By Roadjunky, Posted Nov 12, 2006
Any movement or scene seems to leave its share of debris behind. Goa was full of stories each year and the casualties of theft, busts, flip outs and other nightmares were high. However much we felt at home in Goa we were still foreigners in a foreign land and every guest is subject to the quirks and caprices of the host.
Any movement or scene seems to leave its share of debris behind. Goa was full of stories each year and the casualties of theft, busts, flip outs and other nightmares were high. However much we felt at home in Goa we were still foreigners in a foreign land and every guest is subject to the quirks and caprices of the host.
The principal parasites that fed off the scene were the cops and robbers. They both wanted your money and would do just about anything to get it. The thieves rarely resorted to violence, that was just not the Indian way, but were adept at entering your home. The tiles could be taken off the roof of your house, bolts loosened or latches lifted with fishing rods from the opposite window. Failing that they could just fish around with a long bamboo rod for your money belt or camera and make off with that in the early hours of the morning.
The police were more confrontational. They’d try to catch you smoking charas and then demand baksheesh on the spot, a bribe that generally amounted to all you had with you at the time. One season I had a house on the beach and was thus a prime target for the cops. The first time I almost walked into them as I returned home one night. I dropped back a bit but they heard me and swung a torchlight in my direction. Fortunately a palm tree was in the way and as the cop with the torch stepped to the side I did the same in a comic dance of hide and seek.
The second time I was taking a nap in the early evening and awoke to a rap on my door.
“Hello, friend?” I heard someone say. None of my friends would ever introduce themselves like that. I tiptoe over to the door and slid the bolt a moment before they tried to force the door.
“Quick! The window!” I heard one of them say but I beat them to it. I grabbed a sheet from my bed and held it over the window so that only a dim candle light could be seen inside. They shone the torch light through and I held my breath as they tried to make out the silhouette. My arms began to tremble with the strain of holding up the blanket and they departed only moments before I would have had to let go.
They finally got us when we left the back door open one evening. I was sleeping before a party and they walked in right as my American housemate, Troy, was lighting a chillum.
“Okay, let’s go to the station” the police captain barked.
“What? No baksheesh?” Troy cried. What was the world coming to? Of course it was just part of their act to scare him into loosening the purse strings. They took a look around at our house that didn’t have any electric and saw that we did our own cooking. They saw it wasn’t worth wasting much energy on us and eventually settled for 20 bucks.
“No smoking!” they laughed as they threw the piece back to us.
As the season went on the heat began to rise and the land began to dry out. The agitated winds of February gave way to a sultry March and by April everyone went running to the mountains. The rice stalks were burnt in the paddies, wells ran dry and the burnt-out acid casualties of the season wandered around in disturbed monologues. With no money and precious little grasp on reality if these lost souls had any luck there would be an embassy or family to take them back home. Those who didn’t had to take their chances at surviving the merciless summer and monsoon along with the homeless beach dogs.
Goa was never a Paradise but I’ve scoured maps of the world for hours and not found where is. All these stories were what you might expect of such a place which at times bordered on a loose anarchy. There were authorities, rules and traditions but it felt that in season time many of these were suspended in limbo as we took reign of the area. It was one of the few places I’ve been where you didn’t need to hide who you were. It was a community on the Edge with another set of values; most people loved to be in nature, it was normal to alter your consciousness and no one ever asked you what you did for a living. For once the freaks were the majority.
At times it could feel like an international village although the various nationalities also marked out their own territories. The Israelis, the Italians and even the English had their own circles of influence, their strongholds, but everyone mixed on the dance floor. Different groups organised parties and conducted business between themselves but generally you’d find yourself sitting in a cafe with people of 5 nationalities at your table.
Goa became rich on the back of the hippies and several beaches are now covered with resorts and 5 star hotels. The locals still make more money in the hippy beaches, though. The money gained from restaurants, guesthouses, hired motorbikes and houses all goes to the locals, not some investor from Bombay. The natural ambient is maintained and by the time monsoon comes to wash everything away you’d never even know we’d been there.
For some, Goa was just the international playground for international hippies to live it up for a few months a year. It was also home to one of the most unique communities of people to ever live together on the planet.
Any movement or scene seems to leave its share of debris behind. Goa was full of stories each year and the casualties of theft, busts, flip outs and other nightmares ...
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