SO FINALLY

So I finally had the mandatory Thai massage – voete en als – I enjoyed the som tum, the tom yum and the phad thai; i experienced an afternoon cloud burst and wading through the streets, but nou sit ek met ‘n snot-nies!

Nothing like a half'ie of 100 Pipers from the 7-eleven to have me feeling as right as rain for tomorrow’s journey home…

TEXSTYLE

I had an eye-opening (final!) shopping-traipse-along today. After all, someone has to carry the packets…

From Boebae Towers to Pratunam; from rock-bottom bulk prices to more exclusive items; thousands upon thousands of square meters devoted to thousands of small, mostly textile related businesses with the odd accessory bulk supplier and a jeweller or ten in-between. Shoes, bags, belts, hats and cosmetics; couriers, deliveries, agents and buyers; whatever anyone could need including mannequins and shelving with food stalls to feed every worker; and an effective public transport system that includes elevated, underground and ‘normal’ rail as well as buses, taxis and rickshaws: and let me not forget the river taxis!

But the eye-opener was the booming textile industry and beside the big-buyers from across the globe who are standing-by on their tablets and ordering via email, there are the locals who are buying and wearing the locally produced clothes. I couldn’t help but try to imagine a South Africa where every big retailer and informal trader was selling clothing that is being made in South Africa? Of course, we would still have to import the fabric and buy cheap cotton from China and probably source the buttons from someplace else; but then again with the standing international trade agreements that are in place we would probably have to start importing something else of even less intrinsic value to society so that we can continue to buy some other essential item – like rice or a value-system – from one of South Africa’s many bed-partners… I mean trading-partners.

And in the Argus I had to laugh at the narrow-angle-reporting that announced directly from a press statement:

“R60m gives Langa a lift”

A lift where? I wondered… When a few more small businesses will be forced to close; a few more unemployed; more security, more minimum wage labour, more cheap imports of inferior products and bigger performance bonuses for the likes of good old Whitey because fuck knows, it’s an achievement for any developer to secure a Shoprite and a Pep as major tenants. And in addition to the obligatory exclusivity clauses that such retailers insist on, as well as incremental rentals, there will not be many residents or businessmen from Langa who will qualify for the bankrolls that will ultimately only benefit whoever is ‘earning’ the major profit.

En almal klap han’ne en smile…

UIT GE-CHATUCHAK

At some point during the night it rained and the morning was decidedly pleasant as I sat quite early with a decent coffee and my pipe and watching the traders emerge. By the time I had showered and was ready for the day the streets were steaming, but we had a mission. We took a bus to what is one of the largest weekend markets in the world, covering an area of 27 acres with 15000 stalls that sells every conceivable little thing from every part of Thailand and includes a media centre and hospital.

It was around ten-thirty when we disembarked at Chatuchak Park with a short list of specific items and after about five hours of dwaal’ing that included a delicious lunch, we had covered only a fraction of the endless labyrinth of lanes, but I did manage to get a hoedtjie that I have been searching for, for a few years as well as a leather pouch for my pipe and tobacco that was so cheap that I was tempted to buy extras as gifts. Fortunately, the one friend who smokes a pipe already has a pouch!

The combination of heat and humidity however meant that all we wanted to do when we returned to the guesthouse was sit in our air-conditioned room and chill. And chill we did! With a litre of duty-free Gin, Thai Schweppes and a 5 baht bag of ice, we were reg for the evening.

This morning I am sitting beneath a lazy fan in the communal area downstairs, looking out at the bustling street. Right next door is a liquor store where a couple of hardy regulars are already at it; uniformed students are buying breakfast at the food stalls on their way to the nearby college; the doors of the air-conditioned 7-eleven across the street are standing open to afford the constant stream of workers access; already the air is filled with a mind-boggling assortment of aromas as cars and vans and bikes and rickshaws and motorized vendors pass by. It is 9.30 on a muggy Monday morning in Thewet and almal is klaar kak biesag met hulle wiek!

BENOUT IN BANGKOK

We left Goa just after 6 on a pleasant’ish Friday evening with a Spice Jet flight that took us to Mumbai where we sat in the plane for half-an-hour before heading to Kolkota. We arrived after ten and were scheduled to depart just after midnight, but there was a delay during which I wish I didn’t see the technicians first fucking around with the front landing gear and then one of the engines. At least the aircon in the departures terminal was set cold enough so that I could at least wear my Nepali dik-trui for a bietjie. 

We eventually left at four in the morning for a trouble-free two-and-a-half hour flight to Bangkok where the humidity had already managed to turn the baking thirty-two degrees into a decidedly distasteful Saturday morning tom yum. Thank Buddha for air-conditioned gas-driven taxis! At the hotel it’s the usual dilemma. Too hot to sleep and yet too moeg to do much else, so we walk through the backstreets where local food stalls line the road and fill the air with an assault of aroma’s; through a market, over a bridge that spans a canal, and then a side street lined with nurseries selling plants and flowers and herbs and clay pots and bamboo and, and, and.

