Literary Bite: The White Tiger

Oh this book was fun and different and fast-paced and amusing. I liked it a lot! I've been to India, so that added a nice layer of familiarity (so I’ve spent time with Bangalore’s entrepreneurs, and also stayed with a family who had a driver in Delhi), but I think anyone would enjoy The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga.

The narrator, Balram, is a self-made entrepreneur whose life serves as an example of the “new” India. He was born in a village (“the Darkness”) and then moves up to become a driver for a wealthy man whom he eventually murders (! that is stated at the beginning, so I’m not really giving anything away here), before starting his own business. The novel is written as a letter to a visiting Chinese premier, telling him how India really is before he visits, which is a bit of an odd choice but somehow works.

• As a parable of the new India, then, Balram’s tale has a distinctly macabre twist. He is not (or not only) an entrepreneur but a roguish criminal with a remarkable capacity for self-justification. Likewise, the background against which he operates is not just a resurgent economy and nation but a landscape of corruption, inequality and poverty. (NYT)

The book shows the contrast between the wealthy and poor and the rising/struggling middle class that characterizes India today. Corruption, class warfare, and national identity are all prevalent themes (this would be a great book club discussion book). Stylistically it’s similar to The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao – quick-talking and clever and accessible.

Adiga is TIME Magazine’s Asia correspondent and clearly knows his stuff when it comes to India and China and the underside of these rapidly growing countries. Through  Balram he exposes the true conditions of glamorous New Delhi’s exploited servants (we drove through shiny high-rise Guargon on our way to Jaipur and heard all about the fabulous malls that you just drive into and never have to leave), and the degree of instituted corruption and bribery.  The White Tiger is Adiga’s debut novel.

• This blog has pictures of the settings mentioned in the book. 
• Here's Aravind Adiga's website. 
• And an interesting interview with Adiga about his choices in writing the book and his responses to criticisms. 

India Part 5: Eating Our Way Through Manali

We left our Manali hotel a little after 6pm. The mountain air was already getting cold so we put on extra layers – an America East Track Championships long-sleeve under my kurta, and a purple sweatshirt in addition to Bridget’s t-shirt and harem pants – basically as homeless-looking as we could get. Somehow when in India that’s ok. 

We walked a few minutes down the street to a concrete shack (is that an oxymoron?) advertising  “Chicken/Veg/Mutton Momos.” We peered in. It looked reasonably semi-ok so we pulled up a bench and sat at a table. A teenage Tibetan-looking boy came from behind the curtain in the back that clearly shielded 3x5 foot “kitchen.” He stood next to our table waiting to hear our order – uh, ok, clearly no menus. 

“One veg momo, one chicken momo?” I asked hopefully.

“No chicken,” he replied, confusing me further since he looked confused at my order.   

“Mutton?” he suggested instead. Alright sure.

I just learned from a Traveler’s Tales collection of short stories that Indian “mutton” is actually goat. This makes sense since we had yet to see any sheep on the subcontinent, but goats were a roadside fixture.

A couple minutes later he returned, plopping down plastic bowls of steamy brothy soup, “Veg and mutton.” 

We looked at each other baffled.  Momos are supposed to be steamed dumplings, a Manali specialty, we’d had them for lunch that afternoon. Again we shrug – sometimes it’s easier to just take what’s given.

As we sipped the broths, full of flavor and dotted with oil, an even smaller boy came over and placed two bowls of dumplings in front of us. Aha! The momos! I poured a dollop of “continental  sauce” on both plates, and a spoonful of the firey-hot chili sauce on one (for me, Bridget doesn’t like it). We dug in, enjoying the light meal, and enjoying it even more when our bill came to 40 rupees, just under one dollar. (Not everything is that cheap in India…but if you eat in dubiously sanitary roadside shacks it is!)

“Welp, that was a good pre-dessert snack,” says Bridget. “Cake time?” Yes.

