Days Seven, Eight , Nine, Ten, Eleven...
Wish You Were Here
The weekend starts early in Goa. Mondays, as far as I can tell.
My routine is this: Jog barefoot on the beach at sunrise, breakfast at one of the shacks to get back all the calories I lost, back to my dad's apartment to help him fix mosquito netting, wall fans, rat screens, etc., then a break for lunch down the street, then siesta, then back to the beach to read & do nothing until nightfall, then karaoke at Fiplee's.
I typically leave my flip-flops at the lifeguard station & invariably when I return, one of the lifeguards is wearing them. Service at these beach shacks is a tad leisurely, & for some inexplicable reason they're one menu short when your party is seated.
Baywatch it isn't. I didn't see any female lifeguards, & it's debatable if the gentlemen of Benaulim Beach are able to haul in some of the larger tourists from Russia. There's a house behind the beach where they clean up their gear & trucks, & access is up a sandy slope. An entertaining spectacle every evening, getting the trucks up that sand.
The place is crawling with Russians. Some of the signs are in Russian & there was a Russian movie one night at the beach.
My dad is busy fixing his apartment. Mosquitoes are a menace here & all windows need netting. The rat screen is for the kitchen window. I fell off the ladder one day, helping my dad. Please add the phrase 'accident-prone' when describing yours truly to anyone over there.
Siesta. The town of Benaulim shuts down at noon. Excluding restaurants, everything is shuttered until about 4:30 pm. Must tell Jack to adopt this great tradition...
If you ever visit South Goa, stop over at Caijie's, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, where you get a decent meal for 35 Rupees, which is 80 cents or something. Her chicken curry is awesome. Benaulim is dotted with little places like this, cheap food. Didn't see a single fast food restaurant anywhere.
The market is bigger in Margao, a 10 minute bus drive inland (6 Rupees). Margao is the commercial center of Goa, & the second biggest city in the state (population 80,000 - there's more in a square mile of Mumbai). I highly recommend Longinho's, lunch for three with beer lightened my wallet $12.
Wanted to buy ice cream for some street kids, but was convinced otherwise by the store owner. Better to make a donation to a local orphanage.
State motto is "Eat drink & be happy"
Or it should be. The natives (as distinct from the Indians from the rest of the country) are a bit on the chunky side, rivaled by most of the tourists. Stout, as my uncle Freddie would say.
Ah, Fiplee's Bar. Spent many a productive evening there, singing & drinking until the wee hours (fiveish in the morning). Someone called the cops when I sang Just Help Yourself, to my lips, to my... Granted I'm no Tom Jones & I probably butchered the song, but that was uncalled for. I was just reaching the high notes when the gendarmes shut down karaoke that night. A promising music career nipped in the bud.
Lost a camera in Fiplee's. Was totally soused, left it behind somewhere. Bummer. If you see me singing on Youtube, let me know so I can track down the perp.
On Sunday, we did the tourist stuff. Visited Old Goa, the 400-year-old Basilica of Bom Jesus (the remains of St. Francis Xavier), the swamps of Dr. Salim Ali's Bird Sanctuary, the rocky outcrop called Dona Paula where star-crossed lovers hurled themselves into the sea.
The days blur into each other.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Day 6
Day Six
Destination Goa
An 18 mile trip to the airport took 3-1/2 hours because of three police checkpoints. At each one, they checked for... nothing.
Just barely made our flight, which hugs the coast down to Goa. The first thing one sees landing or taking off from Mumbai are the tin shacks & slums which ring the airport. Personally I think they make a great deterrent - fat chance a terrorist or anyone else getting through without thousands watching.
The monsoon rains do not begin until May, & there's more brown than green visible below at this time of year (it is supposedly winter, temperatures are in the upper 80s). What surprises me are the large swatches of land that seemingly have no trace of human activity. It's easy to recognize things like roads, dams, towns, etc. at 35,000 feet. For miles & miles, there's nothing. Scrubland, forests, hills, lakes, rivers, that sort of thing.
I think back to my recent visit to Ireland where the land is sliced & diced into parcels virtually everywhere.
The earth is a robust red in color as we approach Goa, there's a quarry in sight just before we land, iron-rich rock I find out later, the bulk going to China, probably. Volcanic activity similar to Yellowstone's super-volcano, may have been a factor in the extinction of the dinos & the subsequent massive eruption of lava created the vast Deccan basalt flats covering a large chunk of the sub-continent today.
I mention all this because the rock is also chopped up into rough 12" x 8" x 6" units. Reinforced concrete columns & this rock unit infill with smooth plaster on both sides, is the standard technique in Goa for residential & commercial construction. The units are lighter than expected, presumably because of the aerated composition. I would hazard a guess & say they 'breathe' faster than CMU, permeable enough to permit/control the flow of water, an important consideration in a humid climate, especially during the monsoon season.
The apartment was under construction 5 years ago when a hurricane made landfall. The exterior walls were not plastered & had the appearance of a wet sponge, water leaked through, flooding the apartment.
I'll refrain from talking about construction from now on, I promise.
First Stop: The Beach
Ten minutes walk from my dad's apartment is Benaulim Beach.
Clean sand as far as the eye can see, check. Surf crashing on shore, check. Palm trees, beach shacks, beer, lounge chairs, check, check, check & check. Beach mostly empty, check. Beach dogs, check. Beach dogs?
South Goa has its fair share of canines unencumbered by pesky things like collars. The sub-species inhabiting the beach appear to be distinctly well-fed. They are capable of distinguishing between Indian & European tourists, the latter being an easier touch for scraps from the beach shacks. The routine's pretty straightforward. I observed one sitting next to a couple of Russian tourists eating a steady diet of french fries & roast chicken (all three of them). Moved over to another group, received the same treatment. He then ambled over to our table, sniffed us briefly & left.
They sleep on the beach or in the scrubby undergrowth nearby. Some have excavated 5 foot deep 'caves' in the sand, which inevitably disappear during high tide.