At midday the streets were not yet too crowded, but as we neared the fabled Khaosan Road, I began seeing palefaces for the first time since our arrival. Another exotic city; another tourist trap; same shit, different flavour; different branding even, but ultimately still the same shit. I mean for fuck’s sake, there is a St. Patrick’s Day Pub & Restaurant in Khaosan Road; Diagonally across from the McDonalds’ and around the corner from the Burger King… Once again, thank Buddha for democracy! Or is it the monarchy? Or should I say the Monarchy? And mind you, it is a constitutional Monarchy too. And on the front page of today’s Bangkok Post a lesser headline proclaims “Court jails three MORE of EX-princess’s kin” so maybe it is just monarchy, but then again on page three there’s a story of a 67 year old man who was jailed for three years for writing defamatory remarks about the Monarchy in a shopping mall toilet. Best I leave this topic for further deliberation when I am safely back home in my own apartheid state of mind… 

Anyway, I have been checking out for some good music in the city tonight but it seems that either there is not much online marketing of events happening or there is nothing happening tonight. And it being always six in the evening, it is much too late for a nap and much too early to call it a night… What to do with one night in Bangkok?

Postscript!

We ventured forth for dinner into the teeming streets and right across from the guesthouse at the local food market we bumped into a ‘live music’ scene! It was an engagement party and the clichéd Asian Karaoke from hell was klapping virtually right on our doorstep. I will definitely make a note never to complain about the live music scene in Bangkok – or anywhere else for that matter.

DAAI TYD

As this idyllic retreat reaches its inevitable conclusion, my thoughts return to the everyday reality that awaits us upon our return. Body and mind are rested and rejuvenated and ready for the work that lies ahead. There is a longing for the familiar and an eagerness to complete what has been simmering on the creative back-burner. The possibility of a much anticipated return to the stage; the final rewrites on the novel; the new collection of poetry; the screenplay; the ongoing collective enterprises; the domestic projects: and the plans for other journeys…

Journeys to places held dear because of the friends I left behind; journeys to places that I always wanted to see with the companion who now accompanies me; and the most exciting journeys into worlds that exist only in my imagination where the fictitious reality is constructed in order to explore themes and the lives of characters to whom I have given birth, but with whom I have not spent sufficient time. I look forward to the return to a creative madness where my life’s purpose finds form: where my human experience and the voices of my gods find expression.

This journey never ends for even after my mortal expiry, there will be the everlasting journey of consciousness of which I am only a part. It is that consciousness which speaks to me now in the constant whisper of the waves tripping onto the shore; the wind, the trees; the incessant prattle of the birds and the insects and the pigs and the dogs all speaking a foreign tongue, but one that I am able to understand – the collective voice of consciousness that I am constantly trying to decipher.

But now I yearn most for the return to a familiar silence in which lies a different dissonance; an all-together different discord against which I often have to close my ears and shut off my mind; a visible disharmony which is made more bearable by the painstaking chipping away at the glossy, but bland and blurred marketing veneer behind which is hidden a much more macabre reality that contests everything that we are intended to blindly believe. 

DRY DAYS

The by-election for the Panaji legislative assembly seat that was due to take place in mid February was postponed to today because the model code of conduct which prohibits the sale of alcohol before, during and after an election would have hampered the Valentine’s Day celebrations and the Goa Carnival had it taken place when originally scheduled.

Imagine that in South Africa! A model code of conduct that imposes ‘dry days’ during a period when any sober-minded citizen needs a drop or ten of sterk-dop just to deal with the farce of elections and to temper the excess bullshit that is inevitably spewed before, during and after such non-events?

This more than anything else speaks of a cruel and unusual punishment that is meted out to the electorate as a reward for indulging in and legitimizing the machinations of the State.

Good thing that our time here is drawing to a close. ‘n Man maker mos ‘n dop amid the endless speeches and grandstanding by politicians… Of hoe?

LEFT BEHIND

Another balmy Monday has passed by without any fuss. We had an easy morning lazing about and reading; not doing much but very busy doing it. In the early afternoon I had to go to the optician in Mapusa to collect my new spectacles and seeing that we were already missioning, we decided to hook up with some long-time acquaintances of the Lady G. Brendan is a South African make-up artist who has been living and working in India for many years and his nuptial partner Marco is from Finland. After a bit of op-en-af we eventually met up with them at a French restaurant in Anjuna where they had a pop-up salon for the day. In attendance was a young English woman whose partner – an Indian – was having her hair done, as well as an older German lady. Multi-cultural se wat-wat…

The initial plan was to retire to the Mavis’s house in Chapora, but after their busy day we decided to head to Sri’s Restaurant – once again – for dinner and a taste of the Monday night pop gig, but en-route we had to stop off at the house of one of their friends who was having an existential crisis brought about by a love affair that had seemingly reached its sell-by date and what I believe is a common end-of-season malaise in these parts. The terminal regret of having over-indulged for an extended period and having wasted money (and time) that should have been spent more wisely or not at all. This I believe is what the Goan party scene is all about.

