Goa

I was all set to go to Mysore. I had debated long and hard. Mysore or Goa. I wanted to continue down the spiritual path, and I knew Goa would have little to offer in that realm, whereas Mysore had Ashtanga yoga and would be a faster more direct route to Kerala, where I dreamed of spending more time with yoga and spirituality. But the devil has many disguises, and on that day it chose my dear Rob. Rob is a bit of a flake. I wanted to see him before I left but he’d gone without me to get coffee with a Swiss girl that I believe he was fixated on. So he asked me to stop by on my way, even though it was the opposite direction. Fine. Anything for Rob. I sat down with him and the Swiss girl and he told me all the reasons I should go to Goa. It’s really not as bad as I think. The food is great. The beach man. The beach! But I’m not a beach guy. I know that about myself. I’m a mountain guy. It’s always been that way. But I listened to him. He convinced me. I knew I had to at least see Goa. Really just for the sake of better knowing India, this was a quintessential place to discover. Mysore, not so much. I’ll go back one day for Mysore. So in a split second I changed my mind and set out west to Goa. 

The first day I started late and cycled well into the night. But I was so happy to be moving on two wheels again and out on the road in the spookiness of night. I had chai at 8pm and I slept underneath towering wind turbines. What a life. The next day I worked at it from sun up to sun down and made well over 100kms. I was flying to Goa. It was the simple life I missed. Wake up. Bike. Eat. Bike. Chai and read. Bike. Sleep. And sleep well at that. Wake up and do it again. Yes please. In the elevated arid plateau before the ghats, the weather continued to be agreeable. But I knew what was waiting for me on the other side. But like a good novel, I foolishly devoured those last kilometers of cool air, not realizing I’d never experience it again on the sweet subcontinent. On the second night I had already reached the far foothills of the ghats. I slept between two brush fires and a train, so the night started a little restless but eventually I put the dangers aside and drifted away. 

The next day I climbed up the ghats. It wasn’t too crazy, compared to when I climbed up from the other side, as I was already starting from a high position. The only thing that bugged me was, as usual, saddle sores and rashes. These are the little uncontrollable forces keeping me from a professional cycling career I’m sure, because physically I feel quite capable. By evening I was descending into hot steamy Goa. I had my first Goan fish thali as soon as I could and wearily cycled another 15km or so to a larger town where I could find a cheap hotel for the night. I made it to Goa. 

In the small town I arrived in, I had my first Gadbad, a late night stoner creation featuring 3 flavors of ice cream peppered generously with candy, dried fruits, and seemingly whatever was on hand at the time. It was simply delicious and rare was the day that passed where I didn’t treat myself to one. The next day I powered through to Panjim, through a lovely old path that took me back in time as I gazed at grand Portuguese churches and dazzling tiled roof homes with bright and bold facades. This, alone, affirmed my decision to include Goa in the itinerary.

Goa wasn’t as bad as I feared, but not as great as I dared hope. Despite bing just a 100km slice of an enormous country, it contains a multitude of microcosms mere kilometers apart. Stoner burnouts, Indian gambling addicts and alcoholics, spiritual yoga hippies, surfers, Israelis and Russians are all coexisting and forming their own modern colonies on whichever strip of waterfront they happen to have established demographic majorities. The first place I arrived was perhaps the most lovely, or at any rate the most authentic and probably the only place I’d choose to spend time were I to return. Panjim, the capital. Here, l felt that I could be in Portugal. It made me realize how deprived I was of, well, nice-looking stuff. The old churches and colorful tiled roof homes filled me with excitement and enchanted me. I sort of felt bad that I couldn’t find anything like this in the real India. It seems Europeans have always been more focused on improving the material beauty of their surroundings, while Indians seem quite content with the spiritual. Unless it’s temples, then they put in a bit more effort. Maybe I’m a materialist after all because I can’t help but feel happy when in the midst of European city design and architecture. It’s kind of funny how a lot of tourists in India end up gravitating towards the things that were built by order and design of the British or Dutch or French or Portuguese, even the Taj Mahal and other great landmarks in North India were built by muslim Mughal conquerors. Hampi and a few temples are all the majesty I’ve observed from the Hindu culture. But the culture itself and food and spirituality they left behind, those impermanent immaterial things, those are greater than any structure. I can gaze at the Notre Dame all I want, but it will do nothing to better my life. Still, it beats looking at the dirty thick chaos of literally anywhere in India. So yes, I guiltily enjoyed Panjim because it felt like an Iberian colonial town: It had coffee, wifi, delicious food including pasteless de nata and a variety of empanidiñas. I met an American from California at a cafe I was working in and he saved my skin by telling me about an app that would allow me to pay for things with my phone, which is what most Indians do but is restricted from foreigners. This was the perfect solution to my missing ATM card woes. I got dinner with him and an Indian friend of his that night, sampling several Goan fish curries. After a few days in this little paradise I knew I had to start checking off the boxes of Goa. I would start in North Goa, which I was expecting to despise, and then make my way to South Goa, which I expected to despise less. I was right on both counts. North Goa was… exactly what I thought it would be. I’m already at a disadvantage because I don’t like beaches. But man. Goa is really overhyped. I stayed in a relatively quiet town called Mandrem, just south of the cesspool known as Arambol. In Mandrem I reunited with a French Indian guy that I had met in a cafe in Mumbai (yes cafes are where I meet people these days). I had actually randomly seen his stories on Instagram and planned to meet him despit totally forgotting who he was until I saw him again. This happens a lot in India. I’ve accumulated so many instagrams and whatsapps that I really just forget the faces they’re attached to. But it all works out in the end. 

