Goa 2 - India 17

In South Anjuna I lunched at the first restaurant on the south end of the beach, an open thatch covered 50 person beach shack named Curly's. Curly's piped in Goan trance music, cooked a wide variety of food and drinks, and generally catered to the European crowd at a dazzling 30 ft from surf.

During the season, this part of the beach is covered with European tourists, gange smoking hippies, and ill-mannered drugged up Israelis, decompressing from their military service. Consequently, the Israelis are not know for their polite manners.

A quick joke: An American, Russian, Chinese and Israeli are all talking. An Indian approaches and asks them "Excuse me, can you explain to me about democracy, communism and free markets?" The American says, "What's 'communism'?" The Russian says, "What's a 'free market'?" The Chinese says, "What's 'democracy'?" The Israeli says, "What's 'excuse me'?"

As I sat there, I watched 4 smaller dogs playing on the beach and two toddlers running around. One of them was watched over by a tie-dyed, bearded, Italian looking fellow, who turned out to be a Californian Jewish writer named Greg. Greg had married a West Bengalese lady 5 years ago and their daughter Dunya had grown up surrounded by party-going hippies.

After lunch, Greg invited me over to his house and we sat on his porch talking about India, America, and his Henry Miller (Re:Tropic of Cancer) inspired book. Greg, although regretfully lacking toiled paper, was quite content with his spacious yard and house. Interestingly, while the family had two scootters, there was no car access to his house, the front entry was pinched between the stone retaining walls of two other houses. In addition, Greg had 9,000L of tanks and a pump hooked into the water line to capture supply during the few hours of service on alternating days.

Greg had internet access through two different networks, each over a cell phone connected to his computer. Because of network outages, he and his wife have different service plans, so one of them can always get through.

That evening I dined in Calangute at that Mecca of convenience, the 24 hour restaurant. While burgers and fries were offered, more importantly this place also served the full variety, and then some, of Indian food. I had a Mexican Dosa, an Indian, thin, egg pancake with Mexican topping, cheese and onions. In addition, the 24-hour joint was also a bar, had an Indian playing electric guitar with a beat-box for entertainment (I was dedicated California Dreamin'), and was waited on by Indians from the opposite side of the country.

A bit south of there off the beach lies a rotting hulk of a ship, the River Princess. While significantly larger than the African Queen, this ship is mired even more heavily, as it ran aground on a sand bar just where the waves start to break toward the beach. What so big a ship was doing so close to a beach, I will never know. However, now this death trap creates strange undertows and swirling eddies, which have killed several swimmers. The reason the ship hasn't moved is the shipping company and the government are fighting over who is to blame and should move the ship. Considering the hazardous nature of the boat, I am amazed the government hasn't moved it and liquidated the assets of all those involved with the company in order to pay.

Incidentally, the off season in this beach paradise meant that I was exposed to about 20 min of rain during the day. While Greg had told me they had earlier had 3 days of continuous rain, 20 minutes is a small price to pay for a lovely beach all to oneself. Between the cost of living and the beauty of the place, I am not surprised that Greg raises his daughter and works as a writer in Goa.