Throw a Stone Up in the Skies of Goa

The European couple posed jauntily for their self-portrait as they waited alongside us on the five hour lay-over in Mumbai. Their pierced faces, exposed skin, and tattooed arms seemed grossly out of place next to the conservative Indian dress of the other airport passengers to include Jen and myself. The women were unperceptive to their differences; instead, they guzzled their morning beers while bending towards each other in some secret conversation. I only saw them three other times after we waited. One was at the Café Coffee counter while Jen and I ordered afternoon samosas. One of the women laid thickly into the workers with an air of indifference and sharp tongue at being served food heated in the microwave. The next time they would be jutting their hips, standing on their chairs on the plane, and celebrating our landing in Goa among the silence of the other waiting passengers. The last time I saw them, they were crashing into the other passengers with luggage carts and aggressive determination.  I watched the retreating backsides of Mohawk and skin as they strutted out of the airport, baggage piled high, on their way to party their way through Goa. It was our first experience with the bands of tourists we would join in the land of beach, beauty, and nightlife.

There is a saying in Goa that goes something like this: “If you throw a stone into the sky, it will land on a church, a temple, or a bar.”  If it were allowed, I would also add that the stone would surely land on a tourist. We joined the masses in the bare white skin parade on our non-traditional Thanksgiving vacation to the beaches of Goa, witnessing firsthand the stark contrast of the differences in cultures.  

Our first day on the beach was Thursday morning; the day the rest of America would be dutifully tending to family time and the mealtime indulgence. Jen and I trooped our way down to the beach, securing a spot along the Arabian. The water was warm and the waves embracing; it was perfect. All around us, varying sizes and shapes of whiteness joined in our worship of the sun while we were catered to by the beach attendants.

Our attendant introduced himself as ‘Terry,’ but Jen observed that the name seemed unusual. We would later find out that his actual name was Bharat.  Due to the unfamiliarity of the Western tongue to Indian names, he changed his name to make himself more memorable to his customers. Throughout the day, he dutifully brought us whatever we asked and made sure that we were comfortable. During conversation, I asked him about his family, where he was from, and how he liked Goa. He shared that he lived with his wife and two children six months out of the year in Goa, working as a beach attendant. He paid about $30 to the owner of the beach chairs in order to serve the guests and only profited from the tips that he earned.  Sometimes he made $4 dollars from a customer; sometimes he made nothing. Either way, he seemed content to be standing in the heat of the sun day in and day out, serving foreigners as they baked their white skin in the Indian sun. These things always make me pause and reflect on my own opportunities in life with a grating and guilty sense of gratefulness. 
 

Though we spent much of our time reading and lazing in the sun under the care of Bharat, Jen and I reserved a day to observe the sites in South Goa. We found ourselves on a tour along with newly married Indian couples, a young family, and a guide who did not speak English very well. From the morning to the night we toured all over South Goa, seeing flashes of various beaches, temples, churches, and even a haunted house. It was a glorious whirlwind of a day complete with dolphins, history, and new friendships.

The nonstop tour ended with a dancing boat cruise along the Mandovi River under the stars. There I managed to coerce two of the brides to join me for the ladies’ dance on the stage. We laughed and imitated each other’s Western and Indian style moves till the very last of the songs had been rung out. It was one of my favorite memories of the weekend. While making our way off the stage, I noticed a group of younger Indian boys pointing in my direction and approaching me. Before I knew it, I was surrounded.  The group of boys shook my hand, telling me I was a good dancer, and asked for a picture with me. Apparently my attempts at Indian dance moves are better than my Western shuffle. I chuckled to myself as they posed around me, pulling Jen in the picture and snapping a few shots. Honestly, I’m not sure that I will ever get used to my skin color being a novelty item.

Aside from the beach and the beauty, the trip would not have been complete without experiencing some of the nightlife of Goa. It was a sampling of Western culture all over again, with many tourists bound and determined to wear the badge of ‘intoxication’ throughout their stay. Jen and I followed the recommendations of the locals and ended up at Cavala, one of the first bars ever established in Goa. An Indian band was crooning out Paul Simon, Jimmy Buffet, and other old tunes on the outside deck of the quaint little bar. It looked like a lighted shed or wooded haven and felt like an old friend. A few days later, we found ourselves at Club Havana on a hill-top overlooking Anjuna beach. The bar had outdoor pools, three levels of carved stone decks, and breathtaking views. However, my favorite nightlife experience by far was ‘Lucky’s’. Jen and I serendipitously found it as we aimlessly wandered one night.  We ended up sitting on beach chairs under the stars with a candle lit table and scruffy dogs at our feet. It was glorious.

There was a lot to be grateful for in all of our relaxation. Throwing a stone up in the skies of Goa landed us in some pretty spectacular places among fantastic people and left us with some incredible memories. Though it is never easy to be away from family on a beloved holiday, I have to say that this non-traditional Thanksgiving not only takes the cake but it takes the turkey as well.