The hostel at Mandrem was a fine vibe. It was a place Robert had recommended as well. I think his experience was dramatically improved because he met a Spanish lover during his stay. I looked around and sadly there were no Spanish women for me. I didn’t have much to do. I mostly just worked from various beach side locations which were both overpriced and heavily saturated with Russians. Yes, Russians, a race I had not yet come across in my travels in India but here they were everywhere and I felt I was summering in Sebastopol. You can tell a Russian immediately. You think you’ve seen white people and then you see Russians, who actually have zero melanin, plus hair nearly as fair as their skin and piercing blue eyes. But not in an attractive way. They have the thin lips of fetal alcohol syndrome and the men have an air of profound stupidity paired with exaggerated masculinity and a grotesque physical largeness but not in a strong or intimidating way just in a taking up space kind of way. How this population gave birth to the likes of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky is a mystery to me, I can only conclude that what few attractive intelligent Russians did exist were systematically slaughtered or sterilized during the protracted communist cleansing campaigns of the 20th century. It’s sad to think what Russia could have been if they’d properly nurtured their talent. But that’s why the US is on top and ruskis are just sad and angry all the time. It was weird sitting next to people on vacation knowing that our countries are waging proxy wars on each other at the expense of Ukraine. Is this really my mortal enemy? These dejected looking slavs, who seem so irritable and sad to be on vacation, their children running around stark naked, their wives harassing them, ordering the full English breakfast with their thickly accented and rarely used English, between long drags of cigarettes meant more to shorten their miserable lives than to provide any sort of joy. The Tsar would be ashamed to see what’s become of the aristocracy. One shouldn’t pity their mortal enemy, but what else can I do? Their facial bone structure is unmistakably contorted to reflect a permanent state of cynical despair. Perhaps this is the legacy of Vodka? The women are attractive. At least in their youth, but unfortunately time hits them fast and fatally, completely erasing what was once staggering beauty and replacing it with the thick lines, rounded waists, sagging breasts, and bent over posture of an old babushka at the age of 40. They should all get on horses and take back to the steppe, find something of the old conquering passion that once defined their peoples.  