Anyway, back to Sri’s. The owner had previously mentioned the Monday night pop gig but being the jazz-snob that I am we had been avoiding it. I must admit that it was a pleasant surprise nevertheless. Normally at this type of gig, the musician tries too hard to sound like everyone they are covering and normally this means a strained too-loud disturbance that never ends soon enough. In this case (and I must admit that I didn’t get his name) a solo guitarist/vocalist was unassumingly doing his thing: not too loud, not strained at all, actually interpreting a diverse selection of songs from Pink Floyd to Bob Marley and Don MacLean.

And speaking of Bob Marley, I had a couple of those! A cocktail of Old Monk rum, cabo (a type of coconut liqueur), pineapple juice, mint ‘and no worries’: kak lekker to say the least… And what’s more there was a time in the course of the night that there were four equally delicious hash joints floating around a table of eight diners. How could there have been anything amiss with the night? After a 700 rupee, half-hour taxi ride through the quiet streets from Anjuna across the Chapora River to Morjim where the busyness and bustle of the evening was blissfully left behind.

HORN OK PLEASE

Five hundred rupees

Why so much

Okay I make four hundred

Come, come I take

No problem

Four hundred

We go

You want AC

Open window

Horn-honk

Scooter

Hoot

Taxi

Horn-honk

Bend, oncoming traffic

Hoot-honk

Scooter, scooter

Bike, truck

Horn

Left, straight

Honk

Pedestrians

Right, traffic

Hoot-honk

Namaste

Horn-honk

Narrow lane

No traffic light

Round-about

Honk-hoot

Scooter passing,

Pass bus

Horn-hoot

Can’t stop

Honk

Won’t stop

Hoot-horn

Curve, bend

Overtake

Honk-honk

You want I wait?

Enjoy the irony...

From the label of a bottle of Himalaya Natural Mineral Water:

I look back on life – it’s funny how things turn out. You, the creator of beeping sirens and honking cars, yearns for the solitude of the mountains. You, connoisseur of fast food, now gaze at water that took years to gather natural minerals as it trickled down from the Himalayas to within your reach. And I, some of the purest water in the world, stand here, trapped in a bottle. Come, enjoy the irony.

A TATA Product…

BEING AWAKENED

I awake
to the sound of the wind
and the birds:

and the ocean
beckoning.

I respond
to the refreshing call.

My dreams immersed

in the relentless tide;

my senses stirred,

stimulated

and rejuvenated

the day begins.

Yesterday’s yearning

revealed anew:

the flirting fancy exposed.

The moment

of awakening

complete: floating,

yawed, pulled

into the swell

and expelled

without the will

to resist.

THE SELF AS PARADOX

Contemporary global economic and political rhetoric espouses the notion that all of mankind should be united in everlasting peace even while nurturing a division and separation of nationalities and civilizations. This inherently flawed rhetoric goes on to assert that the most expedient way to achieve peace is through war and this, along with suffering, inequality and injustice has in turn become the rallying-call around which a fragmented ideological unity has been sought.

As a species we have an innate propensity to judge before we understand and this tenuous relationship with right and wrong or good and evil is the very foundation upon which the dominant religions and ideologies have been built. By extension, modern society is thus through its very own predisposition, ill-equipped to cope with the complexity of unity as it strives to reduce the relativity and ambiguity of human existence to fit its own inadequate censure and dogmatism.

Furthermore, the nature of modern society has successfully reduced the significance of the individual to the social function it fulfills. This generally accepted, yet flawed value system further reduces the history of a people to a series of events that are then further reduced through interpretation and thereby allowing for the ultimate subversion of what is the essence of life and living by equating the historical evolution of the modern social species with political struggle.

The myriad expressions of this subversion is then repackaged as culture which is then codified according to political ideology and left almost entirely in the hands of the mass media whose modern function is to distribute throughout the world the same simplified stereotypes that are most easily accepted by the greatest number of people who are generally just an indistinct echo of the one voice of authority within which the nature of individuality is revealed as mere compliance and subscription.

ATITHI BEVO BHAVA

This translates as: “God comes as a guest” which is the mantra of Sri’s Restaurant: “To make sure you have a divine time whenever you come.”

Last night god alMikey and his companion were indeed the guests when we returned to this house of culinary delights in Vagator for the twice-weekly Sitarsonic session that we had seen advertised when a friend had recently taken us to sample the delicious fare on offer at this unique establishment. Unique because of all the restaurants we had visited since arriving in India, this was the only one where the owner was present and involved: flitting with a warm smile from the kitchen to the bar and making the rounds of the tables, greetings guests and chatting, making sure that everything was just what the virtuous mantra alluded to.

We arrived just after the music had started and were in time to be seated at the same raised dais that pleased me no end the first time we were there. Just a short distance on stage left and at the same elevation as the solo musician who sat cross-legged with his sitar in his lap and a laptop and mixer in front of him. For anyone who knows me, it would not come as a surprise to hear me say that even though the music was pleasant enough (I even bought the CD), I was not impressed. At our hut in Morjim we have spent many a sunset evening taking time out listening to brilliant Indian musicians who are recognized as masters of their instruments. Men and women who coax such complex rhythms and melodies from instruments which become animated extensions of their compositional and improvisational will.

