There are so many beach shacks and cafes in the area, that it takes a while to sample a good number of them and decide which ones are your favorites. . .but once you decide, you tend to keep going back to the same place(s). Even the most die-hard lovers of Indian cuisine can become tired of eating nothing but, after extensive travel throughout India; especially CHEAP Indian food. This is why the food in Goa is such a delight – it’s made with tourists in mind! Only in Goa can one find such un-Indian dishes as coconut/banana porridge, papaya milkshakes, all manner of steaks, fish in every form, and many typical Goan specialties, often featuring fish or pork. Goa is the only place where we saw butcher stands advertising pork products, because of its Portuguese/Roman Catholic heritage – other religions in India wouldn’t dream of eating pork, but we passed stalls in the market where women were making vast amounts of chorizo sausages. Portuguese bakeries abound, as well, and one of the prized Goan desserts is a 40-egg, sugar, butter, coconut, crepe concoction, called bebinca. Surprisingly, it’s not as delicious as it sounds, but Indians really seem to think it’s the cat’s meow, so we brought a couple home to Mysore to share with friends.
When one is in Goa, it’s easy to forget you’re in India, and you may even be tempted to think that you’ve landed in paradise, because all the tropical clichés apply: golden sand beaches, coconut palms and banana trees, clear, clean ocean with just the right amount of surf, friendly, laid-back people, and a lazy lifestyle. The tropical lushness is such that I often felt as if I was in a painting by Paul Gauguin, with all that ripe fruit; those brilliant, exotic flowers everywhere; the deep greens of the foliage; the moldering, ancient homes; the bright colors of the clothing; and the plump, sensual beauty of the women, with their thick, curly hair to their waists, often worn loose. Very much like a South Sea Island picture.
But something usually manages to intrude into this picture just long enough to remind you that, no, Goa is not paradise, nor will we see paradise until Jesus returns. That “something” can take many forms besides the obvious ones of high humidity, heat and mosquitoes (unless one is right down at the water’s edge). It could be the stench that comes from the sewage-laden ditch that you cross to get to the beach. It could be the half-wild dogs that roam in packs, endangering little children, or the skinny cows and their piles that you have to navigate your way through before reaching the beginning of the beach. It could be the oblivious guy who hawks and spits right onto the sand, in the spot where you might have stepped in it with bare feet or, worse, lain in it. It could be the squalor and litter of the little alleys that lead off the back roads behind the beach, and the poor little huts that many of the locals live in – the “other” side of Goan beaches that most tourists never see. It could be the 4 gentlemen who drank whiskey all night at the beach huts, and then spent the next morning throwing up with unbelievable violence, in the room across the hall from us, where every sound was magnified so that it sounded as if they were in OUR bathroom (and they did this 3 mornings in a row)! That’s after coming in at 3 in the morning and practically tearing down the walls with noise from both themselves and their TV. Or, it could be the relentless hassle of beggars and other poor folks, mostly women, trying to sell you an endless array of goods on the beach, when all you want to do is sleep in the sun or relax with a book. But as you open your new book to Page l, the fruit lady appears at your side, whining for you to buy some of her papayas, bananas, mangoes or coconuts. Just as you try to progress to Page 2, the skinny little kids selling newspaper cones of burnt peanuts come up to you, practically forcing them into your hand or lap. Meanwhile, the women selling sarongs and scarves are making their way toward you. As they approach, they unfurl the nicest of their scarves out to billow in the sea breeze, which makes then look for all the world like some type of predatory insects. Right behind them are their buddies in trade, the jewelry sellers, trying to convince you to look at the wads of necklaces and bracelets that they keep stuffed in their bras, for fear of the police. These, of course, are touted as being made of semi-precious stones, when in reality they are usually only glass. And here comes the fellow who sells drums of various shapes and sizes, beating on one to demonstrate the sound. Another guy offers sunglasses and flashlights. And one Rajasthani man has a really unique gimmick – he has decked out some poor cow and himself in the most gaudy costume you can imagine, with huge mirrors sewn into the cloth, and painted the cow all up and given it a hat and everything. If you pay him some money, you can have the privilege of taking their picture. Just what you want to show your friends when you get home from India. Of course, the cow does her business on the pristine beach, as do the herd of water buffalo that are driven home at the end of the day right along the shore. And, finally, just as you think you will be able to progress to Page 3, along come the pretty henna girls. They beg you to allow them to stencil a hennaed design on your palms or elsewhere. But what really took the cake was the day three little ragamuffin children came by and literally set up their own, mini-circus act. Right on the beach, in front of a long line of tourists’ beach chairs, one little boy beat a drum to get people’s attention, while a second boy set up a rickety, makeshift tight-rope. Then their little sister proceeded to mount the rope, where she walked holding a long bar with perfect balance and did a number of other tricks, before passing the hat. By this time, we had given up on our books.
We learned by reading the local newspaper that most of these beach beggars are actually a syndicate. They are brought in by the bus-loads from other, poor states in India, because they’ve been told that they can make a lot of money off the tourists in Goa. Most are illiterate, but they quickly learn excellent English, including all the latest slang, just by talking every day with tourists and interacting with them. They are bright and intelligent, and it’s sad that they will probably never progress beyond walking the steamingly hot beaches, selling junk nobody really wants. Many of the older ones are truly pitiful beggars with terrible deformities.
Lest all this sounds just too off-putting, it really isn’t. It’s all part of the Colva Beach experience, and one becomes used to it and, when you leave and go home, you find yourself remembering it all with fondness and missing it. And the good stuff about Goa far, far, outweighs the little annoyances. Probably the best of the “good stuff” is the people you meet and get to know. Many of them are other tourists, mostly from Germany or Great Britain, and we’ve already mentioned a few that we became friends with while there. But others are locals, or expatriates. Mixed marriages; mixed blood; mixed religions; people escaping a “past”; people who come there to heal from various diseases (and many do); people running away from something and looking for solitude; people looking for love; people who would be misfits anywhere else in the world. . .they all can come to Goa, and find an acceptance that they wouldn’t find in a less laid-back environment – Goa accepts them all.