Since arriving in India I'd noticed a multitude of Indian sweet shops. Back in Goa we bought an assortment of Indian sweets. All lived up to the name – they were incredibly sweet.  And almost as common as sweet shops are bakeries – glass cases filled with fluffy-frosted squares of cake. That was our goal for the evening: a cake tour of Manali.

The first place we went had a promising cake case. We sat inside and ordered two milk-teas, one pineapple, and one chocolate cake. As we waited, old American WWF played on the TV. The cakes, alas, were sorely disappointing. They were dry and stale…super bummer. At least the tea was good. It had a tiny bit less sugar than normal Indian tea, probably 4 spoonfuls instead of 5. We dunked our cake in the tea and plotted our next move.

A few shops down we saw another promising locale: The Honey Café. Before going in we stopped to watch a mass of people slowly making their way up the main street carrying “India Against Corruption” posters. 7:30 pm on a weeknight seems like an odd time to have a rally…but I’m as anti-corruption as the next Indian (less corruption might lead to better roads in Himachal Pradash, a welcome improvement for locals and tourists alike), so I snapped a picture in the dim twilight.

The Honey Café lived up to its name. Bridget ordered a chocolate honey ball (imagine a super-dense and big cakeball drizzled with honey and chocolate sauce), and a honey hot chocolate. 

I got apple pie with butterscotch ice cream. Of course it was drizzled in honey – so sweet and so good! The apples were diced (in American pie they’re usually sliced), and I think there may have been some walnuts and raisins mixed in. The crust was super-light and almost cakey textured.

We sat and chatted as the café filled with Indians and a big group of Asian tourists (maybe Tibetan? Maybe Mongolian?). After our sugar-comas subsided we decided to first go for a walk and then evaluate if we could handle more cake. 

The quite main street of the morning and afternoon was gone – “Hello! Madame! You want to buy? It’s very nice!” came at us from all angles. A polite “no thanks” was always our first response, but the particularly persistent salesmen got the more aggressive “No! I don’t want it! Why would I ever need a crappy toy helicopter???"

Bridget bought a traditional hat for her boyfriend so he could look like Abu (from Aladdin) for Halloween. On our way back one of the many shopkeepers invited us in (“No thanks!”), then laughed, “You know how many times I’ve said hello to you today?”

Probably a lot, we’d walked the main street many times…

“Yes, yes, a lot!” he was still laughing. “See you tomorrow! Goodnight!”

We made the wise choice against more cake and instead headed back to our hotel – 400 rupees a night! Hot water! Big bed! That was some accidental good bargaining on our parts. Indian hotel owners don’t like the idea of their potential guests shopping around for a better deal. After we looked at the room and heard the initial price (600r), we said we wanted cheaper but we might be back. “You leave?  No no! How much you want to pay?” Done. The carpet may have been stained, the TV didn’t work, and Lord knows about the sheets…but that’s where we were sleeping!

TO BE CONTINUED…

Catch up with my previous India posts:

Part 1: From the Streets of Bangalore to the Beaches of Goa

Part 2: Old Goa to the Taj Mahal

Part 3: Hindu Forts and a Morning in Jaipur

Part 4: Worst Bus Ride EVER and Paragliding in the Himalayas

India Part 4: Worst Bus Ride EVER and Paragliding in the Himalayas

India was all about things that go. Through our travels we took almost every kind of transportation the country had to offer: cars, busses, boats, rickshaws, cabs, and pedi-rickshaws. And with all this going, clearly it was only a matter of time before something went horribly ridiculously horrendously wrong.

We boarded an overnight semi-sleeper bus on India’s Independence Day and drove out of Delhi with the backdrop of hundreds of kites flying over the poorest neighborhoods (it’s just like the Kite Runner! On Independence Day they do kite battles!).

The ride to Manali started off smoothly. Mountains relax me, though I’d never seen any quite like India’s: super-steep and bright green all the way up. Even at low elevation the steep edges reminded me of sharp contours of the Eastern Sierras. Power lines sweep across the hills like a giant network of spider webs – Himachal Pradesh (the state) is the main source of hydroelectric power in India. At the bottom of it all ran the rushing brown river, full of recent rains and dirtied by the mud slides that succeeded in making our 15-hour bus ride turn into a 30 hour ordeal.

