riding the rails with the Hare Krishnas

the 4am train to Nasik makes a 2 minute stop at Thivim station.

I literally run down the platform scanning each car for the "S8" car. I haul myself and pack up the steep iron steps and plunge into darkness.  Feeling through my bag, I pull out my flashlight.  I had googled "Indian train seating," so I could find my compartment in the dark.  Holding a ticket for Lower Berth 57 made it easy, since it was the second compartment from the end.  I counted "1", "2," and sure enough there's a man sleeping in my berth.  I shine my flashlight in his face.  He's solidly asleep. "Hello.  Excuse me sir," I call out, "but you're in my berth." No response.

I shine the flahlight in the face of the man sleeping opposite him. He stirs, lifts his head, and looks at me.

"So sorry," I say, "but he's sleeping in my berth.

The man mumbles and groggily pulls himself out of the berth.  He shakes the other man, who I find out in the morning, is his son.  The son takes several shakings, proddings and yells before he can be aroused from his deep, train-rocked sleep.  He staggers, still half asleep, and stumbles about pulling up the middle berth and chaining it in place.  He indicates that i can now climb up, but I persist in my need for my chosen lower berth.  He finally relents and hauls his body up to the berth above me.

The rocking, shaking, clanging shake me into sleep and I awake to find myself surrounded by 7 Hare Krishna American youths on pilgrimage to the Krishna temple in Vrindravan, led by one amber-eyed, Croatian monk.

One young, baby-faced, blue-eyed devotee carefully drapes his sheath of pale saffron cloth around this waist, knots it, pulls out a swath of cloth in front of his body, pleats it, pushes it between his legs, grabs it from behind, pleats this end, and finally tucks it into the back of his waist as the Indian 2nd class sleeper train parade begins.

The leader, the chai wallah, struts through the coach bellowing "Chaiiiii! Chaiiii!"He's followed by his brother the coffee wallah yelling "Coffeeeeee! Coffeeeee!"  The circus continues with blind men selling chains to attach your luggage to the metal brackets under the seats.  Following them come men with two 5-foot-tall poles of key rings dangling from branches on either side of the poles.  Samosa sellers hawk hot deep-fried masala potato-filled dumplings.  Other men shout about their deep-fried potato balls accompanied by 2 small square buns and 2 very hot thin green chili peppers.  "Panni water cold drink! Panni water cold drink!" bellow young men.  Behind them a man pulls a huge sack of freshly popped popcorn.  One man carries a cardboard box filled with children's toy.  Another flips a dazzling light-twinkling top that spins its way down the litter-filled aisle.  And at the end of the procession, a aged woman with no legs scuttles along the aisle sweeping the litter before her with a palm frond broom and begging for money for her dubious endeavors.  And no Indian train ride would be complete without the Harijans - India's infamous transvestites, who prance through the train from coach to coach, heavily made up, in colorful saris, clapping hands loudly and demanding money from everyone and not accepting "No," as an answer.

"Man, how are you?" one beefy, disgruntled-looking Krishna devotee asks another who's been sitting crosslegged and mouthing chants, eyes closed.

He opens his eyes and looks at his fellow-devotee. "I'm fine.  You?" he asks.

"Man, I don't know.  Being trapped on this train...I can't concentrate.  I tried meditating, but man, all this 'Chaiii!' he imitates the call of the chai wallah.  "How can I mediate with all these people screaming and bumping into me and all this..." he waves his large-boned hand. "I don't know, man." He plunks down next to me as I sit up and swivel into a sitting position.

"Life getting in the way of your morning meditations," I ask, raising my eyebrows and smiling wickedly.

He pushes his dark-rimmed glasses  up on his nose, gives me an American once over appraisal with his eyes, and one corner of his mouth turns up slightly in a somewhat sneering smile.  He half turns toward me.

"No."  He shrugs and turns away, clearly not willing engage with some provocative middle-aged woman on a train.

But the Croatian leader of the group turns toward me.  We make eye contact, exchange smiles, and I feel instant recognition of a kindred soul.

The problem meditator gets up.  The Croatian sits down. Immediately we're talking heart to heart.

"I'm from Croatia.  A small town near the sea.  Not a crazy, big city, but even so, at fourteen, I looked at the world and it seemed so crazy and pointless and ugly.  And I decided to become a monk and devote myself to the life of the spirit."  His amber eyes are warm and soft.

I understand him completely and flash back to my fourteen -year-old self reaching out my hand for a copy of the New Testament.

A group of  Christian proselytizers used to set up a stand in the all-Jewish shopping center on Saturdays and attempt to hand out the NEw Testament to Jews enroute to buy new clothes or fresh loaves of rye bread from Bogaslavsaki's.

