The Indian state of Goa is a former Portuguese colony renowned for its beaches. And its party life. And trance music.
Hubby spent a lot of trips with his friends here growing up.
So I just had to see it.
The plan was for many of his friends to join us there to visit away from the watchful eye of his parents. Meaning drink, smoke, and whatever else it is Indian parents don't know their kids do (which is pretty much everything--if you look up "denial" or "oblivious" in the dictionary, there's a photo of Indian parents).
As the date got closer, though, more and more friends backed out. Tied down by work, they couldn't get away. And so it happened that it was just the two of us in Goa, along with two friends who had also been in Sri Lanka for the wedding...and live in New Jersey. You mean we traveled all the way to India to hang out with friends we see in the U.S. all the time!?
Anyway, we reached our stop at literally the crack of dawn and decided to take a bus from the train station rather than an overpriced rickshaw. I've been on buses in India, but only long-distance buses with assigned seats, or local buses with Dadaji who would always ensure me a window seat to protect me from the madness. This time we were right in the thick of the madness.
When we boarded the bus, it was already standing room only. Then they proceeded to load another 20 or 30 people. The maximum occupancy was clearly printed on the wall of the bus: 21 seated and 19 standing. There were easily 150 people crammed onto that bus. We were kept upright by the sheer force of the bodies pressing against us. Imagine the Metro in rush hour...and then add a few dozen more people.
Oh and the conductor (?) insisted on making his way through to the back of the bus to collect the fare from everyone...then making his way back to the front of the bus. Because there was so much extra room to walk around.
When we finally found our way to our hotel, it was all worth it.
Sadly, our photos didn't turn out all that well. We were too busy oohing and ahhing and running around. But here's a couple.
Add in a large expanse of garden, a fish pond, a waterfall and a gorgeous wraparound porch on the main building (not to mention a game room) and there you have it.
Next up: renting a scooter and riding to Panjim, the capital of the state.
I rode on scooters a few times while I was in India last year. But always with people I'd only met a few times (don't worry, friends of hubby's not complete strangers). And so I spent the ride holding on to the back of the bike and trying to maintain as much distance as possible between myself and the driver while not falling off.
Because while you may see entire families packed onto one scooter in India, it never ever looks even remotely intimate. Wives ride side saddle while holding children and groceries on their laps, not holding onto their husbands. Friends ride together not touching. Never do you see anyone with their arms wrapped around the driver.
This time I figured not only am I riding with my husband, but Goa is full of (mostly European) tourists who do whatever they please. So I slid on up behind him and finally mastered the art of not falling off a scooter while riding down the craptastic roads of India (the secret seems to be never letting your abs relax).
Our trip to Panjim was motivated mostly by my need for contact solution. I had brought a travel size bottle with me and somehow managed to blow through it in the 12 days since we left home. After visiting a few stores in Anjuna (the area where we were staying) and finding none, we were finally told we'd likely only find it in the capital city. Why only one city would sell such a thing I do not know.
Panjim is a nice enough city, right on the water and full of quaint narrow lanes (or as quaint as they can be in India...most Americans would probably just call them run-down). We basically just got in, hit up the pharmacy, and got out. We saw a fair amount of the city while trying to find a pharmacy and trying to avoid the most congested roads. I'm sure it deserves more exploration, but the beach was calling our names.
Fun tidbit: before we went out to the beach I happened to see my face in a mirror. I could see the outline where my sunglasses had been. Only this wasn't a case of unfortunate sunburn. It was dirt. Plastered to my face by the wind. Disgusting.
The beaches we saw in Goa...had their own brand of charm, let's say.
Yes, that is a cow. On the beach.
Only in India!
There were very few Indians who weren't working serving drinks or trying to sell various things. It was allll tourists from various European countries. So I appeared to fit right in, only I didn't want to. I learned Indians have a nickname for European tourists. "ET." Euro trash.
Now I am certainly not saying they are all deserving of that name. As with any stereotype, there are many many exceptions to the "rule". But I will say that I didn't see a single woman on that beach in even a remotely conservative swimsuit. Only string bikinis which never quite covered the body part it was supposed to be containing.
I noticed this while staying in Pune, too. The only white people in town were found in the neighborhoods closest to the ashram which is known for "free love" (I'm not kidding, that is still what they call it). None were American, none were wearing enough clothing, and none seemed to be respectful of Indian culture. And I didn't appreciate the assumption that I was one of them.