That’s right – 30 hours. The bus stopped around midnight and we slept unmoving as the monsoon rains poured down outside. Two rockslides blocked the 1-lane road, and a chain of cars, busses, and trucks backed up for miles, snaking around the hills. The next morning we continued to wait, getting out of the bus on occasion to walk around, Bridget desperately searching for a potato-chip vendor (breakfast of champions?). By 3pm, 7 hours after we were supposed to arrive in Manali, we started moving. We passed car-sized boulders on the side of the road – oof, I would not want to be in the way of that slide!

The bus careened around corners and switchbacks, just inches from the edge of the cliffs. I’ve learned that my best line of defense is to look sideways out the window and trust the driver knows what he’s doing.

Around 5pm we stopped again. The road to Manali was blocked by its own series of slides. What are we supposed to do??? The 10 or so bus passengers consulted (bonding through shared adversity?), and decided to hire two cabs to take us on the back roads to our destination. 

The back roads were terrifying but beautiful, even snakier and sketchier than our earlier driving experiences. That part of the trip took 6 hours. Mostly because we stopped all the time for no good reason. We don’t need snacks! Why are we stopping again? What could you possibly be talking about? Get back in the $%&^$* car! I raged quietly in the back seat as Bridget tried to convince me that completely losing it would not be productive.

Finally at 11pm we arrived in Manali, found an over-priced hotel, showered the road-dirt off of ourselves, and went to bed.

The next morning we awoke to fresh mountain air, a small town, and hungry bellies. (We're not sure why there were huge piles of rocks in the middle of the main street.) I wouldn’t want to spend that much time in a bus again…but maybe it was worth it? I want an omelet and a chocolate pancake. And then I want to go paragliding, Bridget insisted. Agreed. After breakfast we were leery of getting into any kind of transportation ever again, but the only way to get to the paragliding was an 18k cab ride up higher into the Himalayas. 

Touristic zeal overtook us and we agreed to yet again get in a car. It was totally worth it. We arrived at one of the few ski resorts in India and were told to walk up the ski hill to do the “short” paraglide (we’re too cheap for the “long” one). So we trudged up the bunny slope and waited our turn at the top. 

Bridget went first, strapping into a harness and then running and jumping off the slope with a guide attached to her back.

Next was my turn. As he fitted my helmet, the guide explained, “You have to run. Don’t just sit. Run and jump, ok?”

No problem! Running and jumping I can do! Though it’s a bit awkward to do so with a weighted sack and another person attached to your back…

We took off  (Nice! Very nice! Nice!” my guide cheered) and floated on the breeze for a couple minutes, freely flying through the mountains. Awesome!

TO BE CONTINUED…

Catch up with my previous India posts:

India Part 1: From the Streets of Bangalore to the Beaches of Goa

India Part 2: Old Goa to the Taj Mahal

Part 3: Hindu Forts and a Morning in Jaipur

India Part 3: Hindu Forts and a Morning in Jaipur

The morning after the Taj, we again piled into Vishaal’s car to head to Jaipur. We arrived in the late afternoon, just in time to make it to one fort: Amber/Amer Fort. From a distance the fort looks like the Great Wall of China, snaking over craggy hills. 

At Vishaal’s insistence we hired a tour guide, who proceeded to not show us the whole fort…until Vishaal made him take us back in (it’s kind of nice to know that Indians get cheated sometimes too).

(Go here to read India Part 1: From the Streets of Bangalore to the Beaches of Goa. And here to read Part 2: Old Goa to the Taj Mahal.)

At 9am the next day, Bridget and I left Vishaal at the hotel to sleep in. “I’m only in India once!” declared Bridget as we told him to take his time and call us when he was ready to meet up later. Outside the hotel we popped our heads into the first bus we saw, “City Palace?” (this is how you get places in India – shout a location at anyone and they will give directions.) “Yes yes!” nodded the driver’s assistant as he waved us on. We couldn’t believe our luck – first try! That was so much easier than expected.