This may seem odd, but I recall getting there at about 6 pm & leaving around midnight, but I don't remember seeing the sun set over the ocean. Very strange.
I don't remember how much I drank either.
Destination Goa
An 18 mile trip to the airport took 3-1/2 hours because of three police checkpoints. At each one, they checked for... nothing.
Just barely made our flight, which hugs the coast down to Goa. The first thing one sees landing or taking off from Mumbai are the tin shacks & slums which ring the airport. Personally I think they make a great deterrent - fat chance a terrorist or anyone else getting through without thousands watching.
The monsoon rains do not begin until May, & there's more brown than green visible below at this time of year (it is supposedly winter, temperatures are in the upper 80s). What surprises me are the large swatches of land that seemingly have no trace of human activity. It's easy to recognize things like roads, dams, towns, etc. at 35,000 feet. For miles & miles, there's nothing. Scrubland, forests, hills, lakes, rivers, that sort of thing.
I think back to my recent visit to Ireland where the land is sliced & diced into parcels virtually everywhere.
The earth is a robust red in color as we approach Goa, there's a quarry in sight just before we land, iron-rich rock I find out later, the bulk going to China, probably. Volcanic activity similar to Yellowstone's super-volcano, may have been a factor in the extinction of the dinos & the subsequent massive eruption of lava created the vast Deccan basalt flats covering a large chunk of the sub-continent today.
I mention all this because the rock is also chopped up into rough 12" x 8" x 6" units. Reinforced concrete columns & this rock unit infill with smooth plaster on both sides, is the standard technique in Goa for residential & commercial construction. The units are lighter than expected, presumably because of the aerated composition. I would hazard a guess & say they 'breathe' faster than CMU, permeable enough to permit/control the flow of water, an important consideration in a humid climate, especially during the monsoon season.
The apartment was under construction 5 years ago when a hurricane made landfall. The exterior walls were not plastered & had the appearance of a wet sponge, water leaked through, flooding the apartment.
I'll refrain from talking about construction from now on, I promise.
First Stop: The Beach
Ten minutes walk from my dad's apartment is Benaulim Beach.
Clean sand as far as the eye can see, check. Surf crashing on shore, check. Palm trees, beach shacks, beer, lounge chairs, check, check, check & check. Beach mostly empty, check. Beach dogs, check. Beach dogs?
South Goa has its fair share of canines unencumbered by pesky things like collars. The sub-species inhabiting the beach appear to be distinctly well-fed. They are capable of distinguishing between Indian & European tourists, the latter being an easier touch for scraps from the beach shacks. The routine's pretty straightforward. I observed one sitting next to a couple of Russian tourists eating a steady diet of french fries & roast chicken (all three of them). Moved over to another group, received the same treatment. He then ambled over to our table, sniffed us briefly & left.
They sleep on the beach or in the scrubby undergrowth nearby. Some have excavated 5 foot deep 'caves' in the sand, which inevitably disappear during high tide.
This may seem odd, but I recall getting there at about 6 pm & leaving around midnight, but I don't remember seeing the sun set over the ocean. Very strange.
I don't remember how much I drank either.
Day 5
Day Five
Real Estate
Visited my cousin's farm at the foothills of the Western Ghats. It's only 20 minutes from town but the road to get there would get enthusiastic praise from a Cairo to Cape Town rally driver. The potholes were nothing short of magnificent.
In just 4 years his 18 acre spread has doubled in value four times.
It borders a National Forest, has mountains on two sides, there's clear spring water, & a rocky outcrop where he plans to build a 'party house' (his words, not mine), assuming he doesn't sell the whole thing.
I'm jealous.
The place is also infested with tigers, who seem to have a fondness for dog. The caretaker lives in a flimsy thatched hut & has lost 3 dogs already to the big cats. Tigers apparently don't read fairy tales or they would have attempted to huff & puff the hut down already. A six-foot fence is barely a deterrence.
And there are snakes. I saw a 3-footer cooling off in the stream (they are not as active at midday), my cousin removed a nest of cobras when he cleared a third of the land for paddy fields. The lethal King Cobra can grow to 18 feet. If I was a life insurance salesman, I could make a killing here, no pun intended.
His first harvest was last year. There's still bags of rice stacked man-high at his mom's house.
The Ghats are not true mountains, being the western edge of the Deccan plateau that covers most of central India, but they sure look like mountains. I'm told parts that are still unspoiled are designated a World Heritage Site, with thousands of endemic species not found anywhere else. Apart from a few huts dotted here & there in the National Forest, I can't see anything but green. These huts belong to the forest people, aborigines who've been here for probably thousands of years, living lightly off the forest.
Their relationship with the rest of the population is complex, but I think they're outside the Hindu caste system that still pervades modern India. Maybe some parallels to the Native Americans?
The emptiness is a startling contrast with the vibrant metropolis & its teeming millions, just 15 miles away.
Real Estate
Visited my cousin's farm at the foothills of the Western Ghats. It's only 20 minutes from town but the road to get there would get enthusiastic praise from a Cairo to Cape Town rally driver. The potholes were nothing short of magnificent.
In just 4 years his 18 acre spread has doubled in value four times.
It borders a National Forest, has mountains on two sides, there's clear spring water, & a rocky outcrop where he plans to build a 'party house' (his words, not mine), assuming he doesn't sell the whole thing.
I'm jealous.
The place is also infested with tigers, who seem to have a fondness for dog. The caretaker lives in a flimsy thatched hut & has lost 3 dogs already to the big cats. Tigers apparently don't read fairy tales or they would have attempted to huff & puff the hut down already. A six-foot fence is barely a deterrence.
And there are snakes. I saw a 3-footer cooling off in the stream (they are not as active at midday), my cousin removed a nest of cobras when he cleared a third of the land for paddy fields. The lethal King Cobra can grow to 18 feet. If I was a life insurance salesman, I could make a killing here, no pun intended.
His first harvest was last year. There's still bags of rice stacked man-high at his mom's house.
