In Goa I watch families of pigs led by sandy snouts nibble on roots and bathe in the mud moat that separates "Galaxy Beach Resorts", where I stay, from the wide baked beaches that line the sea. Piglets are quickly startled, their short curled tails swish back and forth with excitement and move far quicker than one would ever imagine. Some of the black pigs are shaggy and their wild wet hair reminds me of my mother towel drying my brother’s thick head after baths when we were children.
Dogs roam free, sleeping in the sand or beneath a beachside table. They are mostly thin and docile, coming in different shades, but all the same solemn lightless expression, mouths set like stone. Except of course for the most charming brown pup who visits me like clockwork during my sunset yoga practice. Timely he is, he will primarily produce himself just as I have entered into a headstand and proceed to rub his pink nose with mine, undoubtedly aware of what a loving gesture this is, but unaware of the glee it brings me in such a sober moment. A reminder that laughter and joy can be had in the most unexpected positions.
The sun commands the day, charting the path we walk, our activities, energy and comfort. The night is lamp lit, wide black solace. The insects sing to the moon and to the soft candle lights, and dogs howl, and boys holler from dirty old Portuguese homes and sheet metal shacks, and the ocean pushes out waves of offering over and over...
A motorcycle rips along the road and a chicken squawks near the lady with the big belly who sits outside her home with a sign reading "LOUNDRY", her pigs and loquacious dog tied to the tree beside her.
Tonight I eat hot Dal Fry and fluffy white rice with garlic naan and pineapple juice. I am spent from the sun and a wild week with two lovely German friends (Matthias and Matthias)...riding scooters over hot pavement and loose orange dirt roads, watching fishermen with long bamboo rods unload dirt into great piles outside their palm covered homes, their bodies so lean, veins rising from their hands and forearms, their dark legs hard and flexible like wires. They watch me watching them...We rode by canyons of red clay- which they use to make pots and dishes, the tiny bowls that hold the cold fresh yogurt I so delighted in on my train trip to Goa (which by the way when you finish, you are to throw the bowl out the window of the train because it is someone’s job to collect the broken pieces and make new ones...you'd be doing them a disservice if you did not), we rode by cows and bulls barging down the road beside wobbling toddlers and ladies with baskets and parasols and waving children in uniforms.
When you swim far out in the sea and look back on the beach there are big white mansions and modest palmfroned huts, open bars and restaurants, footbridges made of driftwood and rope, and just beyond are burnt hills and heaps of clustered palms nestling the tiny beach town, much the same way I imagine Goa is nestled in India, sheltered from so much of the strife outside this rich state.
The beach ladies and boys with armfuls of jewels and dresses seek shelter behind fishing boats patched with thick rope like we might repair a pant seem. The nets rest beside them, gigantic silver hair balls not to be moved till the next 4am run. These ladies, beach ladies greet you day in, tirelessly..."Hello Madame!...Remember me?....I am your friend, best friend...come take a look...I give to you for cheap....what color you like...you pay me tomorrow...you promise-you look..." , their incantations like the insects, the waves, the howls...
So quiet here. So much time to think. I think of my Mother, her thick dirty blonde mass atop her delicate face. I used to tell her she had Tina Turner hair. Her wide green eyes, the lovely arch of her upper lip always amplified by a sassy red. I see her with a book, under a blanket lit by flower scented candles, the television flickering, my tummy to the carpet, legs dancing in the air, eyes gleaming with the reflection of some film undoubtedly not suitable for my age by most parents standards. My brother’s long skinny legs draped across the coffee table, plucking at his gameboy. Would she ever have come here to India? Would she even have fantasized it? I suppose she never needed it the way I do. It was not until she was gone that I realized what a mystery she was to me. When my questions could no longer be quieted with those wide, esoteric answers, not meant to deride or confuse like some Zen humor, but it seems now, perhaps to exclude…something. She found peace in the home and I admire that above all. She did not need to leave to understand what I seek half way across the world….hmmm, but I suppose someone has to tell the stories.
I am off to Panjim on Monday, Goa’s charming state capitol and a perfect stepping stone to Old Goa, the all but deserted former capitol said to have once been as rich and flourishing as Lisbon. Then on to Kerala, where I hope to find myself in tranquil little Ayurvedic Spa by the 4th of February, to treat myself:>
Friday, January 30, 2009
In Goa...
Monday, January 19, 2009
Indian Children Never Cry: A poemey prosey experience of sorts
Indian children never cry
Her left eye was somewhere else,
the little girl who tapped me for a mile along Juhu Beach.
Her skirt too big, too long, torn, no shirt on...
