Today was a classic example of how a day is spent here. We had
arrange to rent a motorbike to ride to the Saturday night market and
explore some of Goa. Planned to leave around 1pm, after Casi’s
belly-dancing class. Well, at the last minute, the price got jacked up
from 120 rupees to 150. That’s a difference of about 0.50 euros, but I
balked on principle. I hate the last-minute price adjustment scam. So
we went to see if Phil, the owner of Surf Club, who Casi is treating
for a seriously infected ankle, could arrange a bike for us.
Phil is missing several teeth and even with them, he’d be hard
to understand. Some strange Bristol accent married to a very English
dental situation. We think he said he would work it out for us. So we
waited around. Phil’s place is currently overrun with hard-smoking,
hard-drinking Russians. They seem to have something to do with the
underground club scene in Moscow. There are others who are filming a
documentary. In any case, joints were thrusting every which way. Then
we think he invited us to join him for lunch (his restaurant). So we
waited. By the time some food arrived, it was close to 4pm. Still no
bike. Still not sure what’s going on, though it seems Phil has
explained it several times, so we’re hesitant to ask again. But it’s
like being a dog listening to someone try to communicate. Just
gestures and tones get through. Oh, and in this case, a fair bit of
curry comes through as well. The missing teeth up front leave gaps
through which stream impressive chunks of food along with the
incomprehensible words.
On a serious note, Phil’s infection had been festering in the
tropical heat for about a month when Casi more or less demanded to
take a look at it. He’s a bit oblivious to his own physical state,
obviously. Had Casi not arrived and taken charge, the infection would
have led to very serious complications, probably including amputation,
within a few weeks. Although Phil is the kind of guy who would be at
home on a peg-leg, I hear they’re a bitch to maneuver in the sand.
He’d probably end up with a snowshoe on the thing.
Still no more food. Getting close to sunset when a couple of
friends come by and ask what’s happening. Rather than try to explain,
we go with them to watch the sunset and get some food on the beach.
Sun sets. No bike. It’s dark. Too late to leave for the night market
anyway (second week we’ve missed it). Go home, take shower, etc.
Rinse, repeat.
The yoga situation is funny. We had signed up for a 5 day
course, but our teacher lost his mind on the 3rd
day. He got into a dispute with the owners of the land about whether
or not they had the right to build a hut on the beach (their beach),
and he proceeded to throw a full-scale tantrum in their restaurant –
insulting and screaming like a deranged lunatic. After they called his
bluff and told him to close his yoga school and leave the land that
afternoon, he begged repeatedly for mercy. They finally relented and
told him to apologize to all of his students for having involved us
(he had asked us not to patronize their restaurant until they
relented). The whole thing was so absurd and pathetic that Casi and I
decided we couldn’t waste any more time with this idiot, and demanded
a refund. After some struggle, he finally gave in and we left the
class. Now, we’re known as the yoga rebels on the beach.
After thinking it over for a couple of days, I
wrote the teacher a letter, offering the insights of a psychologist
into his situation. I’ll include it in a future email if you want to
read it (5 pages). He made a few cracks in class about how psychology
is such a blunt instrument, compared to the ageless wisdom of the
yogis, so I really couldn’t resist. Worst case, I never hear from him.
Best case, I end up doing psychotherapy with a yogi in Goa. That would
make for a good story!
Some of you will be pleased to learn that the
ugly American has been replaced by the ugly, aggressive, insulting,
arrogant Israeli. They are very unpopular, all over Asia. The locals
detest them, as they seem to cheat and leave their rooms trashed, like
rock stars. Anything that takes the focus off us is OK by me.
Another thing I’ve learned here is that I dislike
trance music intensely. In fact, I’ve concluded that this may be the
first music ever that has absolutely no artistic value at all. I don’t
say that merely to be insulting, but to call attention to the fact
that it is produced by machines, and thus has no performance value,
and appears to be communicating nothing at all in terms of narrative
or emotion. It’s just a consistent beat. On and on. Not even a groove.
Just an electronic beat. Casi calls it ritualized emptiness.
Dancing seems to require that one either make
ridiculous hand gestures or shift from foot to foot, like a dancing
gorilla.
And it gives me a headache.