Paco Rodriguez on the other hand uses complex electronic beats and loops beneath which he inserts simple riffs and motifs with the occasional vocal accompaniment with a mumbled reference to an abridged Indian iconography. When I heard his accent after the first set I thought he must be French, but the truth is I am not too sure where he hails from, however I am very sure that dear Paco is no Indian Classical Sitar master. At best, he is a dude from Europe who has moved from guitar to sitar and has managed to find a captive niche audience amongst the other wanna-be hippies from Europe who frequent the bars and restaurants of Goa. It left me wondering where the Indian musicians play their music: Europe or the USA where Zakir Hussein is just finishing a hectic tour schedule?

But coming back to Sri’s Restaurant with its four different seating areas that could probably accommodate in excess of one hundred diners at a sitting; with just two waiters who genuinely look as if they enjoy doing what they do – always smiling as they jog nimbly to the kitchen to place an order – and familiar with the ingredients and preparation of every dish. And every one of their dishes makes ones’ mouth water even though quite a few of the menu items are on offer at every other restaurant. As I mentioned before though, when it comes to food, it is all about the little things: little subtleties that transform the tried and tested into an extraordinary gastronomic experience, but the thing that truly sets Sri’s apart is the sheer variety of dishes on offer. A three-course dik-vreet was onse naam!

And of course, afterward we had eaten our fill, we could lay back and listen to the syncopated wanna-be ragas while happily ensconced on a comfortable dark hash-brown eiderdown.

WHEN NOTHING IS SOMETHING

I have never been big on random conversations. In fact, I make more effort avoiding the possibility of idle chit-chat than I do when I am obliged to endure someone’s attempts at engaging me in some arbitrary quasi-conversational diversion that is more often than not akin to a persistent fly that keeps buzzing around ones head. In both instances I wait for the moment to kill the damn thing.

Instead I prefer to observe and can sit for hours watching people interact or just looking into the wondrous expanse of nature and thinking through whatever thoughts happen to be occupying my mind. There is usually an army of ideas that require various levels of contemplation and understanding and I am quite content to grapple with these as opposed to discussing sport or cars or the goings-on of dumb-ass celebrities and the one-dimensional story lines that constitute their lives and the soap operas or films that they appear in.

Thus I sit here on this elevated perch and observe. The hut in front of us is rented by an Israeli kite surfer who has been coming here for more than a decade and generally for between four and six months at a time. He offers kite surfing lessons to those who can afford it. Probably in his late thirties or maybe even his early forties by now; a super-cool type in his own estimation I am sure; short back and sides with a long pony-tailed top and designer mirror shades; with the obligatory Royal Enfield and a string of surfer chicks who are into that kind of cool. He doesn’t want to talk about the murderous Israeli State or Palestine or his time in the armed forces. He comes here to escape and yet after each season he returns to wherever he hails from and maybe he never reads the news or hears about the latest airstrike that regularly kills innocent children. Who knows?

In the hut alongside my perch is a German dude. Functionally blind and terminally anal to the point that he traipses along the beach with his Speedo stuck in his ass-crack trying to pick up any woman who happens to be sunbathing on her own. I overheard him chatting to one of the proprietors of this establishment the other day. He was insisting that he wants a three-egg omelette for breakfast, but made with just free-range egg whites. Normally this would cost 100 rupees, but the local free range eggs cost 100 rupees for half a dozen and they are so small that it would probably require six with yolks to make an equivalent omelette. The fuck-up was that he was not prepared to pay more than 100 rupees for this special request and it took most of the day and late into the night for him to understand that he was not going to get what he wanted at the price that he was willing to pay. And even with his bottle-bottom glasses, he just could not see.

Then there are those who travel from across the globe to spend their days surfing the world-wide web on the free wifi; or the elderly women with their face-lifts and boob-jobs, sipping quarts of beer or cocktails through a straw while harassing the young Nepali waiters for a bit of late night action; or the elderly men who parade up and down with g-string bikinis exposing their deflated glutes; or the young crowd who start the day with a beer and sit along the beach at sundown meditating with eyes half closed to be able to see who is watching their spiritual selves in action; or those who walk around in a cheap-hash induced coma with a dazed half-smile as they exchange a bit more of their parents’ dollars for their next high; or the grey-haired hippies who have been coming here forever with their faded and scuffed local garb and world-weary predisposition; and of course the Mumbai crowd who travel with their extended families and their nannies and butlers.

As for me, I have been spending the past few days trying not to be too irritated by the heat rash that reminds me of a childhood covered in calamine lotion. I awake each morning and make my own coffee which I enjoy while typing up these little missives. I swim, I shower, I powder and then I go next door for a fresh juice and an hour online to share my thoughts with those who care to follow the lighthearted contemplation and raging silences that are my preferred conversational companions.

