Partial Truths

I spent the better part of yesterday cruising through Kottayam’s backwaters – narrow waterways that snake through the jungle. Land of The God of Small Things, which I will have to re-read for the hundredth time when I get home. I’m a bit tired today, so won’t be able to do the trip proper justice in words. But it was gorgeous – peaceful and a million shades of green. And I had my lunch on a banana leaf, which makes good food taste even better. I promise pictures very soon. I do.

I was meant to be going to Thiruvalla tomorrow, but have decided to postpone until Friday, taking the opportunity to go to the tea plantations at Munnar for a couple of days with Linda, a Singaporean friend from yesterday’s trip. It’s reputedly a beautiful spot, with lovely walks and clean mountain air. But 10 degrees!? Brrr. I’ll have to replace the cardigan I left in Bombay.

…is cool. At least Fort Kochi, the old heritage part, is. Lots of narrow windy streets and crumbling, colourful buildings. An ancient synagogue and a mixture of Syrian Christian and Jesuit churches. Chinese fishing nets along the estuary’s edge, where it’s easy to while away a few hours. There’s a grid of three or four streets that exist now purely for tourism, which was a bit of a shock when I came across them having spent the morning rambling in relative peace through Mattancherry and the old Jewish quarter (though this was probably because it was Saturday and the synagogue was shut – when I went back on Sunday the area was heaving).

That same evening I found a bunch of men lined up on benches looking out to sea – it seemed like a kind of makeshift waiting room. Intrigued, I hung around and after a little while, wooden fishing boats began arriving back with their day’s catch, which is auctioned there on the shore in an manner that appeared utterly chaotic to me, but then all auctions appear chaotic to me, even when I can understand the language they’re conducted in. Fun to watch.

I met Andy that same evening – he had arrived that day after a marathon journey from California. He has the enviable job of professional photographer and he travels the world taking pictures and compiling them into books – India is his current project. We got on well, Andy and I, and spent the next couple of days moseying around Kochi together. I lost track of him yesterday, because I was out of town for the day, but I’ll keep an eye out for him at the Chinese fishing nets this evening – our rendezvous spot; I’d like to see him before I go.

He’s one of these people who befriends everyone and so manages to end up in unexpected places that the guide books tend not to mention. For example, if it wasn’t for Andy, I wouldn’t have met Hari, an elephant on heat being restrained in a compound down a side street until he could be castrated, making him safe to return to work at the temple. Neither would I have been shown a video on the mahout’s (elephant master’s) mobile, of another mahout being lifted by the trunk of an angry elephant and slammed repeatedly onto the concrete floor until he was dead. So, thanks, Andy!

My last few days in Goa I frequented one particular place for lunch – partly because the fish curry was really good, partly because it was on my favourite part of the beach, partly because the chairs were really comfy, and partly because I made friends with Bobbi.

We had chatted a bit on the first day so that by the second day he recognised me and we talked some more. Bobbi is from Nepal and working the season in Goa – his English isn’t too good and I sensed that this may be my opportunity to combat the shyness that often prevents me practising another language, even when I’m dying to. And even though I love learning languages and am well aware of the positive response even a pathetic attempt invariably receives. It’s a psychological quirk of mine that I’m slowly dealing with (and yes, of course it’s the fear of failure). In reply to my question, Bobbi informed me that he speaks Nepali, Hindi, Bengali and some English. In any Western country such linguistic prowess would be feted and pave the way to a coveted job, but it’s normal here and so Bobbi is a waiter with no realisation of how remarkable he is. Surely the ability to flit between four languages promotes greater cerebral elasticity? Does the current American president’s difficulty with just one not go some way to proving this theory? Why do we reward mediocrity?

Determined not to let the moment pass, I asked him, “Aapka naam kya hai?” (“what’s your name?” – impressive, I know). At which he looked at me, astonished, and took my hand while he told me his name. And then started asking me questions in Hindi, rephrasing when I couldn’t understand or struggled to reply (most of the time – I understand a lot more than I can say at this point), showering me with utterly undeserved praise which culminated in him inviting me to “[his] Nepal”, where his home is my home, etc etc. Had I spoken Nepali he might have had a heart attack.