We got off the bus in a semi-deserted market area. The rows of shops under redish/pinkish breezeways (Jaipur is the “Pink City”) were all closed because the market doesn’t open until noon on Sundays. But breakfast, we assumed, would be easy. We wandered up and down streets for what felt like forever, looking for somewhere with a place to sit and the promise of food.

I was about to die of thirst. We made a beeline across the street to what looked like a standard Indian snack bar (huge deep fryers out front, unidentifiable food on display), and were psyched to see there were tables inside. We sat and looked at the menu (what fried delicacy to choose?), but the proprietor came over and explained in a mix of words and gestures that it was still too early for the menu. 

“Tea?” we asked hopefully, “Any food?” Yes-yes, he nodded and came back to show us a deep fried bun-looking thing. “Sure, 2 please!” we ordered. He sat the buns down in front of us, along with two sauces: one spicy and one sweet in the typical Indian tradition. The buns were delicious – like super-thick croissants filled with a mix of lentils and spices. Tea, water, and 60 rupees later were feeling pretty damn pleased with ourselves and ready to take on Jaipur.

Back on the street a young-ish man stopped us to talk. Oh jeez, here we go, I thought, mentally rolling my eyes and wishing he would go away. I could tell Bridget felt the same, but was politer than I. We both softened towards the man when he asked us why foreigners don’t ever want to talk to him, he’s just being friendly. In an attempt to give our race (and by race I mean all foreigners?) a better name, Bridget and I agreed to go somewhere, have some tea, and talk with him for a bit about America.

“Ok, follow me!” he said happily. And we did: down a different street, around a corner, through an alleyway, then into what appeared to be a series of stone courtyards. Bridget looked back at me apprehensible, “I don’t think we should follow him in there…this is weird.” Agreed. The when-in-India motto definitely has its limits.

“Excuse me, where are we going exactly?” I asked.

“Come come! It is just here, somewhere quiet. There are others, don’t worry!” Like lambs to the slaughter we shrugged and followed him around one more corner to take a seat on some stone steps in an alleyway across from a cow munching garbage and a few men chatting on their motorcycles. Kinda weird…but alright.

A man brought our new friend a plastic bag of milky sweet tea which he poured into a couple plastic cups as he started talking. Mostly he wanted to hear about American festivals, “like the Burning Man.” Unfortunately Bridget and I don’t know much about that, so instead we told him about Thanksgiving and Haloween. He was a silly guy and delighted in telling us jokes (How do you get a camel into a refrigerator? You open the door and put him in! How do you get an elephant into a refrigerator? Well, first you have to take the camel out! You’re loading Noah’s Ark, which animal is missing? The elephant! He’s still in the refrigerator!).

He likes talking to foreigners, “There are three things every foreigner has you know. Your Lonely Planet, you know, your Bible; a water bottle; and a plastic bag of toilet paper!” Yup. Check check and check. White people in India…apparently we’re completely predictable and all alike.

After a few cups of tea he asked if we wanted him to show us things, jewelry? Miniature paintings? Rugs? 

Uhoh, here’s the sales pitch, I thought, but allowed myself to be led to a small jewelry shop nearby. I bought a necklace and Bridget bought earrings from the jeweler who sells to buyers in Delhi and insisted he was giving us the “wholesale price for very good friends.”

Then our friend took us to see jewelry makers. We entered a small room to see two men sitting cross-legged on the floor bent intently over strips of silver and a pile of colored stone on their table. They invited us to watch as they expertly fitted the silver around the stones, making perfect casings to be used for pendants, bracelets, and earrings.

“Miniature paintings next?” our guide suggested. Again he led us through the streets (becoming more crowded now) and up some stairs into a small room with mattresses on the floor and walls covered in miniature paintings of everything from Hindu gods to people to tigers. A middle-aged man sat in the middle of it all and introduced himself as the painting instructor. He gave us a demonstration of how he crushes rocks to make the paints, and then brought out stacks and stacks of paintings by him and his students for us to look at. “Not trying to sell you anything, you can just look” he said. We admired the intricate details through a magnifying glass, some of the paintings took 3 weeks to complete! We each bought two. They were kind of expensive ($25 each), but original art is worth it!

