Goooooaaaaaaaaah

Everything feels strangely normal here… women dressed in tight clothes on the street, wearing bikinis on the beach, walking by themselves and not in large groups.  Couples walking together holding hands, scantly clad in tribal wear under the blazing sun.  Children number one per family.  Yoga here, yoga there, yoga bodies everywhere.

Drum circles at sunset, dreadlocks, hoola hoops, didgeridoos, and poi.  The record skips:

“Masha, mu zdes, vozle Indusov v lodke, posmotri na prava!” (Masha, we’re here, next to the Indians in the boat, look to your right!) a pretty long-legged blond screams into her mobile with a Moscow accent. 

Life’s truisms and most other advertisements are written in Russian, with small English translations, sometimes.

 Indian people, predominantly wearing a cross, will bust out phrases in Russian first and Hebrew second.  With my hair down in its full Jew-fro glory, I get the latter.  With my hair up, it’s “Privet and poka.”  Russians marvel at my English, while often being startled by my Russian.  Americans, Australians, and the English are amused by my Russian, while cleanly detecting my English as US-California.   

The more things change, the more they do stay the same.  German bakeries specializing in “sea foods, grilled tandoori, pies, loof (yes that is correct spelling) bread, and cheese cake” are on every corner to make sure that the Europeans don’t go hungry.  Naturally, only about half of them sell baked good.  For some reason, European and North American pastry in India’s tourist hot sports originate from Germany.  Incidentally, the only German-owned food establishments I’ve come across (in all of India) were in fact café Edelweiss and Savage garden, both fastidiously clean, popular, and serving Italian and French food. 

“So what’s German on your menu?   Is it French Onion?” I half-jokingly asked the waiters at the largest German Bakery in Arambol, situated in a prime beach spot.  The pastry display case was barren save for a cookie and a jar of power bars, and I wanted a slice of German chocolate cake. 

“Minestrone soup.”  The Indian waiter replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Italians, present in a sizable quantity likely avoid minestrone from German Bakeries, but they do love their caffeine done right, along with lovely focaccia sandwiches at Dreamland Café, where they are made with the owner’s Italian flair and Indian women’s’ hands in the kitchen.  Olive Garden and Pizzerias are out in full force, and are not Italian-owned.

Indian food has gone into hiding at the site of all the Russians and Israelis, neither one of which tolerate spice (in general).  Tucked away behind palm trees, off the beaten beach and shopping path, I am told there is a good Indian place serving thali for 50 rupees.   

In the hippy town of Aranbol, Goa trance can still be heard, and some random huts do emanate remnants of Infected Mushroom and the like in the mornings, but that is more the exception than the rule.  

Woodstock café plays alternative Sundance movies in the evening. OSHOanic café has meditation and yoga daily, as does Magic Park, along with amazing vegan food rivaling that of Café gratitude.  There are 5 yoga schools churning out yoga teachers with chill intensity and good intentions.   Perhaps it’s because taking a dip between classes increases yogic vibrations. 

All of this is just along the beach…

At night, the town visually transforms into a mini burning man, even more so than the rest of India.  Though lacking art cars, the beach is a sea of lights and candles, with music (sometimes live), alcohol and food overflowing the banks of every wooden hut, tent, and covered restaurant platform.  Asian tapestries are appropriately placed and back-lit, the cushions are set, and the furs, thought too hot to wear, are on sale a few steps away from the beach.  Some adventurous cold bodies do sport them around the beach, but most adopt the hippy wear of tied sarongs and ali-baba pants or the mandatory tool/hip belt purses, vests and fedoras (yes, they are still alive here). Walking alone at night is safe and peaceful, except for the occasional drunken Russian male or dog group, equally boisterous, happy and loud. 

 Gorgeous Russian females descend upon this playland in packs to learn hooping, poi, and explore the chiseled dread-headed Europeans, Americans and Indians.  Russian families have rented almost every available house in the vicinity, and make good use of large tables on the beach in the evening with children and grandmothers.  The Israelis come here to visit Shimon falafel, a small German bakery with a Hebrew menu, and the coconut stand.  They prefer the cliffs or the small villages around where smoking is easier, and the Russians and cocktails less plentiful.  

My one non-yoga friend, surviving a break up (this seems to be the place for that) told me that this town is too boring her taste.  An American Ayurvedic teacher/former health and wellness center owner explained the lay of the land with more detail:

“This is the chill yoga capital of Goa for foreigners…  while the presence of alcohol is disconcerting, there is more of that, as well as drunken fights between Israelis and Russians, trance and partying along the coast heading south.  Between the resorts and towns are simple villages with serene beaches and basic huts.  I really cannot stand Arambol for long, I came here to pacify my college-age daughter.”  The daughter is back to school, he’s planning to stay here for a few more weeks…

I may hop on a scooter and explore down the one lane highway when my course ends.  However, until then, I have yet to find a free hour between classes to take dip in the warm, inviting water and walk on the soft sand to see if the beach has an end. 

Update: This place is more and more like Burning Man with every rare passing minute free from class.  Because it’s Shabat Shalom, I decided to celebrate by walking around with people I met at Beit Yehudi (Jewish House, present here in full Rabbi Nahman song and dance).  We ended up at Woodstock cafe, where I was offered a special space ball and a jewelry making workshop as soon as I walking in.  Walking home by the way of the beach I passed by poi spinners, mini tiny laser performances, and signs for at least 3 types of yoga tomorrow.  There is a special class for female yoga every Monday (taught by a woman, I hope) at the Himalaya school of Iyengar yoga, Tantric and Osho meditation, Contact Dance workshop, Acro and Tantric Yoga in addition to the usual Hathas, Ashtangas, and Iyengars of India.  The “eating for your ayurvedic dosha” course starts tomorrow as well.  A retired woman named “Neema” tells you the truth in a lecture/satsang format 3 times a week, while devoted followers gaze adoringly.   Tribal belly dancers hold workshops and Tibetan massage classes are advertised right next to back-bending classes with Alex.  This is just what I’ve been able to gather within a 10-munute walking radius. 

The morning shift at the beach belongs to all the taichi-ers, yogis and yoginis, while the afternoon flesh display rivals the revelations of undress at BM. There is a drum circle every day at sunset, with no shortage of drums in town, and a Polish guy who speaks Russian and English gives excellent drum lessons every afternoon at 4pm.

On the way to my rare morning Pilates session, I ran into a friend from San Francisco on the beach.  While doing my exercises on the playa, I was serenaded by a walking saxophonists doing his own morning practice.  At some point, he played a jazz rendition of the Hava Nagilla.   Later that day, an Italian guitarist played my favorite Amelie soundtrack song with amazing skill while I sipped on a cold latte at Dream Land. 

This is indeed a reality parallel to the rest of India, perhaps even the world.