Overthinking Goa

At the end of the day, I think that both political correctness and cultural sensitivity are worthy aspirations but should never and could never be holistically achieved. I approach this conversation in reference to our trip to Goa.

We took a twelve-hour train from Pune to Goa. Like a giant two-dimensional city, the thoroughly blue train (blue exterior, blue doors, blue floors, blue uniforms of attendants, and blue seats) was a truly Indian experience.

Wait, David. That is so not politically correct. The colonial British built the trains to help extract Indian resources and capital to the ports to be sent to the UK. The trains are a legacy of the British, a symbol and stigma of former oppression and colonization. To call it Indian is not only incorrect, but it is offensive. Also, nothing can be called "truly Indian." Judging by the vast differences in how Indians live their lives, nothing really is "truly Indian" and to say that is quite ignorant.

Hold on, Macalester. Let me respond. I agree, the entire notion of one nation called India is a farce and was completely fabricated in reaction to British rule. So India itself is a legacy of colonial rule, and perhaps that is the only thing that truly binds India as a country. Also, to say that trains are not Indian is to say that the English language and western clothing and all forms of modernization are not either. And to do that idealizes “India” and tries to keep a civilization in a museum. And that’s messed up, Mac. Furthermore, the train had people from all walks of life aboard. From single businessmen to beggar children, from families of five to groups of ten young friends, all Indians seemed to use the train, much like the American subway. It is also one of the largest employers in the world. If Indians using railways employed by Indians is not Indian, then I really don’t know what is.

Sorry about that, it's probably not healthy to over-think things questions with no answers. Like continuing to use a toilet that does not flush, it just makes you realize that it is all a big load of crap.

Back to the story, sleeper class divides the train into berths, basically cabins without any door or lock. Each cabin has two benches facing each other and two beds well atop the two. When bedtime arrives, all one needs to do is fold up the back part of the bench and hang it to a chain into what becomes a bed on top another. Puffin, Alayna, Sam and I shared a berth with an Indian family. We conversed a bit in Marathi and a bit in sign language. I got some veg biryani for dinner from a vendor walking the aisles. It was basically spiced rice with veggies and an a oily red gravy full of chilies and cilantro inside an aluminum rectangle. Selling chips, Indian snacks, water, juice, cookies, candy, and dinner, vendors paced the train like the lemonade guy, the beer guy, and the cotton candy guy do at baseball games. There were loads of them, and most did not seem to be affiliated formally with the train. Rather, they must have received rights to sell. I think India has about a billion entrepreneurs.

First, if you do not know this about me already, I loathe the stereotype of India as a magical land to achieve spiritual enlightenment. Then we met them. The find-yourself-in-India westerners. They were three Israeli hippies. Two of them had dreadlocks and the other had a drum. They had been in India traveling for four months now and were headed to Goa, indefinitely.

Don’t get me wrong; the lifestyle of unrestricted travel is highly appealing. Hell, if I could have it my way, I’d do that. And I was not prepared to judge them so negatively until they threw their food out the window along with their water bottle. One guy had a green laser pointer that he pointed at the security guard, just to mess with him. They spoke well of India but knew no Hindi and didn’t really seem to care to know anything about Indian society. They were nice to us, but in the end, I just didn’t like ‘em. I felt like Barry Goldwater. Was I unfair? Perhaps. They were there to enjoy themselves, and they had made a few Indian friends on the train. That’s gotta show some outreach, even if minimal. Perhaps like the Southerners in Easy Rider, I just didn’t like what they represented.

But then again, is study abroad really any “better”? A group of uber-liberal American students coming to learn about the “real India” for a whopping four months, take a class on one local language, do an academic research project, and live with a real-live Indian family? (AH! Is there a way a limousine liberal can go abroad and not feel guilty about it?)

That night I slept quite nicely on my vinyl blue bed, thank you very much. The train rocked me to sleep, though the absence of both pillow and blanket made uninterrupted sleep a challenge. Nevertheless, we arrived in the morning to Goa and I felt rested.

The first thing we did after we checked into the hotel was try some of this feni business. Feni is the local Goan liquor, made from either coconut or cashew. The coconut reminded me of a harsh rum. Right before drinking the cashew feni (straight), a very sour nutty smell hits your nostrils. It almost makes you want to change your mind about trying it. Weirdly enough, the taste is completely different, quite smooth and woody.

The beach was stunning. The only thing that reminded me that we were in India was the sari-clad woman and little girls walking the beach, most of whom were selling necklaces, rings, food, water, etc. Foreigners and Indian men inhabited the rest of the beach. I must say I got a bit of reverse culture shock seeing so many foreigners in Goa. Usually when I see one in Pune I stare and I feel the urge to yell “Hey Whitie!!!” and ask if they miss hamburgers too. But where we were was about 25% foreigners, and I had to remember not to stare.

My beach routine consists of: First, swim in the ocean. Always numero uno. Dive through the waves, jump over them, ride them into the shore, let them fall on you, whatever floats your boat (no pun intended). Second, sun dry while reading until you get hot/bored. Third, repeat steps one and two. The water was bath-warm and clay-brown, while the sand was coal-hot and brown-paper-bag-tan.