And then we may take a walk to laze in the sun or the shade or to have a meal at one of our favourite haunts. Or we may very well decide to spend the day doing nothing because sometimes in a place like this, to do nothing is in fact something…

RUSIN JÈZ

Sometime in last week we came across a flier advertising a regular sundown jazz session at one of the nearby resorts and yesterday afternoon we ventured forth to listen to a bit of what turned out to be a bunch of hobbyists on vocals, drums, bass and guitar with a half-decent saxophonist and a solitary-and-serious muso who brought along his melodica. The gig was advertised to begin at 4.30, but when we arrived we were told that the music only starts at 5.30. However, some of the band members only arrived after six and I assumed that they must have been rushing from their day jobs…

The soundman was probably employed to set up speakers for DJ’s and the vocalist either made Russian sound like an English-like gibberish or gibberish sound like some lost Anglo-Russian dialect that was all but incomprehensible. The bass player was closest to the on-stage sound mixer and his guitar was even louder than the kick-drum. The guy with the melodica brought along a microphone that wasn’t working so he sort of drifted around the mic-stands in the hope of being picked up while the saxophonist’s harness waged a silent war with his mullet.

The initial idea was to have dinner at the gig but after the drab Greek salad starter we changed the plan and as it turned out, lucky for us. Usually we would have drinks and a three-course dinner for around two thousand rupees, but at this particular establishment everything was overpriced and we ended up being charged more than three thousand just for a couple of cocktails and a few beers! At every other restaurant we have been to, the local beer and spirits average around 60 rupees per tot, but at the rip-off lodge nothing was under a hundred-and-fifty rupees. But being the dedicated trooper that I am, I will be returning for one more drink so that I can add a little non-poor flavour to the all-white décor.

SUPERMARKETS & SITARS

Most people cannot imagine life without a supermarket and by extension, the absurdity of a mall-culture is given credence. The reality however is that without supermarkets and malls, thousands of small businesses – in particular but not exclusively – in the retail and manufacturing sectors, manage to survive. For these small family-run shops the tourist season just means a bigger turnover but the lifeblood is undoubtedly and entirely sustained through local patronage.

And everyone has their own favourite: their own loyal supplier where they spend their few rupees so that each of these small shops seems to be thriving. The owners however do not drive flashy German imports; or treat their staff like slaves because they are for the most part, a part of the workforce and sometimes even the entire workforce.

In Cape Town most of the Bubbies have long since closed their doors but there is still a handful remaining where you will find members of the extended family behind the counter, knowing the patrons and inquiring after ailing parents or thriving kids. Most of the corner-shops that have managed to survive the onslaught by the retail chains are those where the property has been bought and paid for by wily grandparents or great-grandparents who didn’t see the point of giving money to a landlord every month. The younger generations have been sent to universities where they earned MBA degrees or have become doctors and lawyers.

In Goa, many of the younger generation have left to work in one of the big cities or Dubai and even Moscow. The big difference is that they leave in order to return with enough money saved to start another new small business or to expand or develop an existing business and build a bigger family home; but they are only able to do this because the family already owns some land. Therein lies the real clincher.

And through a devious web of manipulation and free market dictates, the very absence of supermarkets and malls allows for both small businesses to exist and ordinary people to own land. So much for all the supposedly pro-poor bullshit spewed by the ANC and the DA whose policies in this regard are so similar that they may as well have been written by the same author. Net nog warra-warra to obfuscate the fact that its all about economics and stuff the people. 

 **********

And having said that, not all cooks are created equal! Given the admittedly limited array of fresh ingredients available, most of the local restaurants maintain a tasty, but uniform mediocrity when it comes to what is on offer from the menus. One place will have a better this and some other a better that, but for the most part very few stand out. (Just like political parties...)

My new favourite restaurant in Morjim has to be Fish and Feni and not just because they have more cocktails than desserts on the menu. Along the Ashvem beach there is an elevated restaurant called S2 that gets my vote and once again, not only because of the delicious strawberry mojito. In Vagator and probably the most impressive overall is Sri’s Restaurant where we will soon be returning to enjoy the exceptionally delicious food as well as a bit of Indian classical sitar.

The first time we were there, we sat on what could easily have been a stage area: raised and covered with mattresses and pillows with little individual carved wooden tables. After we had placed our order, one of our companions rolled a hash joint and when the proprietor came over to greet, he had a puff and chatted easily about business and life in general. That alone gets my vote; but the real winner was the sheer diversity of options on the menu and the mouth watering subtleties that make good food great. Same ingredients, same spices and yet, a very different taste experience because as any cook worth his or her salt will tell you, it is all about the combinations. As far as I am concerned though, you can combine even mediocre food with good music, and still have a must-share-and-return-to favourite; but when the food is great AND there is a dexterous soloist on hand to titillate ones aural delights, you have a clear winner. And what’s more, after you have over-indulged, you can lie back alongside your table and be transported to even greater sensory heights by the spicy aroma of hashish in the air.

KYA KAREGA

The season ended before it has begun!

