December 29
7:30 AM
“Where are you going next?” our waiter asked us at breakfast. He was a chilled and friendly guy from the North of India who came to work south during the tourist season. He spoke with a soft smile and moved with a relaxed gait.
“Calangute,” I told him.
He shook his head. “Ah, you won’t like it there.”
“How come?” Bianca asked him.
“Too busy. Many people.”
“Is it? I hope it’s not so bad.”
“Very very busy for New Years fireworks,” he warned us with a smile.
“Fireworks sound fun!”
Our time in Agonda was coming to a close. So we said goodbye to our friend; goodbye to our doggy guide resting beneath the table; and goodbye to the little shack by the sea.
There was some confusion with our taxi driver, Nevil, but we finally sorted it out, and we were soon making our way through the village, passing cunning dogs, sleepy cows, and the curious aimless white horse. The sun gleamed golden on the palm fronds swaying in the morning breeze. What a scene! We crossed the narrow bridge at the edge of town, back on the winding roads leading into a world of mountains and thick tropical jungle.
I noticed a crucifix and rosary dangling from the car’s mirror. As he drove us down the narrow roads, Nevil skillfully avoided the unexpected obstacles in traffic without making too much fuss with the horn. He was serious in his approach, not taking unnecessary chances, and driving in an orderly and professional manner. I sat back in my seat, finally able to relax and enjoy the majestic display of flora & fauna all around us.
Along the highways, Goa unfolded before us like a mystic flower. Rice fields glistened under the sun as women bent over the crops. Rivers flowed through dense vegetation and disappeared beyond the palm-dotted horizon. Towns and villages with cryptic shrines and scripted archways. Splashes of colour. Lively and vibrant structures for purposes I could not discern. Where am I? Seemingly random statues of men, women, and children surrounded by vibrant psychedelic swirls, loops, and iconographic motifs. There it was. Om Sweet Om. The secret ancient wisdom. I was not looking for it, but it was hard to miss. The symbolic attractor that kick-started the great migrations from western explorers seeking spicy answers to their neurological questions. Here were those answers, out in the open. A ready-made alternate metaphysical reality and time-tested rituals. Shimmering paths to unknown metaphysical realms, structured organization of altered states, and keys to marvelous treasures of awakened experience.
Culture shock hit me full force. As one travels and sees how people live in other places, one cannot help but imagine what it would be like to also live in those places, those homes on the hill, along the highway, in the middle of palm groves, in crowded towns, flooded rice fields, through rains and droughts, scarcity and plenty, religious practices, norms, customs, whispers, moon-filled nights in steamy jungle dreams...
Back in Agonda, we had been cloistered in a tourists’ playground and somewhat sheltered from the “real” India. Now that we were leaving our cocoon, India began to reveal her raw extravagant form, and her fiercesome quivering multi-limbed majesty.
Bianca and I looked at each other with that sly conspiratorial look. What lay ahead on those Indian country roads? More adventure!
(Cue in the Pulp Fiction soundtrack)
India was unlike anything I had experienced up to that point. A world so strange that I could not imagine myself in it. Not at that moment. Even with all its modern conveniences. Neither could I fathom the idea of showing up unannounced on a ship centuries ago and decide to stick around for a while.Distant ancestors came this way, I thought. Beginning in 1498 with the arrival of Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama. What in the world were they thinking to just show up here, take a piece of land and call it home? I was both fascinated and overwhelmed by this land. A Shaktian broodiness came over me as I imagined myself arriving centuries ago. As if in a fable, walking along the moonlit paths of an ancient kingdom. Fires flickering with vigor in the fort and soft moans in secret beaches. A ship's sail on the horizon...
Flashes of colour, dark eyes, modern and ancient worlds merging, flashy smiles, braided long hair, skirts and saris, exposed midriffs, jars, oiled suntanned skin, telephones, crowded streets, the aroma of spices, bridges and all the echoes of ancient Europeans- a dangerous liaison between two cultures, a wary dance between Shiva and our mystic emissaries.
Nativity stars hung everywhere.
“Goans seem to take Christmas more seriously than people back home in Vancouver,” I said.
There was a metaphysical lesson somewhere in there, I mused, but I could not figure out what that might be.
A motorcycle passed us by, and I noticed a curious thing: only the driver wore a helmet. Sometimes, I saw more than two people wedged against each other on the seat. I figured this was a cheap mode of transportation for families who did not own a car. Seeing this brought me back to my school days when I used to ride my bicycle with three or four of my mates hanging on.
Massive bridges in various states of development spanned across the landscape. The projects seem gigantic, and I got the impression that India was heading at full speed into the future.
In spite of the familiar Portuguese architecture and Christian symbolism, Goa also had its roots firmly planted in a uniquely Indian foundation. Alien to my sense of reality. We passed through towns that had perplexing rhythms and designs. A sea of unfamiliar faces. The sun bursting. The heat suffocating. Endless miles. An exquisite Chaos that left me numb, shrinking back in my seat, and wishing I was back in Vancouver sitting at a quiet cafe and watching the rain fall.
We veered away from the rugged inland terrain and approached the more familiar coastal areas with large bodies of water glistening under the sun, my spirits finally lifted, even as we were being ushered into the maelstrom of mayhem called Calangute.
The shrill cacophony of beeps enveloped us. Through busy crowded streets, Nevil navigated deftly, stopping only once to ask for directions from a group of men hanging out in front of a bike repair shop. He then drove us through the narrow bustling streets, looking this way and that like a cat on the hunt. Tourists and locals milled about in quaint little shops, ramshackle hotels clung to hills along the highway, my heart sank at the very idea of staying there and was glad to see Nevil drive past them, driving us closer to the sea.
We stared wide-eyed, not knowing what to make of the chaos around us. Nevil turned this way and that through funky back alleys. Hesitating at intersections as he tried to orient himself.
We held our breath. After nearly four hours in the car, we were ready to jump off.
Nevil turned down a narrow lane and drove up to a large yellow building.
"Here it is!"
We thanked him for his excellent service, and then we stood on the tiled courtyard with our bags, looking up at the guest-house that stood in the middle of the ragged little neighborhood looking like a ripe mango. I felt a sense of relief at seeing how well maintained it looked. Its colonial architecture gleaming yellow and royal blue.
We grabbed our bags and made our way to the check-in counter, and our new base of operations.
Dive into another section:
1.1, 1.2, 1.3, 1.4, 2.1, 2.2, 2.3, 2.4, 3, 4
Images and video by @litguru