The Ghats are not true mountains, being the western edge of the Deccan plateau that covers most of central India, but they sure look like mountains. I'm told parts that are still unspoiled are designated a World Heritage Site, with thousands of endemic species not found anywhere else. Apart from a few huts dotted here & there in the National Forest, I can't see anything but green. These huts belong to the forest people, aborigines who've been here for probably thousands of years, living lightly off the forest.
Their relationship with the rest of the population is complex, but I think they're outside the Hindu caste system that still pervades modern India. Maybe some parallels to the Native Americans?
The emptiness is a startling contrast with the vibrant metropolis & its teeming millions, just 15 miles away.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Day 4
Day Four
You never know what you've Lost until...
When I was a kid, Mulgaon was a sleepy hamlet & a trip to the city of Mumbai was an all day affair. Over the last two plus decades the city has steadily encroached on my place of birth. I may be an opinionated outsider, but they should have raised the drawbridge & repelled the invasion. Cauldrons of hot oil would have helped. Instead they welcomed the carpetbaggers & now there's urban blight spreading faster than kudzu.
There are still Palm Trees with their gracefully curved trunks. As a general rule the Coconut Palm has a strong sense of personal space & will always seek out it's own spot in the sun, away from its neighbors. There's also thatch huts & rice paddy fields. When the sun is at the right angle the paddies glisten like emeralds, a green I've not seen since my trip to Ireland. There's salt pans with 10-foot high brilliant white salt cones. There's the great Western Ghats mountain range that follow the coastline, covered with forest. But...
You get the sense it's slowly being eaten by the ravenous monster from the south. 15 million souls need somewhere to live.
The city of Mumbai is mostly reclaimed swampland. These are marshes & wetlands scattered everywhere, but they too are slowly being dredged & filled up. If the city fathers are aware these are the lungs of Mumbai, they aren’t showing it.
Bright Lights, Big City
A trip to Mumbai is still an all day affair, but a bit more harrowing than 2 decades ago. The quickest way to get to the heart of the city is by train. The number of commuters during rush hour has to be seen to be believed. Sardines would have protested vehemently if they were packed as tightly as urban commuters in Mumbai. Non-peak hours are only slightly less crowded & we decided to take the train the other way & wait for it to turn back, thus assured of a seat. First class tickets are about $2.50 for an unlimited all day ride, standard fare is about 10% of that, an outstanding bargain if you don't mind having your internal organs squished the whole trip. Here's a number: six million ride the rails in the city daily!
The compartment was strangely empty & some hostile stares later, we found out why. It was reserved for the handicapped & for cancer patients. I wince at the memory even now - foreign tourists (& we stood out like a sore thumb everywhere) assuming local rules don't apply to them. My dad suggested I affect a limp until we get off but it wasn't necessary. The denizens of the compartment were very nice once they understood our mistake. One guy even offered us chocolate. Still, I worry. Karma has a way of dealing with you sooner or later.
Churchgate Station is the terminus of the Western Railway line in Mumbai. A small sign there informs you that a staggering half a million people pass through every day. The exterior of Churchgate and several buildings in the vicinity are some of the finest Victorian Architecture still standing on the planet.
The new & the old, the rich & the poor, all coexist in India. Some of the contrasts are extreme & jarring, like a luxury highrise next to some of the worst slums you can imagine, but I'm fascinated by how everything is just accepted and absorbed into the culture.
Karma Strikes
After incessantly (my sister would say irritatingly) marveling about how traffic moves smoothly & no one gets hurt, a hand-pulled cart rolls over my ankle. Steel-rimmed wheel meets tender foot (the one that's recovering from a soccer injury). No permanent damage but it felt like that Kathy Bates movie for a while. Took some skin off as well. Mental note: must make an offering to the local handicap/cancer god.
I'll spare you all the tourist stuff, look it up on Fodor's, Lonely Planet, etc. We did see Mumbai's iconic Taj Hotel that was attacked by terrorists last year. One of my cousins works there. His shift had just ended when it was attacked. The staff members who were murdered were his friends.
English as She is Spoke
I wish I had the presence of mind to photograph some of the billboards & road signs...
"Flee Market, next exit".
"No Spiting". (now that isn't a bad idea)
"Menoine Tailors. Specialist in Ladies & Gents". (they probably draw the line at chimps)
"Rosario's Inn. Now serving Indian, Chinese, Italian, etc". (the menu or the customers?)
And my favorite: "Speak Flunt English".
My brother has a pair of sneakers called "Mike". The swoosh is a little different.
Slumdogs & Millionaires
The uber-rich in Mumbai rival Croesus himself. With the economy booming and Mumbai being the financial capital of India, there's a lot of them & ostentatious displays of wealth are common. The majority of the population however, live in abject poverty that's so extreme, it has to be seen to be believed. The slums can be seen from the train. I saw the flimsiest tin shacks possible, with tarps for roofs, mountains of garbage, broken machinery. Sanitation I don't even want to think about. The saddest sight I saw was a 60+ year old woman living at the bottom of a tree. Rusted corrugated sheet metal leaning against the trunk, like a teepee, 6 foot diameter.
Very sad.
You want to do something, but it just seems so overwhelming.
You never know what you've Lost until...
When I was a kid, Mulgaon was a sleepy hamlet & a trip to the city of Mumbai was an all day affair. Over the last two plus decades the city has steadily encroached on my place of birth. I may be an opinionated outsider, but they should have raised the drawbridge & repelled the invasion. Cauldrons of hot oil would have helped. Instead they welcomed the carpetbaggers & now there's urban blight spreading faster than kudzu.
There are still Palm Trees with their gracefully curved trunks. As a general rule the Coconut Palm has a strong sense of personal space & will always seek out it's own spot in the sun, away from its neighbors. There's also thatch huts & rice paddy fields. When the sun is at the right angle the paddies glisten like emeralds, a green I've not seen since my trip to Ireland. There's salt pans with 10-foot high brilliant white salt cones. There's the great Western Ghats mountain range that follow the coastline, covered with forest. But...
You get the sense it's slowly being eaten by the ravenous monster from the south. 15 million souls need somewhere to live.