The beaches were also not so clean and not so pretty. Of course, I may have been spoiled by the incredible untainted beauty of beaches in Sri Lanka. Perhaps if we'd come to Goa first it would be a different story.
At night we went out onto a beach filled with shack after shack after shack crammed full of, you guessed it, drunk tourists.
Hubby had said I just needed to see the nightlife. Once we reached there, though, he was as unimpressed as I was. I suppose things seem a lot more cool when you're 16. Kinda like drinking alcohol was awesome until I was old enough to do it legally.
The next morning we went to a massive flea market that stretched on for farther than even the most dedicated deal-hunter can handle.
Many (most) of the stalls were selling ridiculously cheap items for far too high a price, milking the tourists for all they were worth (paper lantern anyone? how about incense? a bootleg cd?).
After a mere day and a half, we were off to Pune (hubby's hometown) to spend another day and a half.
Pune was largely uneventful. I had not missed it at all. Not even a little bit. We did get to spend an afternoon out catching up with an old friend, which was the highlight.
An hour before we were scheduled to board our overnight train to Khambhat (mother-in-law's hometown), we find out we don't actually have tickets, we're just on a waitlist. My father-in-law knew this. He also knew that if you haven't been confirmed by the morning of the trip, you're not going to be. Yet he waited until we were ready to leave to tell us. I've learned this is typical behavior but it never fails to piss me off. Kind of like Indian Standard Time. Expected, yet still annoying.
So our overnight train ride in the sleeper car (for which I was completely prepared this time) was canceled. It was decided that, rather than hire a driver or wait until the morning, we would take our own car and drive as far as we could before stopping at a hotel for the night.
Fine, I thought. I still get to sleep laying down.
Not so much. We ended up driving for 13 hours straight. In heavy traffic. All trucks (which my father-in-law also expected). Even with the car closed up as tight as it gets, the exhaust fumes were horrible. We were essentially in a diesel tailpipe for 13 hours. Hubby and I took turns lying down on the seat in a vain attempt to sleep.
And so we arrived for my mother-in-law's family reunion having been awake for two days and me sporting a new-found cold.
Let the festivities begin!
Hubby spent a lot of trips with his friends here growing up.
So I just had to see it.
The plan was for many of his friends to join us there to visit away from the watchful eye of his parents. Meaning drink, smoke, and whatever else it is Indian parents don't know their kids do (which is pretty much everything--if you look up "denial" or "oblivious" in the dictionary, there's a photo of Indian parents).
As the date got closer, though, more and more friends backed out. Tied down by work, they couldn't get away. And so it happened that it was just the two of us in Goa, along with two friends who had also been in Sri Lanka for the wedding...and live in New Jersey. You mean we traveled all the way to India to hang out with friends we see in the U.S. all the time!?
Anyway, we reached our stop at literally the crack of dawn and decided to take a bus from the train station rather than an overpriced rickshaw. I've been on buses in India, but only long-distance buses with assigned seats, or local buses with Dadaji who would always ensure me a window seat to protect me from the madness. This time we were right in the thick of the madness.
When we boarded the bus, it was already standing room only. Then they proceeded to load another 20 or 30 people. The maximum occupancy was clearly printed on the wall of the bus: 21 seated and 19 standing. There were easily 150 people crammed onto that bus. We were kept upright by the sheer force of the bodies pressing against us. Imagine the Metro in rush hour...and then add a few dozen more people.
Oh and the conductor (?) insisted on making his way through to the back of the bus to collect the fare from everyone...then making his way back to the front of the bus. Because there was so much extra room to walk around.
When we finally found our way to our hotel, it was all worth it.
Sadly, our photos didn't turn out all that well. We were too busy oohing and ahhing and running around. But here's a couple.
Add in a large expanse of garden, a fish pond, a waterfall and a gorgeous wraparound porch on the main building (not to mention a game room) and there you have it.
Next up: renting a scooter and riding to Panjim, the capital of the state.
I rode on scooters a few times while I was in India last year. But always with people I'd only met a few times (don't worry, friends of hubby's not complete strangers). And so I spent the ride holding on to the back of the bike and trying to maintain as much distance as possible between myself and the driver while not falling off.
Because while you may see entire families packed onto one scooter in India, it never ever looks even remotely intimate. Wives ride side saddle while holding children and groceries on their laps, not holding onto their husbands. Friends ride together not touching. Never do you see anyone with their arms wrapped around the driver.