This is the constant lament of small business owners in Goa. Over the past decade the area has grown from a little known paradise along the Arabian Sea to a popular international tourist destination, but what used to be six months of high turnover and occupancy has been reduced to four months of mediocrity with more empty rooms at the many lodges than there are visitors; and more waiters at restaurants than there are diners.

This is what happens when a local economy becomes reliant on the whims of international travellers and government visa regulations that have effectively inhibited the short-lived tourist boom. Local property owners have built rooms and shops that are standing empty and the supposedly popular new Vagator Saturday night-market turned out to be a paltry handful of struggling stalls with nothing new on offer in an area that could easily accommodate more than ten-times as many traders.

I am not complaining because the reality is that the beaches are not too packed and there are always tables available at favourite eateries, but my attitude doesn’t ensure anyone’s livelihood. My drinks and meals and the odd purchases do not make any significant contribution to anyone’s bottom line or their continued survival either as a business or a family. My bartering for the best price doesn’t help any of the crafters to become more self-sufficient and my penchant for fresh seafood doesn’t improve the quality of life of a single fisherman.

The sad reality is that like elsewhere, there are a tiny handful of people who significantly benefit from tourism. The fact that a few more locals are employed to clean the beach or to clean up after guests should not be seen as being something positive because their wages are pathetic and to spend the day in the sun on the beach dressed up in a uniform with no hope of a quick dip to cool down, is quite frankly cruel. Often people speak of job creation as if it is an act of benevolence, but the truth is that we employ people to do menial shit for a pittance because we are too slovenly and lazy to do it ourselves and what makes it worse is that we do not see what they do as a valuable service.

 This kind of flawed reasoning is often employed by businesses who – for instance – have moved into a gentrified area like Woodstock. Fuck the fact that other small businesses had to close shop; fuck that families had been evicted; fuck the ongoing sukkel of everyone else in the neighbourhood because “I have created employment for two women!” or “I employ local people who would have been unemployed if it was not for me!”

Let’s set things straight once and for all! Businesses employ people because business owners cannot do everything themselves and whoever they employ has to contribute positively to the growth of profits: profits that pay off bank loans and mortgages and private school fees and flashy 4x4’s and holidays and insurance and doctors’ bills. Things that most people who are employed cannot even dream of because they simply do not earn enough: because they earn just enough to keep them coming back to work. And as for their dreams and the dreams of their children, well… Fuck them because it is not your problem that the poor are lazy and unmotivated!

Kya karega – what to do?

HOLIBBLE

Depending on where you are from, Holi could either be the Festival of Colour or the Festival of Love. The first legend speaks of the word being derived from the name Holika who was the evil sister of the demon king Hiranyakashipu who was basically an arrogant, egotistical asshole who thought he was a god. He demanded that his subjects worship him but his son Prahalda refused and remained loyal to Vishnu despite his father’s cruelty. Holika then tricks Prahalda into sitting on a pyre but the magic shawl that is intended to protect her from the flames ends up protecting Prahalda instead and Vishnu then appears and kills Hiranyakashipu. The day after the Holika bonfire is called Holi and is supposed to be a reminder of the symbolic victory of good over evil. The second legend tells of how the baby Krishna transitioned into his characteristic blue skin because a she-demon by the name of Putana, poisoned him with her breast milk. In his youth Krishna worried that the fair-skinned Radha and other girls would like him because of his skin colour and eventually when his mother grows tired of his fretting, she suggests that he colour Radha’s face which he does and they become a couple. This playful colouring of Radha’s face has since been commemorated as Holi. Both equally plausible of course...

As far as I am concerned this mindless, drunken colour pollution is just plain Holibble!

We took a taxi to Arambol on a pleasant and sunny Saturday morning even though we knew that this madness would in all likelihood send us straight back to the relative calm of Morjim. Along the narrow road groups of colour smeared local men were stopping cars and ‘happy-holi’ing’ the occupants, we sat sternly in the back seat with windows firmly shut and very obviously not interested in what was happening all around us. We arrived in Arambol just after eleven and immediately ducked into a restaurant where we watched the shenanigans of foreigners and locals who were already pissed. Sometimes it helps to wear ones sterk-gevriet and throughout the day we remained colour-free even though there were sections of the main road that we avoided because to pass would inevitably have meant that some drunken asshole would have taken courage in the anonymity of the crowd and pissed us off! Big time!

Anyway, it was late in the afternoon and I had finished snooping around the music stalls in search of a set of Tablas. We were on our way to find a taxi when we passed yet another group of revellers who wanted to ‘happy holi’ us. I looked sternly at the young man in front of me and gave him my most intimidating Cape Flats “Djy!” He backed off and as we passed one of his cohorts said in explanation: “Pakistani.” And in their minds, that explained it all: and the disorder was restored.

PITTER-PATTER BUBBLE WRAP....

I awake to a strident symphony of birdsong and the rhythmic crash of the waves. The night chill lingers in the air as the sun slowly rises above the rooftops and the trees to bathe the relatively deserted beach in a comforting warm glow. In the distance, a group of fishermen launch their boat with high hopes and muffled laughter; maybe the nets will be full today.

