Travel Musings

GOA: River Therapy

I'm afraid of canoes, and rightfully so. The last time I canoed was with my family, who poohed-poohed my protestations that it was a bad idea to tackle a swift, flooded, alligator-ridden river in Georgia over a frosty Thanksgiving weekend. Five minutes into the trek my sextugenarian father and I tipped our vessel and the chilly water carried us swiftly downstream until we grasped ahold of a fallen tree. We had no choice but to swim under the tree to reach the bank. I was ready to go, but Dad told me that he couldn't do it. I eventually convinced him that his choices were to do it or drown. He did, and we landed belly-first on shore. We spent the remaining six hours laid-out on an abandoned truck flatbed in a nearby park, shivering in our wet clothes, and hoping that the Deliverance characters who joined us in the clearing to smoke weed, drink, and light fireworks, would not notice us and make us squeel. But I'm not bitter about the experience.

So I really don't WANT to canoe today, but I'm a firm believer in facing fears and obtaining closure. Poor Ullas, my captain -- a 21-year-old Goa native -- has no idea that I don't just want a pleasant ride: I have some serious issues to resolve today.

The river couldn't be any more smooth -- not a ripple in sight -- but I am catatonic. I don't doubt that I could swim to shore if we toppled, but what the hell sort of virus and bacteria and insidious organisms fester and flourish in these waters?

I ask Ullas if snakes ever slither from the water into his boat.

"Not really," he replies.

"It's a yes or no question." He admits that yes, snakes sometime slither into the boat.

Regardless, I calm down within ten minutes, actually pick-up the paddles and row, and eventually enjoy myself. Once again, Poor Ullas: he wants to tell me about the habits of the kingfisher (the bird, not the beer), but I grill him on India: politics, religion, and -- my favorite -- which nationality of tourist is most obnoxious. He doesn't follow politics, he's resolutely Adventist, and the Russians have usurped U.S. citizens in the mosts obnoxious tourist category.

I arrive early on the deck for dinner and order a Kingfisher (the beer, not the bird). Elena shows, joins me in the loungy-area, and we dine together. I have the fresh snapper that I ordered this afternoon and it's some of the best fish I've ever eaten: most, succulent. Although James assured me last night that the staff washes the vegetables in thrice-filtered water, I don't dare indulge in my salad: no tomato is worth the risk of hugging a toilet over the course of my vacation.

Some new faces arrive on the deck: a threesome of Germans who didn't know to order their meals in advance, thereby taxing the kitchen. I've been at CC for only a day, but that doesn't stop me from feeling slightly superior to them for knowing The System.

GOA: Encounters

Rustle. Rustle, rustle. Rustle. WTF? A wild boar tears across the road in a few feet in front of me! I shriek. I continue my walk -- same path as yesterday -- and encounter two more boar along the way. They seem more afraid of me than I of them, so by the third one I'm chasing after him, calling "honey" in hopes that he'll stop and I'll snag that great shot. "Honey" growls at me and I back-off. I'm not a *complete* idiot. I'm only a partial idiot. 

I return to the desserted white church that I admired from afar yesterday, this time creeping all the way up to it and peering tentatively inside. I tug at the door, someone shouts at me, and I bolt. Gathering my wits, I return to the door, which the priest opens for me. He welcomes me in and shows me the Main Churchy Area so that I can photograph the Pulpity Place. It's definitely not subtle, but neither is India, and I love that about this country. He asks me for a donation on my way out and I oblige, kicking myself for not thinking to offer it without prompting.

Back at the ranch I catch-up with Elena at the pool, and share my beast enounters with her. She leaves in a few hours.

I report to the "spa" (a small room off of the pool) for my 11:30 massage with Kim, who James strongly recommended to me when I first arrived. Kim and I agree that it's a one hour massage, she treats me, and at 12:10: we're done. She asks me to sign a blank charge slip. After much debating over the difference between 40 minutes and 60 minutes (I'm not paying for efficiency) she writes-up the charge slip with a 33% discount. They warned me I'd be taken advantage of...

GOA: German/Swedish Invasion

I spend the afternoon poolside with the rest of CC's cast of characters, which now includes a group of Russians. Only...The Germans, who occupy Elena's room, broadcast ABBA's Dancing Queen over and over again. Don't get me wrong -- the song is a classic -- but three hours of it is a little much. On the other hand, the tune has left such an indelible imprint on my brain that from now until forever I'll conjure blissful images of lying in the sun along the Chapora River, reading, and sipping Kingfisher beer, whenever I hear it: which is a not-too-shabby-of-a-memory. Besides, I'm sensing a common bond of irritation/exasperation/glee among us pool-goers with every repetition, which is nice.