This time I figured not only am I riding with my husband, but Goa is full of (mostly European) tourists who do whatever they please. So I slid on up behind him and finally mastered the art of not falling off a scooter while riding down the craptastic roads of India (the secret seems to be never letting your abs relax).
Our trip to Panjim was motivated mostly by my need for contact solution. I had brought a travel size bottle with me and somehow managed to blow through it in the 12 days since we left home. After visiting a few stores in Anjuna (the area where we were staying) and finding none, we were finally told we'd likely only find it in the capital city. Why only one city would sell such a thing I do not know.
Panjim is a nice enough city, right on the water and full of quaint narrow lanes (or as quaint as they can be in India...most Americans would probably just call them run-down). We basically just got in, hit up the pharmacy, and got out. We saw a fair amount of the city while trying to find a pharmacy and trying to avoid the most congested roads. I'm sure it deserves more exploration, but the beach was calling our names.
Fun tidbit: before we went out to the beach I happened to see my face in a mirror. I could see the outline where my sunglasses had been. Only this wasn't a case of unfortunate sunburn. It was dirt. Plastered to my face by the wind. Disgusting.
The beaches we saw in Goa...had their own brand of charm, let's say.
Yes, that is a cow. On the beach.
Only in India!
There were very few Indians who weren't working serving drinks or trying to sell various things. It was allll tourists from various European countries. So I appeared to fit right in, only I didn't want to. I learned Indians have a nickname for European tourists. "ET." Euro trash.
Now I am certainly not saying they are all deserving of that name. As with any stereotype, there are many many exceptions to the "rule". But I will say that I didn't see a single woman on that beach in even a remotely conservative swimsuit. Only string bikinis which never quite covered the body part it was supposed to be containing.
I noticed this while staying in Pune, too. The only white people in town were found in the neighborhoods closest to the ashram which is known for "free love" (I'm not kidding, that is still what they call it). None were American, none were wearing enough clothing, and none seemed to be respectful of Indian culture. And I didn't appreciate the assumption that I was one of them.
The beaches were also not so clean and not so pretty. Of course, I may have been spoiled by the incredible untainted beauty of beaches in Sri Lanka. Perhaps if we'd come to Goa first it would be a different story.
At night we went out onto a beach filled with shack after shack after shack crammed full of, you guessed it, drunk tourists.
Hubby had said I just needed to see the nightlife. Once we reached there, though, he was as unimpressed as I was. I suppose things seem a lot more cool when you're 16. Kinda like drinking alcohol was awesome until I was old enough to do it legally.
The next morning we went to a massive flea market that stretched on for farther than even the most dedicated deal-hunter can handle.
Many (most) of the stalls were selling ridiculously cheap items for far too high a price, milking the tourists for all they were worth (paper lantern anyone? how about incense? a bootleg cd?).
After a mere day and a half, we were off to Pune (hubby's hometown) to spend another day and a half.
Pune was largely uneventful. I had not missed it at all. Not even a little bit. We did get to spend an afternoon out catching up with an old friend, which was the highlight.
An hour before we were scheduled to board our overnight train to Khambhat (mother-in-law's hometown), we find out we don't actually have tickets, we're just on a waitlist. My father-in-law knew this. He also knew that if you haven't been confirmed by the morning of the trip, you're not going to be. Yet he waited until we were ready to leave to tell us. I've learned this is typical behavior but it never fails to piss me off. Kind of like Indian Standard Time. Expected, yet still annoying.
So our overnight train ride in the sleeper car (for which I was completely prepared this time) was canceled. It was decided that, rather than hire a driver or wait until the morning, we would take our own car and drive as far as we could before stopping at a hotel for the night.
Fine, I thought. I still get to sleep laying down.
Not so much. We ended up driving for 13 hours straight. In heavy traffic. All trucks (which my father-in-law also expected). Even with the car closed up as tight as it gets, the exhaust fumes were horrible. We were essentially in a diesel tailpipe for 13 hours. Hubby and I took turns lying down on the seat in a vain attempt to sleep.
And so we arrived for my mother-in-law's family reunion having been awake for two days and me sporting a new-found cold.
Let the festivities begin!
a) I need to be in that pool!
ReplyDeleteb) MTV India spinoff--The Goa Shore?
c) I've pretty much decided that if you ever say "Hey Erin, wanna go to India with me?" I'm gonna say no. But I still love you!
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