It was quite wonderful, both as a breakthough for me, and a relief for him to be able to speak confidently. And it signified a power shift – suddenly he wasn’t the waiter in an inferior position to me, struggling to communicate in my language, but the holder of greater knowledge, imparting it to me. It was lovely. As it was to be greeted in Hindi the next day and to be asked questions that to my surprise I found I could sometimes answer.

I was genuinely sad to leave Bobbi, a Nepali boy working 15 hours a day on the beaches of Goa, so very far from home (and whose favourite English song is I Just Called to Say I Love You). Such is the fascination of human relationships – how you can come to truly care about the fate of another person so quickly. I don’t really know him, but I know that he’s a sweet boy, that I’m grateful to him for his brief part in my life, that I feel almost protective of him, and that I hope above all that life is kind to him.

I’m already thinking I might have a few days back in Benaulim en route to Bombay at the end of March. If I do, then I must remember to get a photo of my new friend.

“Phir milenge, Anna” he said. “Phir milenge, Bobbi” I said. “Until we meet again”.

Now I’m in Kerala. Which is gorgeous, but not the best place to build on my breakthrough because everything’s in Malayalam and I can’t understand a bloody word. Oh, except for the fact that my name means “elephant”. Brilliant.

Tomorrow I leave Goa, for Kerala. I’ve had a wonderful week in Benaulim, but the sense that I’ll be back before too long mitigates any sadness.

It has only been a brief stay, obviously, but I leave with interesting impressions. It’s a gorgeous place in which to spend some time; Benaulim village is hugely endearing and its beach far outstrips Palolem in my opinion, both for its grandeur and the more relaxed, less self-conscious nature of its scene. I’ve met some lovely local people, the majority of whom come across as relaxed and friendly. One of the keys to enjoyable solo travel is to listen to your instincts, but not to be automatically suspicious of anyone who crosses your path. That doesn’t mean being naive – I can be well aware of someone’s base motivation for approaching me (be it sex or money – though this obviously doesn’t hold for everyone who says hello) but still enjoy engaging with them for a while. To dismiss outright is to potentially miss so much.

But there are other aspects of Goa that leave me troubled. One is the constant bitching by return visitors about “how it used to be”. There is a great deal of construction going on in and around the village, primarily (according to Shiva) consisting of holiday homes financed by non-Goan and NRI (non-resident Indian) money. And trees are being cut down, and fields are being built on, which, visually and environmentally, is a shame. But it is equally a product of an economy undergoing rapid growth and a country struggling to develop – the pros and cons of which constitute a debate in itself.

What irritates me is that the scope of tourist complaint doesn’t encompass these wider political and economic factors. It boils down to the fact that their perfect little paradise is undergoing change and they don’t like it. Because Benaulim is becoming more a town than a village, because NRI remittances are funding more and more construction, because more tourists are coming: it seems there’s a very specific contingent of visitors left from the 70s hippy heyday in Goa, who far from espousing a live and let live attitude, are utterly dismayed that somehow their secret got out and as a result their utopia has been “spoilt”. Forgetting the fact that Goa is not now and never has been theirs; that this subtle undertone of ownership smacks more of neo-colonialism than of universal love. After all, the vast majority of these visitors are just that – they visit, when the weather is miserable in Europe and perfect here, and then they return while the monsoon temporarily demolishes their idyll to lives which entail a degree of comfort beyond the reach of all but the wealthiest Goans. I understand the sadness when a place you have loved begins to change, but while tourism plays a massive part in its economy, Goa exists beyond the summer influx, and it has a right to develop along with everywhere else. How it manages that development is another matter entirely.

The other unsettling facet of Goa, is the communalism that bubbles beneath its picturebook surface. Everyday the paper has news of violence – clashes with police, rallies by the Hindu far-right, letters proclaiming “Goa for Goans” (when I asked Shiva if all the building work generates local employment he said that local people generally decline construction jobs and workers are shipped in from other states), and a general sense that all is not as sunny in Goa as the blue skies would suggest.

None of which negates the fact that I love it here. Just as the overwhelming/depressing/infuriating problems and inequalities of India in general don’t serve to negate my subjective love of the country. But still, food for thought perhaps.

