Slow Goan

We spend five long, lazy days at the beach in Ashwen, bathing in sunshine and the warm ocean. I slather on coconut oil and bask, usually while dreaming, sleeping, or reading. There is nothing to do, nowhere to go, enabling me to thoroughly enjoy each moment. This is the first time in my life I go topless while tanning, shedding my self-consciousness like the layers of my clothes. I have no worry about how I look, for I feel fully free and self-accepting in all my full glory. There is no creepy stares or inappropriate gestures like I expect; rather, most of the other women on the beach are also without bikini tops. It seems that on this side of the world, females are more comfortable with their bodies and significantly less inhibited. I am reminded of girls from the gym, in the locker room hiding behind tiny white towels, so afraid and ashamed of their beautiful bodies, terrified of being seen. I do not want to live in hiding anymore. I taste for those few fleeting minutes, the pleasure of loving and accepting myself, without the burden of nagging, judging self-consciousness.

A ubiquitous aspect of our beach experience is the countless, persistent, brightly dressed beach vendors carrying bundles of sarongs, dresses, cover-ups, and beaded jewelry. At first, they befriend me, asking about my American life, and my naivety fails to allow me to see that this is a ploy to sucker me in and profit from my friendliness. From one older woman, I receive a pedicure, deep plum with sparkling rhinestones. I purchase three sarongs from another young girl. Word spreads that I am a good customer and soon I am surrounded by a group of desperately pleading girls enticing me with good deals and prices. My bouts of relaxation are challenged as I feel my patience begin to lessen. I nicely tell them to leave repeatedly, but they refuse to unless I promise to buy something later. My desire to be nice gets me in a mess of competing women. I sneak back to the hotel anytime I see them coming, leaving Sebastian to deal with the crazied sand hagglers.

On our first day, we find an outdoor restaurant, Paradise, located directly in front of the water’s edge, where we dine daily. The menu is extensive, ranging from fresh seafood caught that morning to pancakes stuffed with chocolate and cream. I am pleased to find oatmeal, commonly called porridge, for I have not eaten it since my last morning back in New York. Of course I order it, adding coconut shavings and sweet bananas for a little Indian flair. Sebastian tries a new entrée everyday, the most memorable being a huge rockfish he selects from a display of the day’s catch. Grilled Tandoori style with an abundance of spicy flavor, we literally taste the freshness seeping through the tender white meat.

We meet Mudina, an owner of a small shop next to the Paradise Restaurant, selling beach clothes and seashell jewelry. I soon learn that she is also a henna artist and I excitedly request her services to decorate my right hand. I ask for an original piece, something she has never done before and not found in one of her sample books. A bit troubled at first, she begins dipping a skinny wooden stick into a cap of jet black ink. Starting with the Om sign, Mudina creates a beautiful pattern of coiled, spiraling lines and blossoming flowers. Her hand is steady, her eyes focused, her creativity transferring onto my palm. I sit relaxed, sipping a cold glass of Sangria, watching the sun sink lower into the horizon, reminded once again of the essence of India. I love the look of my hand so much that I opt for another design, this time on my right foot. She draws a similar pattern, beginning from just below my ankle, spiraling down in two directions, one towards my big toe and the other curving around my outer bone. It looks authentically beautiful, and feel myself further transform into an Indian princess.





On Friday night, we take a drive to Arambol, a beach on the edge of northern Goa and a last remaining stronghold for the aging hippie population. Much different from Anjuna, these are authentic hippies, mid-60s with leathered skin and sun bleached hair, drifting through this blissed-out corner of Goa. I assume many of the people have remained here since they arrived decades ago. Not standoff and unfriendly like the others we encounter, Arambol hippies are indifferent, absorbed in their own world, either unaware or uninterested in anyone other than themselves and their friends. It is perfectly fine to remain unnoticed, for Sebastian and I sit at a neighborhood bar and have the thrill of watching them dance to the music of a local band. It is a free, childlike romp, with flailing arms, closed eyes and swaying hips. The band plays rebellious jam music with long, twangy guitar rifts that fuel unreserved self-expression. It is a microcosm of the Woodstock ideals of peace, love and no worries. A particular near elderly woman stands out among the boogying crowd. Likely the oldest person there, she dances as if she is the youngest, in a hot pink, short fitted dress and matching bandana tied guerrilla style around her forehead. She seldom takes a break, only for a quick sip of a cocktail to refuel, then saunters off floating about the room. She possesses zero self-consciousness, fully immersed in the music, uncaring of how she may appear to others. I smile at such a beautiful sight, even slightly envious her unconstrained, candid movements. Never have I seen a woman so happy, so liberated, so free.

Saturday evenings in Goa are famous for the Saturday Night Bazaar, who roots lie in the first hippie flea markets back in the 60s. Open from 6pm until 6am, Sebastian and I decide to go, taking a 30-minute cab ride through our old neighborhood of Anjuna and stopping along the way to greet an elephant. Used by Hindu brahmins to collect money for their local temple from curious passer-bys, they allow us to pet the animal. Until that initial meeting, I am unaware of my fear for such a large animal. Reluctant to get too close, I am afraid that the trunk may knock me over or that I will be crushed under the large, stomping foot. After several tries, I finally build up enough nerve to position myself close enough to capture the great photo opportunity.



Set on Arpora hill, the Saturday Night Bazaar is a vibrant and colorful scene attracting both locals and tourists, making it the most diverse crowd I experience in India, with its obvious abundance of languages and races. There is an outpouring of creativity and crafts, alcove shops full of handmade jewelry and clothing, wooden carvings, richly embellished fabrics and eclectic artwork. We pass by stalls for tarot card readings, Ayurvedic massages, hair styling and information booths offering diving tours and rafting trips. Besides being at night, the main difference with this market is that it is centered around a stage, where a variety of performers, ranging from resident musicians to belly dancers, come every Saturday night to entertain the crowds. There is a huge international food court, where we snack on fat pieces of sushi and momos, Tibet’s version of steamed vegetable dumplings. I buy several marble stone necklaces and Sebastian picks an authentic Indian drawing etched into dried bamboo stems. Attempting to juggle our small plates of food, our brimming cups of Sangria and our bags full of purchases, we stroll through the swarms of people, in this little world unto itself, taking pleasure in being a part of the cultural playground.



Ten days in Goa pass in an instant and we are on our way back to Trivandrum, Kerala to spend the final days at Sebastian’s grandmother’s home. We share amazing Goan experiences, from roughing it in the tents of Yoga Magic to shacking it up on bountiful beaches at Yab Yum. We have practiced yoga and bargained in markets, got tattoos and rode a scooter, played in a pool and swam in the ocean, ate organically grown vegetables and just-caught seafood. We mingled with hippies and made friends in other countries, became experts at using eco-friendly toilets and survived without phones, lights, and Internet connection. We were challenged, pushed and forced to adjust all by the warmth of the Goan sun, proving to be an immensely rich learning experience, changing the way I view myself and altering how I choose to live life.