We made our excuses and left, thanking the painter profusely. We told our friend that we had to meet Vishaal at the Hawa Mahal at 12:30, so he walked with us part of the way, then turned down a different street, “Ok, I’m going this way. Bye!” And that was that.

His abrupt departure was a little odd, considering most Indians we met insisted on exchanging contact information (name, address, phone, email, facebook), no matter how brief the encounter.

But whatevs, it was a great morning in Jaipur. Bridget was psyched, I was still skeptical (wondering just how much money our friend got from the merchants…was he actually nice? Or just using us?). But we did have fun and liked what we bought, so either way I guess it’s ok.

We saw the Hawa Mahal (Air Palace), which was crowded but fun! There’s 360 windows in the front of the palace, one for each of the wives to look out of.

Then Vishaal met us and we drove up to Nahargarh Fort (Tiger Fort), this one overlooking Jaipur. It was beautiful! 

After meandering through the rooms, we had tea and snacks at a café that felt like it was on top of the world. All around us we saw the city, spreading and sprawling into the distance, and as we sipped tea we imagined ourselves ancient Hindu princesses and prince, surveying our kingdom. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

India Part 2: Old Goa to the Taj Mahal

One morning we went to Old Goa to see the city that used to be as big as London. Goa was colonized by the Portuguese in the 1500s, and didn’t become a part of India until 1987. It has its own distinct language and culture and sense of history, including an affinity for Portuguese-style food and a tendency towards Catholicism.

(Go here to read India Part 1: From the Streets of Bangalore to the Beaches of Goa.)

In Old Goa we saw really old and really big churches. One contained the relics of a saint. That means the saint’s dead body is in a glass box in the church! Apparently every 12 years it’s put on public display for people to touch…a little weird if you ask me, but whatever floats your religious boat!

Desperate for breakfast we stopped by an incredibly sketchy looking roadside “restaurant,” and ordered poori, which are deep fried puffs of dough (imagine a super-duper-thin pita bread, deep fried and puffed up so much that it’s almost round) that come with a spicy dipping sauce and masala veggies and potatoes. I ate more deep fried foods in India than I ever have ever. And I was totally ok with it.

An old man at the table next to us struck up a conversation that continued through our meal and on the bus back to Panaji. He asked our names, where we’re from (USA? Yeah!), and then launched into a semi-intelligible stream of stories, advice, sayings, and musings on life that continued without breaks for the next hour. As we walked out of the restaurant he darted madly into traffic waving his arms and shrieking, “Lights! Lights!” at a passing motorcycle. “Bahhh! Global warming!” he grumbled as we looked on in amused shock, then he jumped back into his monologue somewhere between how high fives pass energy and how native girls used to come to the Goan churches to become nuns but were instead sold into brothels.

That afternoon we went on an epic beach walk (for some reason I can’t see a beach and not walk to the end), collected shells, and refreshed ourselves with coconut milk (they call it coconut water). 

Pawan got on a bus back to Bangalore, and Bridget and I went on a 1-hour “cruise” of the river. It was exactly as ridiculous as an Indian cruise should be. Inside the boat a stage and chairs were set up. The entertainment alternated between traditional Goan music and dancers, and a ridiculously loud DJ’d dance party that all the young people enthusiastically participated in.

Post-cruise Bridget and I got an assortment of Indian sweets for dinner. Indians love their sweets! Shops have glass cases full of an assortment of weird-looking candies, so we pointed "I'll have that one and that one and one of those and one of those," and headed back to our room to indulge. From what I can tell, most are some combination of coconut and sugar and dates and nuts and sweetened condensed milk. The silver foil is super-thin and supposed to be eaten - they believe it makes you smarter. 