The city of Mumbai is mostly reclaimed swampland. These are marshes & wetlands scattered everywhere, but they too are slowly being dredged & filled up. If the city fathers are aware these are the lungs of Mumbai, they aren’t showing it.
Bright Lights, Big City
A trip to Mumbai is still an all day affair, but a bit more harrowing than 2 decades ago. The quickest way to get to the heart of the city is by train. The number of commuters during rush hour has to be seen to be believed. Sardines would have protested vehemently if they were packed as tightly as urban commuters in Mumbai. Non-peak hours are only slightly less crowded & we decided to take the train the other way & wait for it to turn back, thus assured of a seat. First class tickets are about $2.50 for an unlimited all day ride, standard fare is about 10% of that, an outstanding bargain if you don't mind having your internal organs squished the whole trip. Here's a number: six million ride the rails in the city daily!
The compartment was strangely empty & some hostile stares later, we found out why. It was reserved for the handicapped & for cancer patients. I wince at the memory even now - foreign tourists (& we stood out like a sore thumb everywhere) assuming local rules don't apply to them. My dad suggested I affect a limp until we get off but it wasn't necessary. The denizens of the compartment were very nice once they understood our mistake. One guy even offered us chocolate. Still, I worry. Karma has a way of dealing with you sooner or later.
Churchgate Station is the terminus of the Western Railway line in Mumbai. A small sign there informs you that a staggering half a million people pass through every day. The exterior of Churchgate and several buildings in the vicinity are some of the finest Victorian Architecture still standing on the planet.
The new & the old, the rich & the poor, all coexist in India. Some of the contrasts are extreme & jarring, like a luxury highrise next to some of the worst slums you can imagine, but I'm fascinated by how everything is just accepted and absorbed into the culture.
Karma Strikes
After incessantly (my sister would say irritatingly) marveling about how traffic moves smoothly & no one gets hurt, a hand-pulled cart rolls over my ankle. Steel-rimmed wheel meets tender foot (the one that's recovering from a soccer injury). No permanent damage but it felt like that Kathy Bates movie for a while. Took some skin off as well. Mental note: must make an offering to the local handicap/cancer god.
I'll spare you all the tourist stuff, look it up on Fodor's, Lonely Planet, etc. We did see Mumbai's iconic Taj Hotel that was attacked by terrorists last year. One of my cousins works there. His shift had just ended when it was attacked. The staff members who were murdered were his friends.
English as She is Spoke
I wish I had the presence of mind to photograph some of the billboards & road signs...
"Flee Market, next exit".
"No Spiting". (now that isn't a bad idea)
"Menoine Tailors. Specialist in Ladies & Gents". (they probably draw the line at chimps)
"Rosario's Inn. Now serving Indian, Chinese, Italian, etc". (the menu or the customers?)
And my favorite: "Speak Flunt English".
My brother has a pair of sneakers called "Mike". The swoosh is a little different.
Slumdogs & Millionaires
The uber-rich in Mumbai rival Croesus himself. With the economy booming and Mumbai being the financial capital of India, there's a lot of them & ostentatious displays of wealth are common. The majority of the population however, live in abject poverty that's so extreme, it has to be seen to be believed. The slums can be seen from the train. I saw the flimsiest tin shacks possible, with tarps for roofs, mountains of garbage, broken machinery. Sanitation I don't even want to think about. The saddest sight I saw was a 60+ year old woman living at the bottom of a tree. Rusted corrugated sheet metal leaning against the trunk, like a teepee, 6 foot diameter.
Very sad.
You want to do something, but it just seems so overwhelming.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Day 3
Day Three
Not Again
The church bells go off again at 5 am, & the symphony begins. Three hours sleep in all, since I left Dallas. Ah well, at least the jogging is doing me good. No one seems to run for exercise here in Mulgaon, so I get a few curious looks from the early risers, people on their way to market & kids off to school. Saw a huge baobab tree on one of the back roads (didn't remember that from the last time I was here, but it's humongous). I'm getting a good feel for the place, but I took a wrong turn which dead-ended into someone's front yard.
Another big breakfast (my aunt obviously believes breakfast is the most important meal of the day, unless it's lunch or dinner, which are also the most important). If you don't recognize me when I get back, look for the fat guy with bushy eyebrows.
Went to church & I see the offending speakers mounted to the exterior of the church. I look the other way & I see my bedroom window straight ahead. I wonder how many Hail Marys would be penance for cutting the speaker wires ... The church is overflowing, hence the speakers. But they really don't need to be as big as a coffee table, in my humble & sleep-deprived opinion.
Sussie estimated we are related to 3/4 of the congregation. Which might be on the low side; throw a rock in any direction & you're likely to hit a Demello. The pastor was in good form, his sermon alone was a numbing 30 minutes, some fire & brimstone stuff in the local language.
After the service, we disentangled ourselves from miscellaneous relatives & headed for the little cemetery behind the church. Paid our respects to Roy's father & also my late uncle John. We couldn't find my grandparents' graves. A lot of the graves are in bad shape, with headstones broken or scattered around.
The rest of Sunday was predominantly another round of meeting relatives, this time on my mom's side. Turns out I jogged by the day before & didn't realize it. The memories come flooding back. There's the almond tree right next to the well I swam in. There's the banana plantation on the side, now fallow. The giant tamirind trees have been cut down. Grandpa's house is a lot smaller than I thought it was. It's now divided between my three uncles. The 4 sisters left, married (mom, Helen), convent (Nalini), or moved out (Baby Auntie). A property dispute is responsible for why parts of it look run down.
As is fairly common in India, they're sitting on a significant amount of capital that's locked in the land. Maybe it's sheer pig-headedness or maybe they're willing to sacrifice all (& I mean all) comfort in order to hand down their 'share' of the family assets to the next generation. Either way, it's a depressing sight.
Went to the local church in Papdi, which is adjacent to my kindergarten. I remember lining up for the national anthem. The podium is still there. Wasn't sure where my old classroom was. Must come back with dad. Found my uncle Manuel's grave. Searched but couldn't find my maternal grandparents' graves. Made a mental note to ask the relatives later.
