Gokarna

I had one more beach-side stop to make before my descent into Kerala: Gokarna. Specifically, Om beach. This is a popular place for the real budget conscious India beach enjoyers, and by that I mean Israelis, and it lies just south of Goa in Karnataka. I had already tired of the steamy hot Route 66 and was happy to divert onto some smaller roads to reach Gokarna. I had to do a little navigating to reach Om, as there were no tarmac roads too access, and ended up trespassing through a property to get to the beach. This property ended up being where I would stay and also where I met my best friend at Gokarna, a 27 year old British woman. Om beach, despite its outsize population of young Israelis who I tried my best to avoid which was comically difficult for such a small place, quickly became my favorite beach place which maybe says more bad things about Goa than good things about Om beach. It really was a chill place. Chill vibes abounded. It was a sleepy place and no one was in a rush. It seemed like land owners had just casually set up little cafes and restaurants on the ocean front and very few tourists were seen, some Indians came on the weekend as it was a religious site but otherwise we white folk had the whole place to ourselves. And I hate to say it, but that was kind of nice. Yeah, I know, Ive sort of become a colonist. It’s weird but this is how India works. People end up going to great lengths in order to seek out places where they see fewer Indians and more foreigners, and by foreigners I mean white people. Yeah, it’s problematic. Obviously no one minds some Indians, like the wealthy westernized cool Indians, but people generally fear and loathe the large groups of young Indian boys with their big hair flowing taking their corny vanity videos and possibly harassing  foreign women or at least begging them unceremoniously for selfies. Most travelers come with good intentions but quickly tire of these intrusive personalities and seek out foreigner-dominant oases lest they water the seeds of their racist ideology. I’m among the privileged few who has had the opportunity to experience the love and hospitality of real Indians in real Indian places, not the annoying ones that mass around touristy areas. People say “India” is exhausting, but they mean to say “Indians”. The British girl and I became fast friends. At first there was a subtle sexual tension between us, but this went away quickly at least for me. She was perma-travelling and doing the girl boss hustle with “vintage” clothes she resold online. She bragged about finding garments for mere pennies and selling them for over 100 pounds in some cases. All this, she did with the dutiful assistance of her mother back in England, who handled postage and packing. She supplemented this inconsistent source of income with some online teaching work here and there. Overall, it seemed like she was kind of directionless. She’d gone to Cambridge which stuck out for me because I don’t meet that many people doing this sort of lifestyle who went to elite institutions like Cambridge, but she implied that she didn’t really belong there and had kind of gamed the system. She seemed irresponsible with money and didn’t have a whole lot left of it, but it didn’t really bother her much. On her face, you could see the scars left by one heart break too many and the residual scorn towards men replacing what once was a belief in romantic love. Her father had recently passed, adding to her quiet despondence. She shared my weak spot for sweets and we scoured the beach looking for a place that made a good Hello to the Queen and never really had luck but the fun was in the search. We spent a lot of time making fun of people together and though I enjoyed her company she did remind me of a negative old part of myself that used to flourish in New York at the expense of others. But there was good too. Walking barefoot under the stars and laughing about the absurdities of life. Swimming naked amongst the bioluminescent plankton. Fearlessly approaching groups of strangers and singing with them and swapping tales of our adventures. Drinking big cups of chai and fresh fruit juice under the cool shade while the midday sun poured down. She was a good soul and though she doesn’t have instagram and won’t read this blog I wish her well. Perhaps I’ll remember to message her on whatsapp one of these days and check in. I prefer it when people have instagram because that way I’m reminded of their existence without having to go out of my way.

I met quite the cast of funny characters at that beach. Apart from the Israelis, who I avoided, there was the inescapable presence of an old group of hippies who had “discovered” this place decades ago and now enjoyed coming over to younger travelers and telling them about how much it had changed. I’ve found this everywhere in India, and in fact everywhere in my life. Old people are always telling me I’ve arrived places too late: In New York when everything was affordable and artists flourished, out west before all the development when the land was raw and wild, everywhere I travel I get there too late. It’s apparent that I just arrived on this planet at a bad time. I get it. Stop rubbing it in, boomers. One of these characters was a London man who was really just awful in the most amusing way. He was a short lonely man with a pot belly and a cockney London accent. He spent his days wandering shirtlessly, searching for young folks to latch on to and then he’d never shut up. He loved to regale us with stories of him punching people for relatively minor offenses and kept stressing that violence was always the answer. He bragged of his exploits living in America, where his accent supposedly assisted him in lots of sex. There was very little attractive about this man. Bragging about his former physique, he told us he used to be able to do a one-legged squat. I showed him that I could do one and he told me his was way better. Another man, who was a true hippie, came up on us when were enjoying a quiet night by the fire and unloaded an hours worth of nonsensical ramblings, which he prefaced by telling us he was high. I hate little more than old men who love to hear themselves talk. Then I have to spend all my time nodding and trying to choose the correct words to jam into the few small gaps left by their indulgent monologues. The world will cry tears of joy when the boomers finally whither away. We met a group of folks that had been to a “rainbow gathering” which is some sort of month long hippie fest that sounds plain awful to me. One of them was alright, a young British jewish guy who was amazing at guitar and knew all the old folk songs that I liked so we did a fair bit of campfire singing together. The water was bioluminescent at night before the moon rose and skinny dipping was an immense pleasure that succeeded in bringing back the old childlike sense of wonder I always seem to be chasing, however temporarily. 

Gokarna was a hole to get stuck in. Just like when you have trouble getting out of bed in the morning, I had to force myself out. I walked my English friend into town because she needed to take out money at an ATM and I cycled to a ferry port. It was too late for a boat so I set up camp on the beach for the night.