The next morning Bridget and I got up early and went to see the real beach (Panaji is on a huge tidal river next to the ocean, so we wanted to go to one of the beaches on the actual Indian Ocean that Goa is known for). We sat on the sand for a bit, then got breakfast (poori again) at a beach-side café. I was thrilled to see that this tourist-catering establishment had a pot of black coffee on the menu (instead of the usual shot-glass sized serving of sugary milk). Delicious.

In the late afternoon we left the beaches of Goa to fly to Delhi, where we were picked up at the airport by our next Indian friend, Vishaal. He represents a very different kind of India than we’d seen so far – the “New India” where kids drive around in BMWs, party at Delhi’s clubs, but then still go home to their parents and plan for arranged marriages. Vishaal was nothing like Pawan, but equally awesome. He took us to Agra the next morning to see the Taj Mahal (pronounced Meh-hel…who knew?).

Bridget, Vishaal, his friend Suvit, and I cruised through the countryside in a nicely air conditioned car, pumping an assortment of hip-hop, pop, house, rock, and the odd Hindi song for good measure. Vishaal was at the wheel, dodging and weaving between people, cars, trucks, busses, bikers, rickshaws, and animals, hand always on the horn, performing the intricate and dangerous dance that defines driving in India.

Unfortunately the cruising didn’t last long. We found ourselves in a series of stop-and-go jams that lasted all the way to Agra and made our 4-hour journey take seven.

We finally arrived, full of masala potato chips (have I mentioned that EVERYTHING in India has masala), and Café Coffee Day snacks (their Starbucks), ready to see the Taj in all its glory…but something didn’t seem quite right. The parking lots were empty, and when we asked the worst was confirmed: the Taj is closed on Fridays.

The situation was so absurdly disappointing it was funny. We laughed, “Are you freaking kidding me????” and looked around like, “What are we supposed to do???”

Our Indian friends worked out a rapid-fire Hindi plan and told us to get into the bicycle-powered rickshaws. Our “driver” (aka a drunk man on a bike) pedaled us around the outside wall of the Taj and deposited us on the riverbank alongside. There our group negotiated a price and carefully climbed onto the wooden deck of a small boat. Two men paddled and poled and we saw the Taj from the unique (if not complete) perspective of the river.

It wasn't too disappointing. Since we’ve never seen the Taj in person, we didn’t fully know what we were missing. And the view from the river was different and beautiful – not many people can say they’ve seen the largest monument to love from a riverboat.

Since the Taj was a bit of a wash, we visited Agra’s fort to supplement our day. India is full of forts! (I had no idea!). Not British ones, but ancient Mughal and Hindu forts. Pretty cool stuff. This fort used to be the capital of India. (More info here.)

Inside the fort, the builder of the Taj was imprisoned by his son for spending too much money. He spent the last years of his life in an ornate tower looking out the window at the great monument he created. That right there is ancient Mughal irony for you!

The fort was huge with many many years of history and rulers and wars. Indian forts are fun because you can really wander around and explore. No American-style stay-behind-the-velvet-ropes here!

We made it back to Delhi by midnight, exhausted and cranky but satisfied with our day.

TO BE CONTINUED…

India Part 1: From the Streets of Bangalore to the Beaches of Goa

India was an amazing mish-mash of all things wonderful and challenging and beautiful and depressing and delicious and disgusting and friendly and terrifying.

I arrived in Bangalore late the night of August 20^th. First things first, Bridget and I were obscenely cheated by the cab driver from the airport…to the tune of about $75!!! We were upset, Bridget especially – should have known better, expensive lesson learned, total bummer. But what’s done is done and the next morning we got up, me  jet-lagged but psyched, Bridget happy to have family visiting and ready to get going on our adventure.

We spent day 1 in Bangalore. First we walked around the market – it was dirty and crowded and exactly what I expected India to be like. My other major travel experiences have been to the poorest countries in West Africa (Niger and Burkina Fasso), so India’s poverty didn’t shock me the way I think it does many Americans.

For breakfast I had my first masala dosa – delish! It’s like a giant crepe but more fried so it’s crispier on the outside. The filling is made of a mix of potatoes and veggies and masala spice (which I quickly learned is THE spice of India – it’s in everything), and the dosa comes with 2 dipping sauces: 1 tomato/veggie based, and the other a mix of coconut and this herb they use that’s kind of like a cross between mint and cilantro.