I sat alone to write as the Red Sun sank down the back of Mumbai
Alittle boy black as a belt called out "Hello, Heya!", his big teeth glimmering like crystal inside a rock's mouth
I couldn't help smile and laugh at his easy way
An invitation
He sent a little pig-tailed girl with teeth just the same to kneel in front of me
She raised her fingers to her mouth, wants money for food.
I said "No", smiled, watched the sun, a sat sleeping beast, red and round above the Arabian sea
The boy joined the pig-tailed girl and we shared smiles, he never once asked for money
Then another, littler boy
The three in a row at my toes
My first Indian friends
I swiped my arm scross the sand between us to make a smooth surface
They watched me patient, curious
First I drew the pig-tailed girl and pointed to her
They understood and laughed and laughed, falling onto one another, letting their bodies flop forward-back, side to side
The little girl with the lazy left eye joined in...and another
All their eyes on me...they wanted more
I longed to touch their faces, to hold the boy with the white teeth in my arms, throw him like a monkey on my back
I wondered if they were not the most lovable children I'd ever met, here, small beggers in Mumbai
I drew all of them, and I drew turtles and waves and the dog asleep on the chipped wall behind us...they burst into laughter with each recognition
A crowd slowly formed around me...1/2 a dozen teenage boys, a lady selling henna stamps, a chatty tour guide- he'd been to New Jersey:>, a few families, even a dog came to check the commotion, and the children laughed and laughed....
I finally convinced them to draw aswell, kept pointing to them and the smooth sand, so they swiped each their own spot and drew me.
He never asked for money..the little boy with the white teeth
I wanted to take their photograph, but didn't feel right.
People kept gathering..too many.
I got up, bewildered, followed the tour guide to the jewelry shop his boss owned. The shop turned out to be a room in his house of sheet metal and a desk where he emptied 8 boxes of silver, gold, rubies, lemon topaz, tiger's eye, Jade from China....and I am left alone as Tony the tour guide ducked out to grab his hash.
I bought a toe ring and smoked Kashmire with the tour guide who rode with me 2 hrs in the melodic blazing horns and yells of the music that is Mumbai...I learned to dance with it a bit on that ride back to my hostel in Chembur.
Those children marked me
stayed in front of my eyes like the red sun, the sun you know will fall but if you watch it, keep your eyes set, it seems it isn't moving at all, this beautiful gift will stay there forever
Look away just a moment though, someone calls your name, a tour guide asks you a question, and there is just a pink trail in the sky.
Where do the children go?
There laughter, laughter, pink trails of sweet laughter...
Indian children never cry
post script: Out of Mumbai! Thank you Shiva! The train was 9 hours, a comfy little bunk bed with 4 others all wonderful people, travelers, finally I feel ok, open, safe... I arrived in a tiny beach town in North Goa yesterday called Mandrem. It was late and I could not find a place so a kind lady who does massage showed me an empty rooftop overlooking the water above a restaurant. I slept there and under the stars. Today I found a beach shack in the sand beside the water with a toilet and hot water! 500 IRS (about 11 dollars) per night. I will stay here for two weeks, write, read, swim, gutiar, explore, yoga and eat (mmmm). I went back to the rooftop tonight and did my yoga routine to the setting sun on the Arabian Sea...
Her left eye was somewhere else,
the little girl who tapped me for a mile along Juhu Beach.
Her skirt too big, too long, torn, no shirt on...
I sat alone to write as the Red Sun sank down the back of Mumbai
Alittle boy black as a belt called out "Hello, Heya!", his big teeth glimmering like crystal inside a rock's mouth
I couldn't help smile and laugh at his easy way
An invitation
He sent a little pig-tailed girl with teeth just the same to kneel in front of me
She raised her fingers to her mouth, wants money for food.
I said "No", smiled, watched the sun, a sat sleeping beast, red and round above the Arabian sea
The boy joined the pig-tailed girl and we shared smiles, he never once asked for money
Then another, littler boy
The three in a row at my toes
My first Indian friends
I swiped my arm scross the sand between us to make a smooth surface
They watched me patient, curious
First I drew the pig-tailed girl and pointed to her
They understood and laughed and laughed, falling onto one another, letting their bodies flop forward-back, side to side
The little girl with the lazy left eye joined in...and another
All their eyes on me...they wanted more
I longed to touch their faces, to hold the boy with the white teeth in my arms, throw him like a monkey on my back
I wondered if they were not the most lovable children I'd ever met, here, small beggers in Mumbai
I drew all of them, and I drew turtles and waves and the dog asleep on the chipped wall behind us...they burst into laughter with each recognition
A crowd slowly formed around me...1/2 a dozen teenage boys, a lady selling henna stamps, a chatty tour guide- he'd been to New Jersey:>, a few families, even a dog came to check the commotion, and the children laughed and laughed....
I finally convinced them to draw aswell, kept pointing to them and the smooth sand, so they swiped each their own spot and drew me.