After dinner I approach the makeshift kitchen, the staff (boys, really), and the (flirtatious!) (kind of cute!) chef to discuss feni (fenny), a liquor made from either cashew apples or coconuts that originated in Goa. One of the rare non-dire recommendations that I received from some natives of India prior to my departure was to try feni. Underlined and in bold right here in my notes to my myself. Both James and Ullas admitted to not liking it when prompted. The kitchen staff agrees. They pour me a shot of Big Boss brand. Which is funny.

This shit is nasty. Paint remover. But I sip it until I finish it, because I'm here in Goa, and that's what tourists do in Goa, and I need something chemical if I'm ever going to erase this damn disco song from my head.

KOCHI / COCHIN: Getting There

I am running around the Bangalore/Bengaluru (I really don't understand why every city in this country has two names. Is it Bombay or is it Mumbai? Someone please decide) airport desperately in search of a computer and internet access so that I can get online and certify for my unemployment payments. Of course there are none, and it's almost midnight, Tuesday, in Central Standard Time. I have to certify on Tuesday for the past two weeks in order to receive payment. Finally I locate a telephone and punch in my calling card access and PIN a dozen times, and reach the certification line. Only to be told that the hours of operation are limited, and closed. WTF? It's an automated system! We are talking Illinois here, so the computer system is probably represented by some sort of corrupt union. Well, unless I can certify retroactively, there goes $XXX that I could have used. For feni, and massages, and canoe trips.

The Kingfisher inflight magazine cover features Kareena Kapoor, THE Bollywood It Girl. Meh. She's pretty enough, but in a country of one billion people I don't get how she won The Lottery of all Lotteries. There have to be ten-something million or so more attractive than her. She's like India's answer to Jennifer Aniston.

The Bangalore/Bengaluru flight to Kochi/Cochin (again, with the dual names) also affords me the opportunity to read the free India newspapers I snagged in the airport. Reading foreign journals is always such a welcome pastime when I travel: I love reading about what is important to people in other parts of the world and being privvy to their perspective of the U.S. This may be a shock -- shock! -- but I've learned that the reporting in U.S. newspapers is a little biased, a little skewed in our own favor.

The best part of this paper is the Classifieds section, which includes a Change of Name column and a Bridegrooms/Brides Wanted column. From the Change of Name column:

• Nandini Chaudhury is changing (his?) name to Nandini Chowdhury and Sneh Chaudhury is changing her name to Sneh Chowdhury (they are unrelated)
• Mohan Kumar Setty Palya Narayan Swamy Reddy is changing (his?) name to Mohana Galappa Narayan-Swamy Reddy
• Prasad Venkataramanappa is changing his name to Shive Prasad Venkataramanappa because Prasad Venkataramanappa isn't long enough

And the Spouse Wanted section. That's even better! Common descriptors for those placing advertisements include religion/caste (the headliner in bold), age, height, skin color (wheatish, wheatish brown, fair are mention-worthy) and education/occupation (women, too). So fascinating!

-- Mitzy Li/Mitzi Lee

FORT COCHIN: Feeling At Home

I booked my transfer from the Cochin/Kochi airport to Fort Cochin/Fort Kochi through my hotel, Old Harbour, for 1,200 Rupees. My underage driver meets me outside of Arrivals with a sign bearing my name, and escorts me to his crappy car (I long to be chauffered in one of those classy, beetle-like British Ambassador cars that are everywhere in this city). Driver attempts to engage me in conversation with a prattle of questions, which is fine for a little while, irksome after ten minutes, and downright irritating after a half hour. Not only can we not understand each others' accents, we can't hear each other over his incessant honking. And lastly, I do not feel the need to explain (when asked) to an uneducated boy of 20 from an opposite culture who I've just met why I am not married. Just. Drive. 

I found Old Harbour through i-escape (and it's number one of 116 hotels in the area on Tripadvisor) and booked a Garden View Room directly through the property (instead of paying the i-escape upcharge) for 9,300 Rupees.

There's no carrying your own bags in India. The 'Zillos and I are escorted to my room. I like it! the space is simple, but...harmonious? The front window overlooks the pool and patio, which is bustling with late-lunchers. My bedroom opens up onto a small courtyard blessed by a cross-legged deity. Lots of natural light. Best of all, the shower is situated off of the bathroom, outdoors (and surrounded by a wall for privacy). I'm definitely picking-up a Feng-Shui, Zennish type of vibe from this place.

I unpack my toiletries, place each 'Zillo in a hefty, plus-size garbage bag purchased at Home Depot, and knot it at the top. I realize that my actions are borderline obsessive-compulsive, but I've read too many articles about bed bugs recently that I'm just not taking any chances. Slightly paranoid, yes, but that's how I roll.