Goa: Day 2: on the beach
I’d been taking these small, rickety busses all day. I thought my bus would terminate in Calangute, which is where I wanted to go. Calangute is where the hippies first landed in the 60s, and it is also where the modern Goa package beach resorts started business in the 90s. The ticket wallah told me I’d missed my stop. He used his whistle, and the bus stopped and dropped me off somewhere north of Calangute. I was dropped off right in front of a wholesale cashew store, so I went directly into there upon exiting the bus.
Then I walked by myself down the narrow road back toward Calangute. I walked into and through Calangute. In Calangute I saw numerous Kashmiri shops, selling carpets, clothes, and jewelry. One was a government emporium. Supposedly these government emporiums can be trusted – meaning the stuff really is Kashmiri and the price is nearly reasonable. I’d like to buy a rug, but I don’t have a house, and everything I keep in a home has to be moved at least once a year, so I won’t buy one. I’m sure I will one day, and I’m sure I’ll overpay.
I’ve been to beaches on three continents now, and a unifying element is that beach towns are junky. So is Calangute. Probably junkier than Panama City Beach, Fla., rivaling the junkiness of the beaches on the southern coast of Spain near Algiceres.
I sit in a padded beach chair made from wood. I’m on a beach with lots of embedded trash. I probably shouldn’t have walked barefoot on it, but I did. There’s a shack covered by palm leaves and plastic tarps behind me, and boys bring me beer. I told a waiter I work in Mumbai, and he told me it’s flooded. I said I hadn’t seen the news, and the oppressive Indian hospitality kicked in. He said I could come inside and watch the news. I figured there was a bar inside with a t.v. No, I got taken to a back room bull of beds where I’m told they do massage.
Massage always sounds sleazy to me, but they said men give the massages, and there are no women working here, and men are giving massages on the beach in front of the shack. Plus, I’m pretty sure if there was prostitution here I would have already been offered it. I sat in the back having a conversation with that waiter that was somewhat less than illuminating. Basically, a night with a beautiful whore in Mumbai will be Rs. 3000. European girls will do any kind of sex. Indian girls only traditional. He even told me that Europeans have bigger penises than Indians. His English was very poor too, but when I would give up on the conversation, he would beg me to continue. He really wanted to talk about this.
I thought we were talking about girlfriends, but the conversation ended up at prostitution. He told me he doesn’t have a girlfriend because Indian girls only care about money and want you to spend it on them. I saw news of Mumbai, and I saw people walking with water up to their thighs. Alvin texted me from Mumbai and said he thought he would commit suicide before his apartment flooded. His apartment is on the ground floor.
While sitting in the back room I asked to use the bathroom, and my waiter friend brought me into an alley behind the beach shack and said I could make “Reese’s” here. I didn’t get that he was saying Reese’s or what that meant until I was done. I didn’t have to make Reese’s anyway – I mean poop. The guy stood behind me watching me while I was peeing, and I didn’t have to go anymore, so maybe that’s why he kept insisting I could make Reese’s back there if I needed. Guys always are peeing in public in India. I probably saw half a dozen just today.
So now I hear Shakira from the shack while I sit on the chair on the beach. I’ve started my second Kingfisher and am getting a real buzz. I ate some of the famous Goan cashews I bought an hour earlier. By Indian standards they aren’t that cheap, and they’re the same price as they are in Mumbai. They also taste fishy. Now I tell the waiter boy, who was reading over my shoulder, go ahead and read this, but he could only read a few words of my writing (this was originally written with paper and pen). This seems very typically Indian male to me. Indian dudes are always sticking there nose into anybody’s business. (Like the other day when I was buying a train ticket at a ticket window, and this dude sticks his head in front of the window while I’m making my transaction. He wasn’t even buying a ticket.)
The sun has almost completely set, but with this gray monsoon cloud-covered sky, I can’t see where the sun actually is, but it’s getting dark, and I’m gonna go eat some Japanese-Indian food when I finish my Kingfisher. If I never drink another Kingfisher in my life, that would be OK with me. This being said, I’m sure I’ll pound ‘em next time I’m in India. The waiter boy is trying to scare away the dirty feral dogs from the “seating area.” The bad monsoon weather has made the sea rough enough to surf.
