We didn't really plan on going to India. Chris and I were booking tickets from Doha to Izmir, Turkey so we could roadtrip along the southern coast - and be in Turkey for Thanksgiving - when the Qatar Airways website reported the flight was no longer available. We navigated back to the homepage of QA (our favorite airline, but not our favorite website . . . more on that later) to discover they had a special on their new destination: Goa, India. Goa, known also as "India-lite" and a Portuguese colony until the 1960s, is only three hours away from the sandbox (Doha), boasts beaches, cheap food, warm weather, and market shopping. Tickets booked.
I'll spare the part when we arrived at the airport hours early only to be told the flight was booked. I'll leave out the details of our hair-raising, clutch-the-kids-for-dear-life taxi ride from the Goa airport to our hotel at four 0'clock in the morning on a seriously curvy road with a driver who looked no older than my students. I might even leave out the Panjim market story, but it's just too good.
What I will include are the extrinsic juxtapositions that seem to define India, the ones that trigger a simultaneous adoration for and disdain of a place. While our hotel, The Lemon Tree, provided a tranquil, lush setting complete with a pool, a few hammocks, and a swim up bar, a few meters beyond the lobby thrusted us into a mini-whirlwind of traffic (tuk-tuks and trucks), hawkers, colorful shops, and strolling bovine. It was an overwhelming yet fascinating assault on my senses. I had to multi-task on a new level: maintain hand-holding with kids, avoid cow poo on dirt sidewalk, participate in conversation with husband, sniff out a supper spot, and snap photos when possible. Leaving the hotel was both a welcome challenge and a chore.
The beach near the hotel posed as another juxtaposition. It was lovely spot of land facing west, perfect for watching sunsets and evening strolls. It would have been even lovlier minus the plump, pink Brits who overtook the beach each afternoon, sans the defunct cargo ship perched in the shallow waters, and without the myriad tankers in the distance not obstructing the view so much as just tainting it with their presence. Perhaps I have been spoiled by all the beautiful beaches that dot my memory: Bondi Beach in Australia, Akumal in Mexico, Salema in Portugal, and the dozens of beachs in Oregon, Hawaii, and Washington that act as my (high) standards for beach aesthetics.
Since I am operating on a mere ninety minutes of sleep, I will fast forward to the market. Another harrowing taxi ride (this time in the daylight, this time no seatbelts) took us to the Panjim market. I knew I wanted to buy some goods for the house and some gifts for folks at home, and I thought we could roam around for a couple of hours and absorb all that interesting India-ness. We were back in the taxi after ten minutes. Here's Chris with the story:
The Panjim market was what I had always pictured India to be: a kalidescopic sensory experience. As we exited the taxi the drum seller was the first to pounce upon us. Laden with at least 30 drums he pushed us to buy from him, "You will not get a better deal anywhere else." We pushed past him with a feeble promise to look when we returned and entered a sea of bodies, brightly clad, all inviting us to visit their stall, to buy from them. A glance in their direction seemed to be a promise to come in and buy. The best strategy was to walk past holding up hand to wave them off and dive down a side "street." Not all vendors accepted this, especially the one who decided to grab me by the earlobe and tug me (unsuccessfully) into his stall. In the end the money went quickly. A couple of shirts, an anklet for Greta, some woven work and the money was gone. I didn't bring too much for fear of pickpockets in the mass of humanity. The market was truly overstimulating and the children found the heat and press of flesh to be especially oppressive. This was compounded by the people who kept reaching out and touching Nolan and Greta's heads. Our money spent, we worked our way back to the taxi. While waiting for the cabbie to return the drum seller spotted us.
"Now you buy a drum," he said. "600 rupees."
"Sorry, we spent our money. We can't buy a drum."
"For you,my first customers, very lucky, I give a good price. 550."
"Thank you, but we only have 50 rupees."
"No, you have money," he pressed angrily. "500."
The exchange continued this way as I looked deperately for our taxi driver. The price lowered as far as 250 rupees, but I honestly didn't have the money. In fact, I was counting on our taxi driver to let me run over to an ATM when we returned to the hotel. Then the final straw. When I said I din't have any money, the drum monger replied, "Maybe your wife will have sex for you?"
At that point my hands balled into fists. "You can go away, now!" I said through clenched teeth, trying not to loose my cool. The drum man backed away fear in his eyes, realizing that he had crossed the line.
The taxi driver appeared shortly thereafter and we left the insanity of decorated cows, billowing insense, and overzealous hawkers for the relative tranquility of the taxi.
It's me again. Some of you know that I have a tendency to mix up facts (you know, like the opening times of the Orsay Museum during the one trip to Paris with my parents) that typically have minor, harmless ramifications (sorry again Mom and Dad). During the retelling of our India experiences in the weeks following our trip, I reported the story how I interpreted it (okay, I also have bad hearing, so I told it how I thought I heard it). I thought the drum guy offered his wife to Chris if we would just purchase the darn drum. I had no idea the guy was attempting to negotiate me into the deal!
This was all before I became debilitated by tonsillitus on the last day of our trip. I kicked out Chris and the kids so I could be sick in solitude. Our kids' music teacher, however, was at the same resort. She saw me at my worst: disgusting breath from infected tonsils and recent pukage, clothes stuck to my aching body from the fever-induced sweatiness, and an attitude from hell. Not many people have seen me in such an awful state - not many who have lived to tell about it anyway - and she could not have been kinder. Laurie, whom my kids love as much as Maggie the Music Teacher, took my ickiness in stride and even invited us to her New Year's bash which we missed due to an impossibly long spin cycle and the whimsey of Qatar Airways. Stay tuned.