Bridget got a tea and I ordered a coffee. Both come in shot glass-sized servings and are 45% milk, 50% sugar, and 5% coffee/tea. You get used to it…I resigned myself to an immediate and complete 2 weeks of caffeine withdrawal.

Nearby the market we ran into a random parade. Cool! This was exactly what I expected of India. It was some Hindu festival, and costumed men danced and played loud music (I was quickly learning that everything in India is loud), and boys set off fireworks in the street.

Bangalore is known as the “Garden City,” so next we walked around the central park and saw a flower show and huge old tree.

Lunch was a typical South Indian tali – rice, 3 “gravies”, yogurt, a lentil cracker, and chapatti (a fried flat bread) – served on a banana leaf and eaten with your right hand.

That evening we packed our bags and met Pawan (pronounced Pa-van), who was to accompany us on our first few days of travels. He’s a friend of Bridget’s friend – neither of us was sure about having him come with us, but Bridget had extended the invitation and it was too late to refuse. Turns out Pawan is awesome and down for anything and so much fun. Not to mention a convenient local language speaker and a man. He also gave us some great insights into Indian culture through the 3 days we spent with him.

We loaded our stuff and ourselves into an overnight sleeper bus, a truly amazing way to travel (if you’re like Bridget and able to sleep anywhere…not so good for me). The bus is a row of top and bottom bunks that have curtains for privacy. 


Around 2 am the bus finally pulled over for a rest stop. I shook Bridget awake, “Get up! I have to go to the bathroom and you have to come with me!” I insisted. “Ok ok,” she agreed groggily, “can’t you just hold it like a normal person?” Nope. We got out of the bus, headlamps in hand, and my first step was into a huge muddy puddle. Awwggrraaaahhh. Gross. We walked across the dirt parking lot to the “Ladies” bathroom (all bathrooms in India are labeled “Ladies” and “Gents,” which I find amusingly cute), paid our 10 rupees to the keeper of the bathroom (“Two please!” like taking your date for a ride), and headed in. I’m not a huge fan of squat toilets, but I deal. We piled back on the bus to continue the journey to the coast.


We left Bangalore around 7pm, and arrived in Gokarna 12 hours later, not necessarily well-rested, but functional.  

In Gokarna Pawan helped us hire a rickshaw. As we drove through the jungle, up and over steep hills, overlooking the Indian Ocean, I couldn’t help but think that it must be way better to be a rickshaw driver in Gokarna than in the smoggy and overcrowded streets of Bangalore.

The driver seemed genuinely thrilled to meet us. His joyous horn beep-beeped every time we rounded a corner, warning any other drivers, pedestrians, or animals of our impending presence and right to the road.

After checking in to a guest house on Om Beach (recommended by Lonely Planet, therefore guaranteed to contain like-minded young white travelers), we walked to town.

The small seaside town of Gokarna consisted of one long street lined on either side by surprisingly clean gutters, giving the shacks and moss-covered stone buildings the appearance of being protected by a perpetual 2-foot moat of water so clear you could see little fish darting to and fro.

Gokarna was inhabited by a different-looking kind of Indian.  Pawan explained that they’re Brahmans, the highest priest caste. Brahmans traditionally dress in lungis, no shirt, and a rope and sash across the chest. The street was full of Brahmans, proudly protruding their browned bellies and strutting through the sunny afternoon.

We eventually made our way to the beach, a relatively dirty affair, but exciting nevertheless because it was my first dip into the Indian Ocean. Per usual some random men stealth-took our pictures…until Bridget got fed up and to Pawan’s extreme amusement shouted, “Divy tu hoagie!” at them (I have no idea how to spell that, but it means something along the lines of “leave me alone” in Kanada, the language of Katarnaka state).