He never asked for money..the little boy with the white teeth
I wanted to take their photograph, but didn't feel right.
People kept gathering..too many.
I got up, bewildered, followed the tour guide to the jewelry shop his boss owned. The shop turned out to be a room in his house of sheet metal and a desk where he emptied 8 boxes of silver, gold, rubies, lemon topaz, tiger's eye, Jade from China....and I am left alone as Tony the tour guide ducked out to grab his hash.
I bought a toe ring and smoked Kashmire with the tour guide who rode with me 2 hrs in the melodic blazing horns and yells of the music that is Mumbai...I learned to dance with it a bit on that ride back to my hostel in Chembur.
Those children marked me
stayed in front of my eyes like the red sun, the sun you know will fall but if you watch it, keep your eyes set, it seems it isn't moving at all, this beautiful gift will stay there forever
Look away just a moment though, someone calls your name, a tour guide asks you a question, and there is just a pink trail in the sky.
Where do the children go?
There laughter, laughter, pink trails of sweet laughter...
Indian children never cry
post script: Out of Mumbai! Thank you Shiva! The train was 9 hours, a comfy little bunk bed with 4 others all wonderful people, travelers, finally I feel ok, open, safe... I arrived in a tiny beach town in North Goa yesterday called Mandrem. It was late and I could not find a place so a kind lady who does massage showed me an empty rooftop overlooking the water above a restaurant. I slept there and under the stars. Today I found a beach shack in the sand beside the water with a toilet and hot water! 500 IRS (about 11 dollars) per night. I will stay here for two weeks, write, read, swim, gutiar, explore, yoga and eat (mmmm). I went back to the rooftop tonight and did my yoga routine to the setting sun on the Arabian Sea...
Ireland was "Happy Days"
Alright I took a tour with 18 Aussies, one canadian and me:> It was wild, saw all of the South of Ireland in an enormous Emerald green bus called "The Paddy Wagon". I'm not going in to depth on this one except to say that guiness is grand, the Irish are absolutely the most lovely people I have ever known, the moss grows like thick rich carpet across the land up the trees down the steep cliffsshooting over the Atlantic. I frolicked in meadows and lay on cold rocks beside waterfalls, ate chips, mashed pots, boiled, baked...this potato thing is soooo very true. I got merry night after night and sang Van Morrison on stage at a pub with the local band. It was mostly gorgeous sight-seeing... just wanted to recognize this trip, but I didn't get a chance to write...but read on for the goods in Mumbai :>
Amsterdamned
I already sent this by email...but it was the beginning, so one more time...
Hello,I made it out of the Damned's loveliest waiting room...if I wasn't going to hell before...Nah, AmsterDAM was unreal, like some Oliver Twist movie that I never saw, the roads are none the same, each path is a different stone proud and pulsing, ugly...but they come together to make something beautiful, like the people in Amsterdam. The most accepting place in the world I do not doubt. My trip was one other-wordly experience after another, the days ran into each other and coiled and time oozed along like vevlet lights...in and out of sight. My roomates were fantastic. the most hilarious mid 40's Scottish man, about my height. Couldn't understand a lick after he had a few, but I caught on by the end of the trip, when he carried my guitar with me to Schiphol airport. You need to hear a little about this guy..GRAM: He hacked all night like death, in the morning he went in the toilet of our non-smoking room, puffed a joint, drank a can of Heinikin or whatever was on sale and passed out again. All day, in and out of smoke fogs, space cakes, sleep states and be-ah. Soooooo funny. He said excuse me, went out to the streets, puked all over the door step and sat back down smilin' then imitated the shocked passersby. He told me the average life-span of men in the town he lives in is 42, all his high school buddies are dead. Apparantly he doesn't just do this on vacation. GREAT guy tho. He got caught taking a hit of crack and the cops came over before he could pay the dealer so he pretended tobe a tourist that didn't know better and headed to the train station skipping out on payment for the ample hit he pulled all the way up till the cops were staring him in the face.,.this was years ago when he lived in Amsterdam. I wish you could see and hear him tell these stories. So, I spent idle hours with Gram. Mostly tho I hung with a great Brazilian guy named Luis Felipe Marin Banlaky. Felipe. Amazingly open lively person, always smiling and dancing, we were fast friends...ducking into fancy hotels to sit in the funny round glass bubble table that protruded onto the side walk, ordering only a coffee:> We danced all night, slept till 12, 1, 2. Ate cheese and bread from the store and drank and played guitar in the hotel room and ordered weed (awkwardly at first) (from a menu!) ate a brownie that made me feel like my bed was a hockey rink and I a skate...it was a new years. My other two roomates were anti-social, pissy little french children.I met all sorts of cool Dutch, the americans were for the most part...embarrassing. Sorry to say. One chick was just like Jenny McCarthy...she was hilarious, quintissential