Yay! A Respite from Curry!
Lunch at uncle Dominc's. Been here only 2 days & I'm sick of eating curry already. On the menu today: Grilled chicken & grilled pork kebabs over hot coals, just as God intended. Virtually all houses have a balcony area over the entire roof. This one's covered & is on the 4th floor, just about treetop level. Sitting up there with a beer in hand & kebabs nearby, I'm surrounded by palm trees, & I see the ruins of a 500-year-old Portuguese fort & the ocean visible in the distance; life is indeed good.
I'm curious about the large number of stray dogs roaming the streets. They are everywhere. One of my cousins says they all have owners but this seems highly dubious - rare is the dog with a collar, most are unkempt, & none appear to have been fixed. It is likely that the Hindu reverence for life combined with the influence of the local animal protection groups have resulted in large numbers of urban critters. They are generally left alone, inhabiting some sort of parallel urban world.
Ask Not for Whom the Bell Tolls
An afternoon siesta right after lunch is a local tradition left over from the Portuguese era.
(Pause for dramatic effect)
"Dong dong dong dong..." you get the picture.
Sleep is for wimps anyway. I read a book.
Dinner at cousin Sarah's. It's her kid's 14th birthday. He's tall, smart, good-looking, & has a great personality. Very out-going. Reminds me of me... Sarah tells me the bells are only rung on weekends & the afternoon's musical entertainment was a wedding - they had 36 that day in different churches. 36??!!! Is that every .... "No, not every weekend, silly. This is the day of the feast of (local saintly figure whose name I've forgotten)."
After the stray dog explanation from one cousin, I was not convinced, but it was prudent to let sleeping dogs lie.
This time I went to bed at 9 pm. That'll give me at least 7-1/2 hours slumber. Maybe Sarah is right.
Cousin Sarah was wrong. The Bells are a daily fixture. You just have to get used to it, like the locals did. Lace up the old sneakers, Day 4 dawns.
Not Again
The church bells go off again at 5 am, & the symphony begins. Three hours sleep in all, since I left Dallas. Ah well, at least the jogging is doing me good. No one seems to run for exercise here in Mulgaon, so I get a few curious looks from the early risers, people on their way to market & kids off to school. Saw a huge baobab tree on one of the back roads (didn't remember that from the last time I was here, but it's humongous). I'm getting a good feel for the place, but I took a wrong turn which dead-ended into someone's front yard.
Another big breakfast (my aunt obviously believes breakfast is the most important meal of the day, unless it's lunch or dinner, which are also the most important). If you don't recognize me when I get back, look for the fat guy with bushy eyebrows.
Went to church & I see the offending speakers mounted to the exterior of the church. I look the other way & I see my bedroom window straight ahead. I wonder how many Hail Marys would be penance for cutting the speaker wires ... The church is overflowing, hence the speakers. But they really don't need to be as big as a coffee table, in my humble & sleep-deprived opinion.
Sussie estimated we are related to 3/4 of the congregation. Which might be on the low side; throw a rock in any direction & you're likely to hit a Demello. The pastor was in good form, his sermon alone was a numbing 30 minutes, some fire & brimstone stuff in the local language.
After the service, we disentangled ourselves from miscellaneous relatives & headed for the little cemetery behind the church. Paid our respects to Roy's father & also my late uncle John. We couldn't find my grandparents' graves. A lot of the graves are in bad shape, with headstones broken or scattered around.
The rest of Sunday was predominantly another round of meeting relatives, this time on my mom's side. Turns out I jogged by the day before & didn't realize it. The memories come flooding back. There's the almond tree right next to the well I swam in. There's the banana plantation on the side, now fallow. The giant tamirind trees have been cut down. Grandpa's house is a lot smaller than I thought it was. It's now divided between my three uncles. The 4 sisters left, married (mom, Helen), convent (Nalini), or moved out (Baby Auntie). A property dispute is responsible for why parts of it look run down.
As is fairly common in India, they're sitting on a significant amount of capital that's locked in the land. Maybe it's sheer pig-headedness or maybe they're willing to sacrifice all (& I mean all) comfort in order to hand down their 'share' of the family assets to the next generation. Either way, it's a depressing sight.
Went to the local church in Papdi, which is adjacent to my kindergarten. I remember lining up for the national anthem. The podium is still there. Wasn't sure where my old classroom was. Must come back with dad. Found my uncle Manuel's grave. Searched but couldn't find my maternal grandparents' graves. Made a mental note to ask the relatives later.
Yay! A Respite from Curry!
Lunch at uncle Dominc's. Been here only 2 days & I'm sick of eating curry already. On the menu today: Grilled chicken & grilled pork kebabs over hot coals, just as God intended. Virtually all houses have a balcony area over the entire roof. This one's covered & is on the 4th floor, just about treetop level. Sitting up there with a beer in hand & kebabs nearby, I'm surrounded by palm trees, & I see the ruins of a 500-year-old Portuguese fort & the ocean visible in the distance; life is indeed good.
I'm curious about the large number of stray dogs roaming the streets. They are everywhere. One of my cousins says they all have owners but this seems highly dubious - rare is the dog with a collar, most are unkempt, & none appear to have been fixed. It is likely that the Hindu reverence for life combined with the influence of the local animal protection groups have resulted in large numbers of urban critters. They are generally left alone, inhabiting some sort of parallel urban world.
Ask Not for Whom the Bell Tolls
An afternoon siesta right after lunch is a local tradition left over from the Portuguese era.
(Pause for dramatic effect)
"Dong dong dong dong..." you get the picture.
Sleep is for wimps anyway. I read a book.
Dinner at cousin Sarah's. It's her kid's 14th birthday. He's tall, smart, good-looking, & has a great personality. Very out-going. Reminds me of me... Sarah tells me the bells are only rung on weekends & the afternoon's musical entertainment was a wedding - they had 36 that day in different churches. 36??!!! Is that every .... "No, not every weekend, silly. This is the day of the feast of (local saintly figure whose name I've forgotten)."
