest society, at the same time it shines headlights on your own insecurities and has the potential to blow you right open to the raw, fearless you. You have to boldly own everything about yourself and your actions because no-one here is going to pretend that they didn’t see or notice your unusual, perhaps undesirable, traits or behaviours. Doing yoga respectably clothed in the ALLOCATED space of a Rishikesh meditation ashram (which is in a semi-permanent unfinished state), every day a certain young builder would come up to fetch something from his bag. I would carry on with my business but he would stop and stare, mouth open, for what seemed like hours. I felt so WATCHED, so INVADED, “why can’t he just STOP STARING and LEAVE ME ALONE?” After days wearing me down, one day I tried to gesture to him to PLEASE stop staring, pointing to my eyes and trying to make an understandable sign language. He had absolutely NO idea what I was implying and just mimicked me right back; there was clearly nothing in his mindbank that said he ‘should not’ look at me – he wanted to, and so he did. Wildly enfuriating at the time, because I was clinging to wanting the situation to be other than it was, but I soon began to realise that there was huge learning to be had here. I cannot stop him staring, he has every right, it is a free country and they are his eyes. If I really don’t want to be stared at, don’t put myself in that position – don’t do yoga there, end of story. Much better still, find the mindset to continue with my yoga unaffected by his staring; its invasiveness is a construct, albeit a powerful one, of my mind. By the same token, if they want to laugh at my braids they are fully entitled to. If I can’t fully own them I needn’t have them. Ultimately it’s only problematic if I make it so. Let them laugh, let them stare, let go of the paranoia that says I’m less of a human being just because they find something about me entertaining. Why complicate things to such a degree when really they can be very simple and life can be so much happier? At heart it becomes a truly Buddhist practise of letting them be in their space while I try to rest comfortably in mine: let them enjoy their laughter while I stay honestly, happily braided and bending.
Well-known truths, of course, but there’s nothing like personal experience to embed something good and proper.
Nonetheless at the time it wore me down a bit, so after conquering about half the site I called it quits and took a longer-than-expected detour down to the river to watch the occasional cargo ship pulling in and out and make friends with a spectacularly gnarly banyon tree:
Following my misleading nose I ended up walking in a giant circle around Old Goa through a seemingly endless, overgrown, deserted no-man’s-land:
and on through some tiny outlying villages (where I nearly abducted some truly beautiful children) before finally coming back full circle to the ancient metropolis, my safe return welcomed by some truly enomous bare-bottomed monkeys:
Emerging from the time warp of Old Goa I swiftly realised I was running about five hours behind schedule and had missed all possible public transport down south. So, not having many days left to play with, I treated myself to a taxi to Palolem, about three hours down the coast. Bloody good thing too as when I got there the sweet little operation that is ‘Sevas Huts’ was inordinately hard to find, tucked away at the very end of Patnem Beach, the quietest part of this uber-mellow boho beach resort. Although I had a bizarrely silent welcome, the place was perfectly low-key and exactly what I had been craving after the tourist cheese of the past couple of weeks.
I was shown to my bamboo beach hut, complete with its own yoga-perfect porch and, the highlight, my open-air bathroom.
Over the next 48 hours I spent many happy moments sun- and moon-bathing upon my throne (here's the skyward view),
one of which took an interesting turn when a large green frog leapt out of the bowl mid-stream. He wasn’t the only one who got caught unawares and we both leapt sky high in shock (grateful for the lack of ceiling).
I had the joy of my beach hut being in earshot of their surprisingly beautiful on-site yoga classes given by a wonderful Himalayan Yogi - what lucky people to have their yoga introduction from this sincere, knowledgable, humble man. Omm. Lovely, and how refreshing. I only had one full day in Patnem and Palolem and it went by in a flash, eating my way around the various yummy cafes and soaking up the rays and the atmosphere of the place.
Ambling back in the afternoon I took the plunge and approached an Ayurvedic man who I had eyed up earlier in the day. He simply shone out at me, his bald brown shiny head, glistening eyes and beautiful posture simply mesmerising as he sat peacefully reading his book – he was positively GLOWING. I’d been wanting to stock up on some Triphala and this seemed the perfect opportunity (to my innocent eyes), so up I went and told him what I was after. Upon which I swiftly got sucked into spending an inordinate amount of money on an extensive herbal concoction that was to cure me of digestive troubles I didn’t know I had. Even though I walked away financially shell-shocked (and wondering why, at those prices, he’s selling off the floor of a tent and not a marble-countered store), I have to say I couldn’t really regret a nonetheless beautiful encounter that truly made my smile radiate from deep within. Upon checking my pulse, tongue, eyes and nails he decided that it wasn’t Triphala that I needed every day of my life – better a unique herbal concoction that I was to take twice a day for the next month and I’d be’ cured’ for life. Oh really? Fine, sounds perfect (until I got the bill). With which he slowly and methodically selected individual jars of coloured powder from the sea of possibilities swimming in orderly rows on the tent floor in front of us. He patiently introduced each of the twelve herbs to me in turn, telling me its name, its properties and its benefits, before scooping out a perfectly-heaped tablespoon and placing it in line with the others upon his A4 paper palatte. When this ritual finally came to an end he did, much to my dismay, mix the beautiful array of colours into one big brown mess and empty it into a plastic bag, a much less appetising concoction that I had been led to expect (and one that more faithfully reflected its truly REVOLTING taste – boy, did I struggle with that over the coming weeks). Despite the shock of shelling out no less than three thousand rupees (yes that’s about thirty five quid, a HUGE amount of money in India) for herbs I didn’t even know I needed, I nonetheless shared some priceless words with this shining man amount life, love, beauty, my astrological chart and Sai Baba (truly all the rage in India, it seems). Words that left me reeling as I floated into my shoes, out of his tent and back down the beach, full of love for life and people who know how to help you stay connected to the joy in it. I still feel that I didn’t really get much from those herbs – try as I did to get them down daily – but, regardless, that priceless encounter nourished me to a level deeper than money can buy.
Having totally missed my chance to attend and of the dusk yoga classes, I ambled up, past a truly Palolem style beach party:
to Neptune’s Point, for a sunset view and goodbye to the bay before going for a Reiki treatment back at my huts.
Although, to be honest, I spent most of the session wondering if he was actually doing anything, at the end of it he surprised me with his detailed insight into the energetic patterns and problems in my body. Too bad, then, that I was leaving the following day, as he seemed convinced he too could cure me of all my ills (these ones, however, I was definitely sure I had). Oh well, the right thing will always come at the right time, best just keep on living with my dodgy right shoulder.
And so I reveled in my second and final blissfully peaceful night on a quiet Goan beach, quietly resolving to myself that I would be back here before long to meet my Ayurveda man, the mountain yogi, my star-gazing toilet. Maybe ‘ll set up camp here and teach yoga for a bit? Here, and the next beautiful place... Dream... dream... dream...
But before that, get ready girl cos you gotta face that whole crazy world up in the North. Apprehensive doesn’t even begin to describe it.
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