For lunch we each ordered the “veg meal,” a large metal platter containing smaller metal dishes: 1 rice, 3 “gravies” (aka watery curries), and yogurt. The feast was topped with 2 chapattis (flat bread, like an oily tortilla), and a crispy lentil cracker that is supposed to be crushed and mixed into the rice/gravies, but I prefer to use like a tortilla chip to scoop food to my mouth. Pawan gave me a brief tutorial in how to tear chapatti with one hand (since only the right hand is for eating): hold it down with the 3^rd and 4^th fingers, pull back on the chapatti with thumb and pointer.

We took a rickshaw back to our guesthouse and proceeded to nap on the beach until a late afternoon monsoon drove us inside. After showering and fending off a white ant attack in our room (damn the cookies!), Bridget and I took our books to the café and ordered a chai and ginger tea. Within minutes of sitting down the restaurant’s speaker system kicked in playing John Denver’s “Puff the Magic Dragon.” Ummm what? Bridget said it reminded her of camp. All I could think of was the sweet smoky odor wafting from one of the white people at the table next to us, and the region’s reputation as a super-hippy hangout.

The next morning our rickshaw driver friend took us to the train station, ripped us off a bit in the process, but did so in such a friendly and charming manner that I guess $10 is a small price to pay for someone getting you to your destination on time. At the station we saw the other white people from our hotel – a girl with a thick accent and braids, an Asian man, and another girl – sitting on the platform with the characteristic white person over-sized bags. (What the hell? They’re following us!)

The train itself was a dingy affair, like a rundown carnival ride. The metal insides and seats were a chipped and rusty green, and the ceiling fans were filthy and unmoving. Luckily we didn’t need them. With the windows open and the train chugging along it was quite pleasant inside.

“Samosa! Veg Puff! Chai! Coffee!” called the vendors as they made their way slowly through the cars. We chit-chatted undisturbed , gazing out the windows at the greenest of green countryside, interrupted by grayish-blue-brown when we passed over a river, or pitch black when we went through a tunnel.

A small shirtless boy crawled up the aisle, sweeping floor and picking up the trash under the seats. He stopped next to Bridget and I to beg. We looked down at our laps, not sure what to do. I never know when to give to beggars – am I encouraging hand-outs?  If I give to one will they all swarm me? How much or how little? – after poking my knew a few times to no avail, the boy moved on. I felt terrible. I knew the minute he moved away that I should have given him some money, and thought that should he come back I definitely would.

The next beggars to come our way garnered no such sympathy. Four men, elaborately dressed as women in brightly colored saris and flowers in their hair, made their way through the train, demanding money from passengers. No way. I had absolutely no qualms about resisting their requests – an able-bodied adult man begging in woman’s clothes? 1) Weird, and 2) Not going to happen. It felt insulting, to both beggars and women. To my surprise Pawan pulled out his wallet and handed the man a 1-rupee coin. After they moved on, Pawan explained that they’re probably not really eunuchs, but if you don’t give them money they’ll flash you. Eunuchs are believed to be good luck in India. People pay to have them at their weddings, but other than that they’re just a nuisance.

We got off the train and found a bus to take us to the bus station that would get us to Panaji (Goa’s capital). Again, the white people from the hotel were there, and this time Bridget struck up a conversation. “So you’re going to Panaji too?” As we rode the bus she got a bit more intel – they’re Germans traveling up India’s west coast towards Bombay. Not going to Panaji, but staying in the area for a couple nights.

We finally made it to Panaji in the late afternoon. Finding a hotel room was a bit of a process – turns out “off season” isn’t as “off” as we’d expected. Eventually, through friends of friends of friends (with a bit of a mob connection thrown in there too), we found a room with two twin beds for 600 rupees a night. Cramped for three, and probably shocking for the hotel owners to see Bridget, me, and Pawan agreeing to share a room, but whatevs. Good enough.

We went to dinner then walked along the wide sidewalk along the beach, soaking in the uniqueness of Goa and the pleasant water-side breeze. It reminded me of an Indian version of an American boardwalk, aka dingier and lined with stray dogs napping on the pavement.

TO BE CONTINUED...


(Go here to read Part 2: Old Goa to the Taj Majal.)