After the stray dog explanation from one cousin, I was not convinced, but it was prudent to let sleeping dogs lie.
This time I went to bed at 9 pm. That'll give me at least 7-1/2 hours slumber. Maybe Sarah is right.
Cousin Sarah was wrong. The Bells are a daily fixture. You just have to get used to it, like the locals did. Lace up the old sneakers, Day 4 dawns.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Day 2
Day Two
La Familia
Mulgaon is a fairly small town, as I found out when walking to get the paper with my dad in the morning. A car stopped right in front of us & my cousin Sarah rushed out with a pleased expression on her face. I'll spare you all the details, but it was the same routine with every relative I met later that day. It'sbeensolonggimmeahugmygodyouhaven'tchanged. Her husband didn't pull over to the side by the way, long-lost relations apparently drop by fairly frequently so everyone knows to go around your car.
On that 1st walk, we ran into maybe 12 people who knew my dad. Clearly getting your morning paper takes a little longer than I thought.
Back home for a 2nd breakfast. The 1st was eggs, toast & tea. I don't remember what #2 was but at 9 am, we had breakfast #3, pastry with more tea. I could learn to like this place.
La Financia
Then off to the bank, about 15 mins by rickshaw. The traffic flow is a marvel to see, the aforementioned school of fish if you remember. Dad spends 15 haranguing the staff about a $25 charge on his account & demanding a better conversion rate for his dollars than what's quoted. Also complains about having to meet a new bank manager every time he visits. I crack a joke about him being the messenger of death which doesn't go down very well. The current gentleman occupying the position is a bit oily but his underlings are eager & earnest.
And that's also what I noticed at another bank we went to. The locals really seem interested in helping you. I saw bank reps explain some arcane law or the other to all sorts of people. Documentation takes a back seat - the personal touch is what their customers want. Personal space is another matter. One bank worker stood next to me, chin literally over my shoulder while I leaned against a column waiting for my dad. And privacy is ... different. OK, non-existent. People (staff & customers) would barge in, stand around patiently but with that "boss-this-can't-wait" look. The idea that you may be discussing sensitive financial issues is immaterial.
Walked around a bit looking for earplugs. Not taking any chances, that early morning din wasn't pleasant. Never found any, unfortunately.
The rest of the day we visited my Dad's side of the family. A lot of them live on the ancestral land, a leafy cul-de-sac (the houses are a lot closer & the street is much smaller than in the US). Got to see my 90+ year old great-uncle Paul, the only remaining sibling of my grandfather. He might have Alzheimer's, has few teeth left but sits absolutely erect.
A shame that they've paved over the pond & cut down the regal Ashoka trees in front of my grandfather's house. The pig farm is gone too. Five of my uncles live next to each other, literally cheek-to-cheek. They seem to prefer it that way. I hope the next generation spreads out but they'll probably still keep a connection here for ever, I reckon.
I play a game of what-do-you-remember with my cousins. The pomegranate tree was removed, so was the chuku tree. The well with the turtles is still there, the porch with the wooden swing where I spent many a lazy afternoon (swing is gone, ceiling hooks still visible). Faces are older, each decade etched on them, more grey hair, sometimes none. Everyone older than 25 I recognize. So many nephews & nieces I've never met.
8 pm dinner back at Roy's mom's house is substantial: chicken soup, fried pomfret fish (whole), chicken curry with rice, & some squash. A fisherwoman brought her best catch that afternoon, they know my aunt pays top dollar for fresh seafood. The chicken is not the stuff you get at Tom Thumb, she has them in her backyard (I wish it was the cock from last night but it isn't) & they are lean birds. Probably not far removed from the Jungle Chicken.
Couple of hours later, off to bed. The jet lag is kicking in.
La Familia
Mulgaon is a fairly small town, as I found out when walking to get the paper with my dad in the morning. A car stopped right in front of us & my cousin Sarah rushed out with a pleased expression on her face. I'll spare you all the details, but it was the same routine with every relative I met later that day. It'sbeensolonggimmeahugmygodyouhaven'tchanged. Her husband didn't pull over to the side by the way, long-lost relations apparently drop by fairly frequently so everyone knows to go around your car.
On that 1st walk, we ran into maybe 12 people who knew my dad. Clearly getting your morning paper takes a little longer than I thought.
Back home for a 2nd breakfast. The 1st was eggs, toast & tea. I don't remember what #2 was but at 9 am, we had breakfast #3, pastry with more tea. I could learn to like this place.
La Financia
Then off to the bank, about 15 mins by rickshaw. The traffic flow is a marvel to see, the aforementioned school of fish if you remember. Dad spends 15 haranguing the staff about a $25 charge on his account & demanding a better conversion rate for his dollars than what's quoted. Also complains about having to meet a new bank manager every time he visits. I crack a joke about him being the messenger of death which doesn't go down very well. The current gentleman occupying the position is a bit oily but his underlings are eager & earnest.
And that's also what I noticed at another bank we went to. The locals really seem interested in helping you. I saw bank reps explain some arcane law or the other to all sorts of people. Documentation takes a back seat - the personal touch is what their customers want. Personal space is another matter. One bank worker stood next to me, chin literally over my shoulder while I leaned against a column waiting for my dad. And privacy is ... different. OK, non-existent. People (staff & customers) would barge in, stand around patiently but with that "boss-this-can't-wait" look. The idea that you may be discussing sensitive financial issues is immaterial.
Walked around a bit looking for earplugs. Not taking any chances, that early morning din wasn't pleasant. Never found any, unfortunately.
The rest of the day we visited my Dad's side of the family. A lot of them live on the ancestral land, a leafy cul-de-sac (the houses are a lot closer & the street is much smaller than in the US). Got to see my 90+ year old great-uncle Paul, the only remaining sibling of my grandfather. He might have Alzheimer's, has few teeth left but sits absolutely erect.