And I brought my iPod, but I forgot my headphone at the office in Mumbai. I’d probably be listening right now to The Understanding by Röyksopp because although music mags call it generic, it’s one of my favorite albums of all time.
Then I walked by myself down the narrow road back toward Calangute. I walked into and through Calangute. In Calangute I saw numerous Kashmiri shops, selling carpets, clothes, and jewelry. One was a government emporium. Supposedly these government emporiums can be trusted – meaning the stuff really is Kashmiri and the price is nearly reasonable. I’d like to buy a rug, but I don’t have a house, and everything I keep in a home has to be moved at least once a year, so I won’t buy one. I’m sure I will one day, and I’m sure I’ll overpay.
I’ve been to beaches on three continents now, and a unifying element is that beach towns are junky. So is Calangute. Probably junkier than Panama City Beach, Fla., rivaling the junkiness of the beaches on the southern coast of Spain near Algiceres.
I sit in a padded beach chair made from wood. I’m on a beach with lots of embedded trash. I probably shouldn’t have walked barefoot on it, but I did. There’s a shack covered by palm leaves and plastic tarps behind me, and boys bring me beer. I told a waiter I work in Mumbai, and he told me it’s flooded. I said I hadn’t seen the news, and the oppressive Indian hospitality kicked in. He said I could come inside and watch the news. I figured there was a bar inside with a t.v. No, I got taken to a back room bull of beds where I’m told they do massage.
Massage always sounds sleazy to me, but they said men give the massages, and there are no women working here, and men are giving massages on the beach in front of the shack. Plus, I’m pretty sure if there was prostitution here I would have already been offered it. I sat in the back having a conversation with that waiter that was somewhat less than illuminating. Basically, a night with a beautiful whore in Mumbai will be Rs. 3000. European girls will do any kind of sex. Indian girls only traditional. He even told me that Europeans have bigger penises than Indians. His English was very poor too, but when I would give up on the conversation, he would beg me to continue. He really wanted to talk about this.
I thought we were talking about girlfriends, but the conversation ended up at prostitution. He told me he doesn’t have a girlfriend because Indian girls only care about money and want you to spend it on them. I saw news of Mumbai, and I saw people walking with water up to their thighs. Alvin texted me from Mumbai and said he thought he would commit suicide before his apartment flooded. His apartment is on the ground floor.
While sitting in the back room I asked to use the bathroom, and my waiter friend brought me into an alley behind the beach shack and said I could make “Reese’s” here. I didn’t get that he was saying Reese’s or what that meant until I was done. I didn’t have to make Reese’s anyway – I mean poop. The guy stood behind me watching me while I was peeing, and I didn’t have to go anymore, so maybe that’s why he kept insisting I could make Reese’s back there if I needed. Guys always are peeing in public in India. I probably saw half a dozen just today.
So now I hear Shakira from the shack while I sit on the chair on the beach. I’ve started my second Kingfisher and am getting a real buzz. I ate some of the famous Goan cashews I bought an hour earlier. By Indian standards they aren’t that cheap, and they’re the same price as they are in Mumbai. They also taste fishy. Now I tell the waiter boy, who was reading over my shoulder, go ahead and read this, but he could only read a few words of my writing (this was originally written with paper and pen). This seems very typically Indian male to me. Indian dudes are always sticking there nose into anybody’s business. (Like the other day when I was buying a train ticket at a ticket window, and this dude sticks his head in front of the window while I’m making my transaction. He wasn’t even buying a ticket.)
The sun has almost completely set, but with this gray monsoon cloud-covered sky, I can’t see where the sun actually is, but it’s getting dark, and I’m gonna go eat some Japanese-Indian food when I finish my Kingfisher. If I never drink another Kingfisher in my life, that would be OK with me. This being said, I’m sure I’ll pound ‘em next time I’m in India. The waiter boy is trying to scare away the dirty feral dogs from the “seating area.” The bad monsoon weather has made the sea rough enough to surf.
And I brought my iPod, but I forgot my headphone at the office in Mumbai. I’d probably be listening right now to The Understanding by Röyksopp because although music mags call it generic, it’s one of my favorite albums of all time.
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