For dinner that night, I had fresh prawns in a spicy Indian red sauce and cashew feni. We met up with the rest of the crowd from ACM at Café Mambo’s, the big nightclub in Goa. Unfortunately, the actual famous nightclub, Tito’s, was under construction when we went; however, the same people own Mambo’s. We danced to hip-hop night in a jubilant state. On the perimeter were Indian men, waiting for their lucky chance to get chosen while Indians and foreigners interspersed the donut-shaped dance floor with a loosened demeanor that was worn over their party clothes. The center of the donut was a column encircled by a big table.

The next morning we were sun burnt and drained and decided to skip the beach in favor of sightseeing. We saw Old Goa, the former capital of the Portuguese colony here. However, it was abandoned in the 17^th century because of malaria outbreak. The capital was moved to Panaji, one town over.

Old Goa had three main cathedrals. All were equally grand and baroque. As if the nightlife, the beaches, and the palm trees had not already made me feel like I was in Brazil, then the epic cathedrals did. Each one had large wooden benches below a massive white ceiling. The back walls (a.k.a. the direction of prayer. Do any of the Catholic readers know the proper word for this?) underneath the domes were three distinct and three equally amazing walls. The first was modest in that it was not made of solid gold, but rather, a beautiful burnt-red/brown rock that made the whole place feel Turkish (Note: I don’t know what I’m talking about when I say Turkish.). The second was the quietist but I think had the most beautiful and ornate golden front wall. The third was crowded, but mostly because it had the corpse of old St. Xavier. I did not notice this but apparently you could still see his fingers through the glass, even after hundreds of years inside his massive granite tomb.

We left Old Goa for Panaji, where we took a sunset boat tour of the bay. The boat ride included a dance show that families sat eagerly in the audience to watch. Puffin, Alayna, Sam, Aeesha and I were happy just watching the bay right before both the sun set and a storm hit. Luckily the storm did not hit too hard while we were on the boat. That night I didn’t make it to Mambo’s. Instead I ran into a British guy and a Swede who the other ACM folks met from their hotel. They didn’t go into Mambo’s for the gender discriminated prices (500 Rs./male, 0 Rs./female), and I, separated from the group, followed them to a bar. I met their friends, a frizzy-haired Brit with glasses and an encouraging laugh, a Russian woman living in Dubai with her Indian husband, who was also there. There were others, but they came and went. The evening wore on.

I awoke the next morning worn out.

In the end, I liked Goa because it was pure fun. It is not only an international vacation spot but a domestic one as well. Indians from all over flock to Goa for the same reasons we did, including the risqué stuff. And with its warm Arabian waters striking its beautiful beaches accompanying the century-old Portuguese cathedrals, Goa is the place for westerners to escape the stereotypical Indian travel plans (discover Buddhism in the Himalayas, save the children missionary work, etc.). In fact, Goa seems to overthrow a million and a half different stereotypes about India solely because it is so unique.

Ironically enough, it is also the place where Indian stereotypes of westerners (debauchery, promiscuousness, chauvinism, and what I call the Purell syndrome, which sanitizes local culture to foreign tastes (Examples in India: toilet paper, bottled water, Italian food, etc.).) are wholeheartedly fulfilled. I know I probably fulfilled most of those stereotypes in Goa, and I know I have done so before Goa as well. But at the end of the day, after all is said and done, I needed the vacation and Goa was really great for providing that. A great vacation spot is what has made Goa so popular (and the most developed state in India). I don’t think anybody can tell me that that is a bad thing.

So much of this discussion of politically correct and cultural sensitivity arrived this week from an autobiography we read in my literature class. A very low-caste Marathi man wrote it, and many of us had problems with the writing style (for example, little character development of the protagonist, grotesque stories with no relief, and sometimes repetitive and bland sentence structure). Was it fair when evaluating the book to criticize it? This author overcame so much to be able to write it, and writing it enough was an accomplishment. And it was not all bad, some parts were gripping and provocative. Does criticizing this book aim in the direction of trying to make it more palatable to outsiders, a.k.a. rubbing Purell all over it? On the other hand, could not criticizing its literary merit (it is, after all, a work of literature) just because of the author’s background be seen as condescending? Goa, a place for westerners to basically be westerners, reveals the opposite. Could going to Goa perpetuate the Purell syndrome? On the other hand, wouldn’t it be putting India into a rather patronizing museum display-case to say that Goa is “western” (as Indians vacation there as well)?

Please don’t answer these questions, I have not and will not. Like I said in the beginning, political correctness and cultural sensitivity are grand aspirations that can never be achieved. In the end, both the past and the present reveal cleavages between East and West, between rich and poor, between sobering volunteer work and drunken hedonism. Approaching these differences is never pretty, nor is anybody who thinks too much (like I do) ever completely happy with the process. Going to Goa and reading low-caste literature oppositely reveal a different side of India to me. Study abroad is about opening up a conversation, a sort of getting-to-know-you between peoples. In the end, perhaps it is not what is right or wrong about the interaction but the fact that the interaction is happening. Beyond social context, economic disparity, or political/historical realities, listening to other people and exchanging ideas defines righteous behavior and makes me feel good about being here. And that’s the double truth, Ruth.