I'll spare the part when we arrived at the airport hours early only to be told the flight was booked. I'll leave out the details of our hair-raising, clutch-the-kids-for-dear-life taxi ride from the Goa airport to our hotel at four 0'clock in the morning on a seriously curvy road with a driver who looked no older than my students. I might even leave out the Panjim market story, but it's just too good.
What I will include are the extrinsic juxtapositions that seem to define India, the ones that trigger a simultaneous adoration for and disdain of a place. While our hotel, The Lemon Tree, provided a tranquil, lush setting complete with a pool, a few hammocks, and a swim up bar, a few meters beyond the lobby thrusted us into a mini-whirlwind of traffic (tuk-tuks and trucks), hawkers, colorful shops, and strolling bovine. It was an overwhelming yet fascinating assault on my senses. I had to multi-task on a new level: maintain hand-holding with kids, avoid cow poo on dirt sidewalk, participate in conversation with husband, sniff out a supper spot, and snap photos when possible. Leaving the hotel was both a welcome challenge and a chore.
The beach near the hotel posed as another juxtaposition. It was lovely spot of land facing west, perfect for watching sunsets and evening strolls. It would have been even lovlier minus the plump, pink Brits who overtook the beach each afternoon, sans the defunct cargo ship perched in the shallow waters, and without the myriad tankers in the distance not obstructing the view so much as just tainting it with their presence. Perhaps I have been spoiled by all the beautiful beaches that dot my memory: Bondi Beach in Australia, Akumal in Mexico, Salema in Portugal, and the dozens of beachs in Oregon, Hawaii, and Washington that act as my (high) standards for beach aesthetics.
Since I am operating on a mere ninety minutes of sleep, I will fast forward to the market. Another harrowing taxi ride (this time in the daylight, this time no seatbelts) took us to the Panjim market. I knew I wanted to buy some goods for the house and some gifts for folks at home, and I thought we could roam around for a couple of hours and absorb all that interesting India-ness. We were back in the taxi after ten minutes. Here's Chris with the story:
The Panjim market was what I had always pictured India to be: a kalidescopic sensory experience. As we exited the taxi the drum seller was the first to pounce upon us. Laden with at least 30 drums he pushed us to buy from him, "You will not get a better deal anywhere else." We pushed past him with a feeble promise to look when we returned and entered a sea of bodies, brightly clad, all inviting us to visit their stall, to buy from them. A glance in their direction seemed to be a promise to come in and buy. The best strategy was to walk past holding up hand to wave them off and dive down a side "street." Not all vendors accepted this, especially the one who decided to grab me by the earlobe and tug me (unsuccessfully) into his stall. In the end the money went quickly. A couple of shirts, an anklet for Greta, some woven work and the money was gone. I didn't bring too much for fear of pickpockets in the mass of humanity. The market was truly overstimulating and the children found the heat and press of flesh to be especially oppressive. This was compounded by the people who kept reaching out and touching Nolan and Greta's heads. Our money spent, we worked our way back to the taxi. While waiting for the cabbie to return the drum seller spotted us.
"Now you buy a drum," he said. "600 rupees."
"Sorry, we spent our money. We can't buy a drum."
"For you,my first customers, very lucky, I give a good price. 550."
"Thank you, but we only have 50 rupees."
"No, you have money," he pressed angrily. "500."
The exchange continued this way as I looked deperately for our taxi driver. The price lowered as far as 250 rupees, but I honestly didn't have the money. In fact, I was counting on our taxi driver to let me run over to an ATM when we returned to the hotel. Then the final straw. When I said I din't have any money, the drum monger replied, "Maybe your wife will have sex for you?"
At that point my hands balled into fists. "You can go away, now!" I said through clenched teeth, trying not to loose my cool. The drum man backed away fear in his eyes, realizing that he had crossed the line.
The taxi driver appeared shortly thereafter and we left the insanity of decorated cows, billowing insense, and overzealous hawkers for the relative tranquility of the taxi.
It's me again. Some of you know that I have a tendency to mix up facts (you know, like the opening times of the Orsay Museum during the one trip to Paris with my parents) that typically have minor, harmless ramifications (sorry again Mom and Dad). During the retelling of our India experiences in the weeks following our trip, I reported the story how I interpreted it (okay, I also have bad hearing, so I told it how I thought I heard it). I thought the drum guy offered his wife to Chris if we would just purchase the darn drum. I had no idea the guy was attempting to negotiate me into the deal!
This was all before I became debilitated by tonsillitus on the last day of our trip. I kicked out Chris and the kids so I could be sick in solitude. Our kids' music teacher, however, was at the same resort. She saw me at my worst: disgusting breath from infected tonsils and recent pukage, clothes stuck to my aching body from the fever-induced sweatiness, and an attitude from hell. Not many people have seen me in such an awful state - not many who have lived to tell about it anyway - and she could not have been kinder. Laurie, whom my kids love as much as Maggie the Music Teacher, took my ickiness in stride and even invited us to her New Year's bash which we missed due to an impossibly long spin cycle and the whimsey of Qatar Airways. Stay tuned.