I didn’t have any desire to stay long in North Goa. I did befriend a few people at the hostel but they were kind of sketchy. For example, one Chilean couple was super friendly with me but then before I knew it they were trying to sell me some kind of spiritual ice bath baloney which I thought at first was just going to be a fun activity but then realized it was kind of their little business and I was just a mark. No thank you. One day I was persuaded by my friend to accompany him and others for a stroll through Arambol, the hippie colony. Why not? I had work to do but I’d just find a place over there. It was oppressively hot that day, just like all the other miserable days. People usually go to the beach to beat the heat, but that doesn’t work in Goa. There’s hardly a breeze and the water itself is hot too. It really baffles me why people like it here. There definitely seem to be a lot of opportunities to do drugs and dance to shitty electronic music, and so it follows that getting laid would also be a viable pursuit here, but to me it’s really just not worth it. There are so many more pleasant parts of the world to engage in such trivial pursuits. Anyway, Arambol was like the epicenter of expired sad hippie drug culture. Here I could really see with clarity how dead and old this particular sect was, clinging on to the past like a bald man dutifully combing the last few strands of hair left him. I don’t know what is still sustaining these hippies, or how they haven’t yet been lobotomized by their psychotropic excess, but here they are, some of the last of their ilk, wandering around like zombies that never left the 90s. These old farts are joined by confused Israelis and euro trash who also decided in their adolescence to make cannabis the entirety of their personality. I’m starting to understand why our parents didn’t want us to toke on ganjas when we were young and I deeply regret the eagerness with which I sought the stuff out. Only by God’s grace did I avoid this ill fate. I don’t want to spend too much time disparaging these people. It should be said they are harmless and most have good intentions, so that puts them a tiny step above the Russians. But I think it strikes me as particularly sad because there once was a time where I idolized these types of folks and aligned with them in many ways. I feel so distant from them now, now that I’ve seen their reality, and I’ve pierced through the smokey veil of their branding to see them as they are: pathetic, indulgent, and cognitively impaired. These guys really are the residue of society, squeezing the last bit of juice from the few intact brain cells left them, taking advantage of their comparative privilege and wealth, in order to spend the remainder of their years rotting away in this dusty hot colony on the western Indian shore. Poor souls. 

After perusing the generic wares in the generic stores and the generic cafes and being put in quite a low mood from the sun and the misery that surrounded me I resolved to walk back to Mandrem via the beach, passing scores of jolly young Indian tourists impervious to the deadly sun which was crisping my skin. I was happy to arrive back in my quiet hamlet with my oblivious Russians who I now saw as my simple serfs, insulating me from the evils of the hippies. It was time to get out of North Goa. I had done my due diligence and seen the thing, stared deep into its abyss, and now it was time to go. I cycled in the evening to avoid the heat and made a pitstop in Anjuna, an Indian party town. Luckily, the hostel wasn’t close to any parties and despite being full of Indians had a privacy curtain so I slept well that night. The next day was a big one: I cycled through Goa all the way to the south. I figured I wouldn’t make it to Palolem so as the sun began to set I hunted for a quiet little beach in the cliffy areas to set up camp for the night. I found a spot on google maps that looked pretty cool, a place called Cabo de Rama. It was a ways off the road and I had to go up a big hill, then down, then up again. I found myself on a rocky roadless plateau that dropped steeply with little indication of where to go next. In the black of night, I passed a lone hotel and started ambling in the direction I suspected might have a trail down to the beach, but then what sounded like a large gang of dogs barked at me to keep away, and sure enough my headlamp uncovered too many pairs of angry eyes glowering at me in the void. This succeeded in putting fear into my heart and I despaired that I wouldn’t find my destination. I retreated to the hotel I had passed earlier and kvetched miserably about my scenario to the staff, as though I were lodging a complaint to them for allowing dogs to exist in a place where I should like to camp. I thought they’d just laugh and send me on my way, but instead two fellows accompanied me and showed me how if I just ignore the dogs they’ll do nothing. They took me to the end of the cliff where stairs went down to the sand. Lot’s of stairs. After thanking them I lifted my bike all the way down and finally made it to sand. It was an exhausting way to end an already exhausting day. The beach wasn’t exactly as I’d dreamt. There was another luxury type resort by the water, and another pack of angry dogs who I successfully ignored as I set my tent up. The moon shone bright and the waves lulled my tired bones to sleep. In the morning I found the dogs laying by my tent as though guarding it, I suppose we’d somehow made friends throughout the night. I packed up, not looking forward to the steps up and the hills that lay before me but very much looking forward to doing an easy 20km day before finding some beach-side lodging and other creature comforts. It really doesn’t take long before you long for that decadent yoke of civilization from which you so eagerly escaped moments ago. I also had plans to meet an Italian friend from Hampi who’d been hanging out in Gokarna, it would be pleasant to see a familiar face. After a bit of climbing and some fun downhills on dirt roads I arrived in Agonda, a sleepier town with a higher price tag for yoga spiritual types. The difference between these folks and the northern folks is drugs, this is more of a sober and clean lifestyle sort of place. I had my breakfast at a vegan spot that was highly regarded. It was packed but I shared a table with a nice group of Europeans who were there for a wedding and had done some kind of yoga retreat together. They were refreshing, just regular run of the mill urban professionals, something that felt like a novelty after the grime I’d swam through in North Goa. I did, however, suffer a small perturbation. I had ordered a smoothie and then the guy came out and asked if I was sure I didn’t want a bowl. The bowl was more expensive, I said no I’m fine with a smoothie. Then he began to enumerate all the reasons a bowl would make me happy. I gave in and said fine whatever, I didn’t have it in me to fight for this. He came out 4 seconds later with the bowl. It became clear to me in that moment that they had simply messed up the order and instead of admitting it manipulated me into ordering what they made, which I thought was funny and I laughed and teased the waiter about it. When it came time to pay I sort of hinted at what had happened and joked that I shouldn’t have to pay for the bowl rate and the guys thought I was trying to make a big deal out of it and got defensive immediately in not such a cute way. I told them I was only joking and he told me he “didn’t have time for jokes”. You’re on holiday, not me”. I can’t say I’ve ever had an interaction like this in India before. It was very American. Indians don’t have that mindset usually. It was probably a result of having to deal with the petty trivialities of making foreigners happy all the time, that will cause anyone stress. Anyway it left a bad taste in my mouth. Smoothie bowl wasn’t even that great. 