blonde bimbo, but cheeky, playing the part. I laughed my ass off at her with her one night. Thought I got herpes from kissing some Polish girl who hade one side of her head shaved, but it turned out she just bit my lip and it bruised. Woosh! Phew! That was frightening! No more nookie for me, just gonna get my lovin from life, land, laughter...no more lesbians:> Been in Dublin for two days. The Irish are the most charming, easy going people, willing to help yopu, reasonable in every way. The city is lovely, but I am itching for the countryside. Tomorrow I head on a 6 day tour through the South and West coasts of Ireland. I return Saturday, Fly to London on Monday Jan 12, then I leave for India on Jan 15. I am staying at the Four Courts hostel in Dublin now, just outside the viking area, adjacent to the Temple Bar district (where I have yet to meet an irishman). I am having a lovely time and learning more than I can possibly process right now. I spoke with a Northern Irish man for 3 hours last night who had backpacked India 3 times for years at a time studying meditation, dealing with his shit...such a wise, humorous man, had way too much insight, but I just tryed to be present in pour conversation. Got some good tips too. (He reminded me of your Dad Finn). Well, I miss and love you all and think about you all the time.Love coming at you from far away,Char
Hello,I made it out of the Damned's loveliest waiting room...if I wasn't going to hell before...Nah, AmsterDAM was unreal, like some Oliver Twist movie that I never saw, the roads are none the same, each path is a different stone proud and pulsing, ugly...but they come together to make something beautiful, like the people in Amsterdam. The most accepting place in the world I do not doubt. My trip was one other-wordly experience after another, the days ran into each other and coiled and time oozed along like vevlet lights...in and out of sight. My roomates were fantastic. the most hilarious mid 40's Scottish man, about my height. Couldn't understand a lick after he had a few, but I caught on by the end of the trip, when he carried my guitar with me to Schiphol airport. You need to hear a little about this guy..GRAM: He hacked all night like death, in the morning he went in the toilet of our non-smoking room, puffed a joint, drank a can of Heinikin or whatever was on sale and passed out again. All day, in and out of smoke fogs, space cakes, sleep states and be-ah. Soooooo funny. He said excuse me, went out to the streets, puked all over the door step and sat back down smilin' then imitated the shocked passersby. He told me the average life-span of men in the town he lives in is 42, all his high school buddies are dead. Apparantly he doesn't just do this on vacation. GREAT guy tho. He got caught taking a hit of crack and the cops came over before he could pay the dealer so he pretended tobe a tourist that didn't know better and headed to the train station skipping out on payment for the ample hit he pulled all the way up till the cops were staring him in the face.,.this was years ago when he lived in Amsterdam. I wish you could see and hear him tell these stories. So, I spent idle hours with Gram. Mostly tho I hung with a great Brazilian guy named Luis Felipe Marin Banlaky. Felipe. Amazingly open lively person, always smiling and dancing, we were fast friends...ducking into fancy hotels to sit in the funny round glass bubble table that protruded onto the side walk, ordering only a coffee:> We danced all night, slept till 12, 1, 2. Ate cheese and bread from the store and drank and played guitar in the hotel room and ordered weed (awkwardly at first) (from a menu!) ate a brownie that made me feel like my bed was a hockey rink and I a skate...it was a new years. My other two roomates were anti-social, pissy little french children.I met all sorts of cool Dutch, the americans were for the most part...embarrassing. Sorry to say. One chick was just like Jenny McCarthy...she was hilarious, quintissential blonde bimbo, but cheeky, playing the part. I laughed my ass off at her with her one night. Thought I got herpes from kissing some Polish girl who hade one side of her head shaved, but it turned out she just bit my lip and it bruised. Woosh! Phew! That was frightening! No more nookie for me, just gonna get my lovin from life, land, laughter...no more lesbians:> Been in Dublin for two days. The Irish are the most charming, easy going people, willing to help yopu, reasonable in every way. The city is lovely, but I am itching for the countryside. Tomorrow I head on a 6 day tour through the South and West coasts of Ireland. I return Saturday, Fly to London on Monday Jan 12, then I leave for India on Jan 15. I am staying at the Four Courts hostel in Dublin now, just outside the viking area, adjacent to the Temple Bar district (where I have yet to meet an irishman). I am having a lovely time and learning more than I can possibly process right now. I spoke with a Northern Irish man for 3 hours last night who had backpacked India 3 times for years at a time studying meditation, dealing with his shit...such a wise, humorous man, had way too much insight, but I just tryed to be present in pour conversation. Got some good tips too. (He reminded me of your Dad Finn). Well, I miss and love you all and think about you all the time.Love coming at you from far away,Char
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