While Arvind was here over the weekend, he told me about a man he had first met in a local restaurant who had an encyclopedic knowledge of British postcodes. As we didn’t come across him before he left, Arvind suggested I visit the restaurant at some point to see if he was there. By Tuesday evening I hadn’t got around to it and headed back to Rosario’s for chai after my fun day of meeting people. The bar was quite busy; a while after arriving I noticed an Indian man talking with two Scottish tourists across the floor from me; he caught my attention because on learning where the men were from he had launched into an oration on the Scottish dimension of British politics, including the slightly obscure fact that Tony Blair was educated at Fettes, a fancy Edinburgh private school. After bidding them goodnight, he moseyed around the room until he came to me.

“Good evening,” he said.
“Hello,”
“What is your country, please?”
“England,” I replied.
“Oh, which county?” he asked, keenly.
“Wiltshire…”
“Wiltshire. Stonehenge, Salisbury, Marlborough, Swindon Town,” he rattled off.
“Yes!” I said, in surprise.
“And where you are living, please?”
“I live near Bath, in a small town,”
“Hmm..I see. That would be near Yeovil?”
“Not really,” I said, “No, closer to Bath and Bristol,”
“Ok, closer to Bath. So you will be having a BA postcode.”
I started to laugh: “I’ve heard about you!” I said – a fact that didn’t seem to faze him.

He told me his name was Shiva and asked for mine, which he acknowledged as a very short palindrome. He asked who had told me about him, and I said my friend Arvind from Bombay. On hearing his surname, he paused for a moment, seeming to mull it over until something suddenly clicked and he came back to life, repeating the name over and over again to himself: “Sivakumaran, Sivakumaran, Sivakumaran, it means ’son of Shiva’, Sivakumaran…” Having made the connection he remembered Arvind completely – that he works in movies and then, more accurately, that he writes screenplays, even the area of Bombay he lives in. Quite astounding. Quite certainly autistic, and one of the gentlest, most engaging souls I have ever come across.

I bought some postcards and stamps from him that night and he mentioned that he led birdwatching walks around the village. By chance I met him as I left the beach last night and we arranged to meet at 7am this morning. Which we did, along with another British visitor, Alan, and we spent three of what I already know will be the most memorable hours of my entire trip.

Shiva led us through and around the village along secret paths I would never have found for myself, particularly as most of them involved tramping through people’s backyards, wishing them a good morning as we passed. Alan was distinctly uncomfortable with this alternative cultural conception of property, but Shiva assured him it was fine, while I had a lovely time getting a glimpse of early morning village life. Shiva confirmed his reputation as a true wonder – from an exhaustive knowledge of etymology in several languages (did you know that “banyan” [as in, the tree] means “extra growth”, which is where the word “bunyon” comes from? Or that “vernacular” originally means “language of slaves”? Or that the Indian Drongo bird is named from the Italian word “dranga” which means “stupid” and was the name given to the lackeys of the mafia?) to an ability to spot every kind of bird with the naked eye from a huge distance. And what birds! Eagles, kites, kestrels, nightingales, various coloured bee-eaters, marsh harriers, open-billed storks, green pigeons, an owl, magpie-robins, and kingfishers that just sat there waiting to be admired, unlike their British cousins of which you catch a fleeting flash of blue if you’re very lucky. Shiva’s enthusiasm and passion for the birds was a joy to experience – “Look! Come, Anna! Look, Alan, come! Oh my God, oh my God,”. Wonderful.

I want to come back here with Arvind and make a film about Shiva. He’s one of those rare souls who makes a profound impression purely through being himself; everyone would benefit from an encounter with Shiva.

If Monday was all about the food, yesterday was all about the people!

The other day I bought some papaya from a woman while walking on the beach with Arvind. Yesterday, a few minutes after arriving on the sand, I heard a distant “Hello!” and spotted the same woman metres ahead of me. She has eyes like a hawk, apparently. We chatted and I opted for pineapple this time (though they push the papaya much harder because it rots, becoming worthless, more quickly). She commanded me to “Sit!” while she cut the fruit, and some of her fellow sellers joined us, so we sat together on the sand sharing pineapple. Me, Ruki, Tina, Prakash the ice-cream man (“You have marriage?”) and Engerbedi (I think – apologies if I have demolished her name). They told me about going to Margao (a bigger town about twenty minutes away on the bus) early in the morning to buy the fruit, and the taxes they have to pay to local police in order to work on the beach, which sometimes work to pacify and sometimes lead to their stuff being taken anyway. Finding I was 27 and unmarried, Engerbedi was unfazed – “Well, maybe when you’re 30, 35…” She’s obviously used to these strange Western women who travel alone. By the end of the conversation I was on a promise to buy ice-cream from Prakash on Wednesday (which I have just honoured, having again been spotted from at least three miles away), papaya from Engerbedi on Thursday (and to look at Tina’s jewellery), and I’ve lost track of Friday. No doubt they’ll remind me. It’s good fun – necessary business for them, but very gentle and friendly – it’s nice to have new friends on the beach.