Gradually, solitary strollers and joggers appear along the shoreline. Some looking intently down as they pass; others gazing out to sea; too few take cognisance of everything that surrounds them. A young man steps in a pile of dog shit and a comical interlude ensues as he hops into the surf with a look of dismay and mild disgust on his sunburnt face. A couple of old lovers walk contentedly, hand in hand with demure, all-knowing smiles and sparkling eyes greeting the sun kissed morning.

In the distance on the watery horizon, the larger fishing boats begin to gather and along the shoreline the sunbathers appear. The recently arrived in search of a tan to cover their pale winter skins and the soon to depart claiming their favourite spots on loungers and the sand with golden haired, tottering toddlers: the elderly with an unhurried calm and the young skipping and doing cartwheels with exuberant abandon.

I sip my coffee and watch from my elevated perch; the sound of a lovers’ calm breathing mixing naturally with the morning and the pitter-patter of my fingers upon the keyboard.

**************

The ocean’s sibilant lullaby drowns the foreign chatter. Gentle waves harmonize its timeless, ever-changing call-and-response with the shore. A group of local boys walk by with wide eyes hidden behind mirror-shades gawking: near-naked foreign flesh, tanning unconcerned and on display. Buying drinks, paying for lunch, return flights and receipts in the bag with the souvenirs and gifts: little bric-a-brac and memories bubble-wrapped.

ALWAYS ON TIME

“The bus is never late” he said with a quizzical smile and a typical bobbing of the head. “Sometimes it doesn’t come at the same time you are waiting, but when it does come, it is always on time.”

We had been waiting for close to an hour in the muggy shade on the side of the crossroad and after I sipped from the tepid bottled water I couldn’t help but smile at the bald headed conductor who seemed immune to the heat. Our presence elicited nothing more than a cursory curiosity as more and more commuters entered: stop after harrowing stop on the narrow lane that weaved through a lush, yet somewhat rundown residential area where brightly coloured double and triple story houses towered side-by-side over squatting hovels.

I smiled as an elderly man stood gallantly with a smile and offered his seat to an elderly woman who in turn smiled wearily and gratefully as she squeezed onto the vacated seat. By the time we approached Mapusa (pronounced Mapsa) the passage between the cramped seats was jam-packed with uniformed students and grandparents and mothers sitting cross-legged on the floor with their babies.

At the bus terminus we found a rickshaw that sputtered along more treacherously narrow roads towards the weekly market in Anjuna where thousands of stall holders were selling everything from clothing to spices and musical instruments; and everywhere the air was flavoured with the aromas of enticing delicacies that required a special effort to resist: and a hundred accents all announcing their wares and bartering and oohing-and-aahing.

We arrived around one and decided to fortify ourselves after the journey getting there at one of the many permanent restaurants around which this sprawling seaside market has grown. A simple, simply-delicious bowl of noodles and prawns with a fresh strawberry juice later and we entered the bustling milieu.

A temporary restaurant and pub has live music; a trio of young Indian musicians doing cover-versions of Pink Floyd and Eric Clapton.

“First price.” “Best price.” “Last price?”

A young Indian woman speaking Russian; an old Italian speaking Hindu; a man with a flute speaking to his cow.

I had to take my shades off in the sun in order to take it all in.

There is a section where the Farangs (foreigners) have their stalls selling an assortment of ‘designer’ sameness: speaking in their mother tongues, greeting countrymen flamboyantly or each other with a familiarity that made me think that they have been coming here for years. Here and there a whiff of hashish but seldom a welcoming smile because this bunch is way too cool to be eliciting business from the passing foot traffic. Global hippies; wanted-to-be-models turned dressmakers; surfers turned jewellers; businessmen-and-women turned surfers; functional druggies.

Before we knew it – and without covering every little lane and nook while regularly wandering in circles – it was almost five. We sidled into a booth at a packed and thumping seaside bar where a multi-cultural two-piece band was belting out more foreign pop tunes than Radio Goodhope, but we needed the respite.

One sweet lime and soda, and one cold beer… or maybe two.

5 Point-iets...

It goes without saying that there are aspects of Indian society that exist in complete contradiction to the notions of spirituality and higher consciousness that are for the most part synonymous with this culture in the foreign perspective. The institutionalized prejudice that is born from the cast system and the wholesale acceptance and subscription to this system of inequality rears its ugly multiple heads at every turn and the size of the population coupled with global capital dictates do nothing to alleviate the plight of the poor and downtrodden. Conditions in the slums and smaller villages are deplorable and yet, for the most part, life continues in what can only be described as an apparently harmonious tedium.

And yet, along this stretch of beach in Goa, every seafront property is owned by a local. Some operate small, family-run seasonal businesses with basic accommodation, food and services. Many of the guests return year after year to spend four or six months kite surfing or sunbathing or just enjoying the delicious array of fresh seafood and produce on every menu. And in addition, even the Rand exchanges favourably with the Indian Rupee.