A shame that they've paved over the pond & cut down the regal Ashoka trees in front of my grandfather's house. The pig farm is gone too. Five of my uncles live next to each other, literally cheek-to-cheek. They seem to prefer it that way. I hope the next generation spreads out but they'll probably still keep a connection here for ever, I reckon.
I play a game of what-do-you-remember with my cousins. The pomegranate tree was removed, so was the chuku tree. The well with the turtles is still there, the porch with the wooden swing where I spent many a lazy afternoon (swing is gone, ceiling hooks still visible). Faces are older, each decade etched on them, more grey hair, sometimes none. Everyone older than 25 I recognize. So many nephews & nieces I've never met.
8 pm dinner back at Roy's mom's house is substantial: chicken soup, fried pomfret fish (whole), chicken curry with rice, & some squash. A fisherwoman brought her best catch that afternoon, they know my aunt pays top dollar for fresh seafood. The chicken is not the stuff you get at Tom Thumb, she has them in her backyard (I wish it was the cock from last night but it isn't) & they are lean birds. Probably not far removed from the Jungle Chicken.
Couple of hours later, off to bed. The jet lag is kicking in.
Day 1
Got a bit of time here in Goa while waiting for the sun to go down (you'll see why later), so I'm going to send you a travelogue of sorts. This place is so different & there's so much going on, I'll forget half of what I see unless I put it down on paper, er, photons. It'll be a bit rough & meandering, but that's ok. Hopefully it'll be legible & a bit entertaining. Travel does broaden yer horizons & stuff. Here goes (this one's most likely the longest)...
Day One
Flight of the Condor
18 hour flight with a 3-hour layover in London. Spent 20 mins circling Heathrow, southern England was covered with snow. A white blanket as far as you could see, fodder for the anti-global warming crowd. Perhaps they should use another phrase, Climate Change or Earth Fever or something. Mental note: ask Terry if the Gunners won their last game. I suspect we deplaned (on the tarmac) outside Terminal 3, were whisked away by bus to Terminal 5, where we went thru security, then by escalator back to shiny new Terminal 3 for the 'Curry Express' to Bombay, sorry, Mumbai. I was a little drowsy, may have got the terminals mixed up.
In-flight announcement by British Airways: "Please keep the toilets clean. Thank you". I guess they know their customers.
Airline food was surprisingly good. Chicken Tikka on the 2nd flight (Sussie rightly predicted all meals would have an Indian theme). Plus I never had tomato juice with Worcester sauce before. Ah well, always a 1st time for everything.
The Eagle has Landed
So 21 hours, no sleep, plus 4 hours of stressful work before that. Sussie took a Nyquil, slept well. Of course she forgot to tell me she had extra pills. Very friendly reception at immigration & customs, the immigration officer extended his hand to me, so I shook it heartily. "Passport please", he said. "Oh. I thought you were going to say "Welcome to India". Sorry". Bit of an awkward moment there, but he was very nice & we both laughed nervously.
Next, baggage. As you may recall, Mrs. L. Demello believes travel is not complete unless you can test everyone's patience by carrying everything but the kitchen sink when you fly. Ye gods! Each bag must weigh the exact 51 lb allowed, six bags. There's a picture from the 70's, me as a kid sitting forlornly on a pile of suitcases, airport unknown, looking absolutely miserable. Must find it, 'cos I felt the same way again. Of course she did all the packing back then too.
Exit airport, expecting a waft of nostalgia to flood my brain. Instead, there's a waft of something else & my 1st thought is "What is that smell?" Couldn't quite place it, a pervasive odor of stale sweat & cow, mixed with gasoline & food, I think. Hmmm, not a good start.
Still, I spy my uncle Dominic, a dead ringer for my dad, & give him a hug. His 1st reaction is "who's this?" Totally excusable, considering it's been 26 years since he saw me.
Life is a Highway
Pack all the bags into the SUV & we're off. Driver makes a left turn on red, worried me a little but maybe he didn't see it. Luckily there was no one else on the road. Runs another red light, & floors it thru another. The driver's decisiveness at these intersections is impressive, especially when there's a truck crossing the junction. Maybe the lights are just a suggestion ...
The night hangs heavy over Mumbai. It's supposed to be winter but Unc tells me they're having a mini-heat wave. No air-conditioning by the way, & it's bloody humid. And did I forget to mention the dust?
Pass a tollbooth, flat tire! Four & a half tons of baggage no doubt responsible. Sussie muttered something about her mother, wasn't sure what she said. On the plus side, the white-knuckled ride is mercifully interrupted & your blood pressure comes down slightly.
15 minutes later, we climb back in the SUV & head for the highway. Now the word highway to you may conjure up a controlled access road, with curbs, lane markings, clear signage, well-lit roads, etc... Um, not exactly. In fact, none of the above.
Driving on the highway is fun (well, watching it was). You weave in & out, squeeze in whenever you get half a chance, overtake on all sides, & honk incessantly to warn the guy in front that you are 8 inches from him (sides or rear). I do not exaggerate. Well, maybe about the 8 inches, but not by much.
As I found out later, that is how everyone drives here. On every road, big or small. The undivided roads have the extra thrill of playing chicken... every chance you get, & you also have pedestrians, rickshaws, bicycles, buffaloes, buses, scooters & motorcycles, hand carts, & the occasional shepherd walking his flock to market. I'm surprised half the urban population doesn't have a limb or two missing.
The driving philosophy seems to be: The Road Abhors a Vacuum. You must fill the empty spots with something, ideally a metal shell to protect you. Honk when you're nearby to anything or anyone you might run into, so they keep their course or swerve away. The mechanical herd moves in unison. If you say that's like a school of fish or a flock of pigeons, you're spot on. Of course, you'd better have good brakes. Several times, I felt the urge to take someone's watch from the next rickshaw, that's how close they drive. Luckily the urge passed or yours truly would be writing this from jail.