A while later I met Kay from Findhorn in Scotland. She writes and lectures on topics to do with human communication and often spends her winters away from the Scottish chill. This year she is spending five months in Benaulim. She has rented a flat between the beach and the village and spends her mornings writing, her afternoons as she pleases. Living the dream. My dream, at least.

Kay was followed by Emmanuel, a beautiful young Nigerian man who is paid to play football in Goa; he’s about to go to China and the Philipines with his team before returning to Nigeria while the monsoon batters the Goan coast. Determined to have dinner with me, he backed off at the mention of Abhinav, before returning a while later for a second attempt. But completely unthreatening – just a lonely boy far from home.

These are the precious and passing acquaintances that travelling alone allows for.

And now I’ve just lost half an hour’s worth of typing, which as most of you know spawns a quite irrational anger lodged deep in the chest. So rather than re-typing it all and not doing the person I’m describing justice (and he is the piece de resistance, if not of all humanity, then certainly of Goa), I’ll abandon it for now and start again tomorrow.

Before I begin properly, I’d just like to record the admittedly rather mundane, but also quite creepy, detail that the skin has begun to peel off my fingers. Beginning in the webby bit between fingers, and spreading up each digit, a very fine film of skin is peeling upwards towards my knuckles. While the symptom itself doesn’t trouble me, the fact that it may be a result of the twenty minutes of handwashing I did in a bucket yesterday does. Am I really that pathetic? It would appear so, friends.

Second part of the prologue: the backspace key on Indian keyboards is tiny. Rather than removing the offending typo, my efforts at deletion more often result in: \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ It’s quite annoying.

 Now I can begin. And what better topic to be begin with than food? Yesterday for breakfast I had banana, honey and coconut pancake with fruit salad (washed in mineral water, I hasten to add) – I have photographic evidence of this technicolour feast which I will upload soon; for lunch we (me, Arvind and our driver Powar [who kept us very safe on the roads, despite his preference for carving out a third lane of his own rather than be stuck behind another vehicle for more than ten seconds]) went to Martin’s Corner, which had been recommended to me and was absolutely worth tracking down (“Straight. Five minutes”) – I had Goan prawn curry and the prawns were genuinely the best of my life, as was the bebinca and ice-cream which, granted, I had only had for the first time three days before, but still this one was bloody good. Then for dinner I ate at Rosario’s where I’m staying and had the most satisfying daal and aloo gobi possibly ever. And chai. What a day!

Arvind and Powar left after lunch yesterday, so now my solo adventure begins. It’s going pretty well so far, I have to say. After doing the washing that destroyed my angelic fingers, I went for an early evening walk through the other side of Benaulim. The road wends through the shade of the palm trees, past gorgeous ageing bungalows painted pink, or green, or azure blue, as well as some lavish new builds that sit grandly amongst the trees but jar slightly with the nostalgic feeling that pervades the others. After a while, the road winds its way out into the open and bisects rice paddies before it reaches the sand and the sea. Dusk is the perfect time here (the same is true of Bombay).

En route I found a beautiful guest house overlooking the rice fields towards the ocean. I’ll go there tomorrow for a couple of nights to have a change of scene. Tomorrow, Wednesday, is also the day of the big flea market at Anjuna which has become a Goa institution (for the tourists, at least). I anticipate chaos, but I can’t resist a look; I plan on taking the bus to bring me back down to earth a bit after a week of chauffered cars.

The cafe is closing, but before I go, have a glance at this. The letters page of the local paper always provides a fascinating glimpse into local life. There are issues raised here that I want to write more about. But not just now – the waves are calling.