Some of the land owners have however managed to develop bigger operations with permanent structures and air-conditioned tents or bungalows. Here they will have free wifi in their restaurants with a ‘continental meals’ section on the menu and free sun-loungers in rows on the sand with touts welcoming any and all strollers that happen to be passing. Most of these establishments are owned by Indian businessmen who spend their time in Mumbai or Delhi but a couple are even owned by Russians who negotiate longer-term leases or more complicated deals with individual families.

Most of the beach-shack restaurants are however seasonal businesses that are constructed each year for the tourist season and employ teams of Nepali cooks and waiters who run the show.

I take this all in and ask myself where in South Africa I will be able to find a similar set-up and the answer is nowhere! Every viable seafront property is either tribal land or owned by a municipality or a pigmentally-challenged-and-previously-advantaged ostrich. In addition to this, legislation and regulation will not allow for the construction of a traditional structure which in this case is a reed and bamboo hut on stilts that is held together with bits of string and rope. Every morning I sit with my coffee and watch the subsistence fishermen return with their catch or cast their nets at lunch time and I think of the fishermen back home who have been cheated out of their livelihood by a democracy that was negotiated to kowtow to capitalist dictates and where estate agents oppose a ban on foreign owned land. 

AN ELEVATED PERCH

We depart from the hotel on a mild Saturday morning and head at a snail’s pace through the teeming Mumbai traffic toward the airport and an early afternoon flight to Goa. The honking taxis begin to thin and are replaced by speeding private vehicles as we pass through the more affluent suburb of Bandra on the hilltop across the bay.

Airport security gets a donation of a lighter and a knife from me and at the Spicejet check-in the stewardess tries to sell us more leg room and adjacent seats but we are not buying. A bit of turbulence and a quick nap and an hour later we are in Goa. For once, the baggage is quick to appear on the carousel.

Outside our taxi is waiting and the 31 degree heat doesn’t feel as muggy as we take to the road for the 60km journey to Morjim along a narrow, winding road that is busy enough to turn the short distance into almost a two-hour trip. As we get closer to the beaches, the passing faces change from dark brown to pale and tanned as tourists on hired scooters and bikes zip by.

With time to spare before sunset, we arrive at our destination and are quick to settle in the stilted shack that is to be the base for the next few weeks. The orange haze of the sun disappears in the clouds on the horizon as we look out from the balcony and breathe the sea air.

******************

We are awoken in the middle of the night by the patter of raindrops on the thatched roof. The unseasonal, seeping rain’s steady whisper eventually lulls us back to sleep and when we eventually awake the sky holds the promise of more.

It is a mild, overcast morning with the temperature somewhere in the mid-twenties as we stroll along the beach that is littered with Russian accents (even the restaurant menus have Russian translations!) and lined with restaurants and accommodation: mostly seasonal with temporary bamboo and thatch structures that will be taken down before the monsoon arrives.

We turn around after a couple of kilometres and seek out a suitable deck where we look out over the white capped expanse of the Indian Ocean as we enjoy a leisurely lunch of fresh seafood and Kashmiri naan.

As we head back to our own elevated balcony, the clouds burst and a sheet of tiny, slanting droplets stings my cooled skin. At the shack we sit – dry and satisfied – on the mosquito-netted bed as the whispered lullaby continues unrelenting.

The perfect moment for a drop of fortified Rooibos infused Ruby. With love… 

BOMBAY BLUES

Our first night in Mumbai and we are out on the town. I have been on the lookout for live musical performances since the trip was confirmed, but it was only recently that I came across a gig at the Blue Frog that looked promising. The Bombay bustle only starts to abate at around ten at night and we honked our way to an area called Parel where an old Mill Compound had been transformed into a sort of cultural/entertainment hub – pretty much like our own gentrified areas back home but owned by locals.

We had a delicious dinner at a restaurant called Busago which is situated directly across from where the music was happening. After we had eaten a delicious Thai stir fry we went across and sat outside smoking while a solo singer/songwriter did her thing as the opening act.

The sound of a kick drum beckoned us in and I was introduced to the Bodhisattwa Trio. From the outset I was reminded of Eric Truffaz or the free-jam sessions between James Kibby and Hilton and Eldred Schilder on a Sunday night at Carnival Court. A pulsating, grooving drummer (Premjit Dutta) backed by a Pastorian bassist (Bijit Bhattacharya) and the front-man Bodhisattwa Ghosh who describes their music as Indian jazz-rock.

These young musicians are all consummate performers in their own right and together they are simply ‘out-there’ and cooking like an (excuse the reference) Mumbai rooftop restaurant and as hot as a bowl of fresh green chillies! But that was not all…

After two or three of their original compositions, they were joined on stage by one of India’s premier blues guitarists, Ehsaan Noorani. Together the quartet redefined what I thought the Indian pop scene had to offer. Complex rhythms and soaring solos that at times reminded me of John McLaughlin, but on speed!

And all of this in a club with modular circular booths and a full twirling and twisting light rig with crystal-clear sound set up and for once, the sound engineer did not think that he was god.