I left Agonda’s weird vibes post haste and in short order alighted in the more welcoming Palolem. I found a chill-vibed hostel a bit of a hike from the beach which was fine as I have a two wheels go fast device. I quickly met some fine folk and knew I was in a good spot. For the fist time in Goa I felt at home. I met my friend at the shore and we hung out. We watched the sun set, talked, and I accompanied her back to find some dinner. It was almost romantic. She had failed to mention she had some kind of breathing workshop she was attending and by the time food arrived, and I had ordered a feast, she had to leave. I was alone to eat an entire fish and two curries with some naan. I did it. Tragically, I had just started making solids on the toilet again and this culinary indulgence liquidated my assets once more. Still, I’d do it again. What a meal. I stayed a few days in Palolem. I had work to do and it wasn’t a bad place to rest my head. There were some noisy Indians the first night in the hostel. A German got angry at them on my behalf. At night they did as they do and came in at 2am turning on the lights and talking loudly. The German got into a hostile exchange with them, ending with him asking if all Indians were this stupid. This didn’t sit right with me, but I was glad that it ended and that someone had the balls to say something about it. After that the hostel people made sure to separate the foreigners from Indians and I slept well. Just some cultural differences. They also tend to snore loudly. All I’m saying, is if I had to have a roommate again in life, I’d be sure not to choose an Indian. Love them, can’t sleep near them. I fell in with some folks from the UK and we went to a little hostel party. I met two young Norwegian girls, some trashy Brits, a Swede, a handful of Israelis, and a bunch of other fun folks. We danced a bit, then the Indian hostel guys tried corralling us to some club closer to Agonda. People reluctantly went and I cycled there, only to realize I didn’t want to be there and cycled right back. Basically your typical night in New York, where I’m perfectly happy at the pregame but people for some reason want to go to a club or other loud place even though we all know it’s going to suck and I arrive and find any reason I can not to go in or Irish goodbye immediately, this time it was because there was a cover and you know I wasn’t going to pay that. Last time I went out in New York they didn’t let me in because I had a tennis racket in my bag. Tennis is such a great hobby, with benefits on and off the court. 

Still, Palolem was good to me. I enjoyed having a consistent social group which doesn’t happen often in India, a place that I’ve mostly learned to rely on myself and be on my own. I actually had people I looked forward to seeing. I met another American cyclist who was a wildland fire figher in Washington, a few lovely British folks, the two Norwegian girls stuck around, one Scottish girl who got mad at me for making too many sex jokes, and a hilarious Indian guy who lives in Germany who was the person actually making all the sex jokes and I was just matching his energy.

Although it provided some temporary comfort, Goa didn’t add much to my life, and when the time came I was happy to put the place behind me. I didn’t regret visiting. I ate good food, including a delicious pork vindaloo, and met fine folks. Still, as far as spiritual advancement goes it set me back just as I had predicted it would. And I was tired. I decided I’d stay the coastal route. Not because I wanted to, but out of a sort of shoulder slumped resignation to the brutality of the heat, a nod to convenience. There’s no way I was going over those ghats again to Mysore. It was a sad realization, knowing the big climbs and adventures were behind me. The coast would be hot and populous and there wouldn’t be small meandering roads. That India was over. At this point, it felt like I was just cycling because I had to. There was no joy or novelty to be found on these roads, just getting through it, to find something nice in Kerala.