It's way past my Bedtime
Got to my Aunt's house at 4:30 am. Exhausted, I fling myself on the bed. Finally, slumber awaits. I stretch out, reveling on the space for sleeping and "Dong", the church bell up the street goes off. Maybe they do it at 5 am daily. 15 seconds later, two more. Then quiet. A sleep beckons. Then "Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong".
That wakes up the cock, whose crowing is answered by another one down the street & then they discuss the day's upcoming activities at regular intervals. The dogs are next, followed by the crows & parakeets & some other unidentified bird species. The symphony is warmed up fully by 5:45 am.
The church now broadcasts its service - there's 2 oversized loudspeakers on the outside (50 yards from my bedroom window, I figure out why on Sunday).
At 6:15 am, I give up. Lace up my sneakers & go jogging in the dark. Quite refreshed when I get back, considering the above-mentioned din.
My next email will be Day Two, when millions of relatives pour out of the woodwork.
Day One
Flight of the Condor
18 hour flight with a 3-hour layover in London. Spent 20 mins circling Heathrow, southern England was covered with snow. A white blanket as far as you could see, fodder for the anti-global warming crowd. Perhaps they should use another phrase, Climate Change or Earth Fever or something. Mental note: ask Terry if the Gunners won their last game. I suspect we deplaned (on the tarmac) outside Terminal 3, were whisked away by bus to Terminal 5, where we went thru security, then by escalator back to shiny new Terminal 3 for the 'Curry Express' to Bombay, sorry, Mumbai. I was a little drowsy, may have got the terminals mixed up.
In-flight announcement by British Airways: "Please keep the toilets clean. Thank you". I guess they know their customers.
Airline food was surprisingly good. Chicken Tikka on the 2nd flight (Sussie rightly predicted all meals would have an Indian theme). Plus I never had tomato juice with Worcester sauce before. Ah well, always a 1st time for everything.
The Eagle has Landed
So 21 hours, no sleep, plus 4 hours of stressful work before that. Sussie took a Nyquil, slept well. Of course she forgot to tell me she had extra pills. Very friendly reception at immigration & customs, the immigration officer extended his hand to me, so I shook it heartily. "Passport please", he said. "Oh. I thought you were going to say "Welcome to India". Sorry". Bit of an awkward moment there, but he was very nice & we both laughed nervously.
Next, baggage. As you may recall, Mrs. L. Demello believes travel is not complete unless you can test everyone's patience by carrying everything but the kitchen sink when you fly. Ye gods! Each bag must weigh the exact 51 lb allowed, six bags. There's a picture from the 70's, me as a kid sitting forlornly on a pile of suitcases, airport unknown, looking absolutely miserable. Must find it, 'cos I felt the same way again. Of course she did all the packing back then too.
Exit airport, expecting a waft of nostalgia to flood my brain. Instead, there's a waft of something else & my 1st thought is "What is that smell?" Couldn't quite place it, a pervasive odor of stale sweat & cow, mixed with gasoline & food, I think. Hmmm, not a good start.
Still, I spy my uncle Dominic, a dead ringer for my dad, & give him a hug. His 1st reaction is "who's this?" Totally excusable, considering it's been 26 years since he saw me.
Life is a Highway
Pack all the bags into the SUV & we're off. Driver makes a left turn on red, worried me a little but maybe he didn't see it. Luckily there was no one else on the road. Runs another red light, & floors it thru another. The driver's decisiveness at these intersections is impressive, especially when there's a truck crossing the junction. Maybe the lights are just a suggestion ...
The night hangs heavy over Mumbai. It's supposed to be winter but Unc tells me they're having a mini-heat wave. No air-conditioning by the way, & it's bloody humid. And did I forget to mention the dust?
Pass a tollbooth, flat tire! Four & a half tons of baggage no doubt responsible. Sussie muttered something about her mother, wasn't sure what she said. On the plus side, the white-knuckled ride is mercifully interrupted & your blood pressure comes down slightly.
15 minutes later, we climb back in the SUV & head for the highway. Now the word highway to you may conjure up a controlled access road, with curbs, lane markings, clear signage, well-lit roads, etc... Um, not exactly. In fact, none of the above.
Driving on the highway is fun (well, watching it was). You weave in & out, squeeze in whenever you get half a chance, overtake on all sides, & honk incessantly to warn the guy in front that you are 8 inches from him (sides or rear). I do not exaggerate. Well, maybe about the 8 inches, but not by much.
As I found out later, that is how everyone drives here. On every road, big or small. The undivided roads have the extra thrill of playing chicken... every chance you get, & you also have pedestrians, rickshaws, bicycles, buffaloes, buses, scooters & motorcycles, hand carts, & the occasional shepherd walking his flock to market. I'm surprised half the urban population doesn't have a limb or two missing.
The driving philosophy seems to be: The Road Abhors a Vacuum. You must fill the empty spots with something, ideally a metal shell to protect you. Honk when you're nearby to anything or anyone you might run into, so they keep their course or swerve away. The mechanical herd moves in unison. If you say that's like a school of fish or a flock of pigeons, you're spot on. Of course, you'd better have good brakes. Several times, I felt the urge to take someone's watch from the next rickshaw, that's how close they drive. Luckily the urge passed or yours truly would be writing this from jail.
It's way past my Bedtime
Got to my Aunt's house at 4:30 am. Exhausted, I fling myself on the bed. Finally, slumber awaits. I stretch out, reveling on the space for sleeping and "Dong", the church bell up the street goes off. Maybe they do it at 5 am daily. 15 seconds later, two more. Then quiet. A sleep beckons. Then "Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong".
That wakes up the cock, whose crowing is answered by another one down the street & then they discuss the day's upcoming activities at regular intervals. The dogs are next, followed by the crows & parakeets & some other unidentified bird species. The symphony is warmed up fully by 5:45 am.
The church now broadcasts its service - there's 2 oversized loudspeakers on the outside (50 yards from my bedroom window, I figure out why on Sunday).
At 6:15 am, I give up. Lace up my sneakers & go jogging in the dark. Quite refreshed when I get back, considering the above-mentioned din.
My next email will be Day Two, when millions of relatives pour out of the woodwork.
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