Reading the New Testament on my bed, door of my room closed, I wept with my first taste of spiritual rapture and thought: 'I want to become a nun and devote myself to contemplation of all that's holy and sacred and be a daughter of God, married to Christ.'

So yeah, I understand exactly where he was coming from.

For a Hare Krishna ordained monk he's refreshingly anti-proselytizing.  His interests range from bio-diversity in farming (he's setting up an organic farm outside the Krishna Consciousness Center in San Diego) to politics to health.

"I'm happy doing service where I can.  Doing whatever I can to make the world a little better."

After 2 hours of talk he gets up to help some of his "charges."

A young devotee takes his place next to me and launches into a diatribe on Vedic knowledge.

"Excuse me," I interrupt his lecture in a soft but firm voice and a sweet smile, "Did you confuse me with someone who had requested a morning lecture?"

He looks at me puzzled.  "A lecture," he asks.  "What do you mean?  I just wanted to have a heart to heart talk."

"Well, you weren't speaking to me from your heart - you were completely in your head, delivering information you'd read in a book."

."Oh," he says, "I thought you were interested in Vedic knowledge."

   "I'm interested in knowledge where ever I can find it.  It can come from the chai wallah or the Baghavad Gita, or the trash collector."

"Well, I've been reading the Vedas and for the first timer everything is becoming clear."

"That's good," I say, nodding my head in confirmation.  "So, what's become clear?"

"Well, before...I I used to eat but hours later I was hungry again.  So just eating for taste - it became disgusting.  And my girlfriend - after I saw her - I'd want to see her again and I saw how all these things were disgusting."


I interrupt him.  "We're in a body - this body - it's a gift we've been given.  It has 5 main senses and if we're aware, we can revel in the glory of what a good palak paneer tastes like; the infinite pleasure that comes when a warm breeze caresses our cheek - " Here I close my eyes and gently caress my cheek.  (I'm on a proselytizing roll of my own now) "The sweetness of the song of a bird," I continue.  "The smell of jasmine flowers at twilight.  And eyes to witness the glory of a crimson sunset!  What's disgusting about that???"

His mouth hangs slightly open.  His eyes are lackluster, dead. I can almost hear the wheels of his head turning.

It takes a minute, but he finds the right file cabinet of his brain, opens a folder, and starts reciting.

After several minutes in which he apperas to be speaking withough taking a breath, I again interrupt him.

"I'm sorry," I say.  "I don't want to be doing this.  I"m happy you've found something that works for you.  Good luck on your path.  I want to be quiet now."  I turn and look out the open window, through the 4 blue metal bars out to the hut-like stacks of hay.  At the scarecrows dangling from sticks in the field.  At the strange mountain formations with nippled peaks.

"Chaiiiii!"
"Coffeeee!"
"Pani water!"

A new group of vendors enter at the next stop and the show starts all over again.

good bye arambol

Entering Ganesh Travels, I'm told by the proprietor: "Ah Madame, these ladies are going on the same train as you.

I turn to see 2 women sitting in the red plastic chairs behind me,

"Hello," I say.

"Hello," they return giggling merrily.

The older of the two immediately asks: "Are you going to Delhi, too?"

"No," I answer.  "To Nasik."

And so I meet Oxana and Lisa from Siberia.  Oxana is 40-years-old, white-blond with honey-colored eyes.  She has one rasta braid attached to the back of her fair hair and is quick to interact with me.

"I love here, you too?"

"Yes," I say.  " I love it here."

Oxana continues.  "I love ocean.  Heat.  I love too much.  I very love here."

Lisa joins the conversation.  She's 27-years-old with red hair pulled back into a pony tail and big blue eyes."I love ocean too much," she smiles a huge smile. "My English not so good, but here friendly people.  Big smile every peoples.  I very much happy.  My heart feel good." She breaks into contagious joyous laughter and opens her blue eyes wide. They sparkle with vitality and happiness.

"Where are you from," I ask.

"We from Siberia," Oxana says.

"Oh my God! What's the weather like in Siberia right now?" I ask.

"Maybe minus 10, minus 15.  Spring start now.  But still snow up to..." Oxana waves her bronzed arm over my 5-foot-tall head.

We hug and kiss and laugh and smile and I finally depart with my train ticket and a plan to meet my new Siberian friends on the train station the following night.

                              *                            *                              *                                *

On my way home, walking the lanes of the little village where I stay, I hear a squeal of absolute joy.  I turn to see a little boy squatting in front of his door with a small blackboard and a piece of white chalk.  Next to him, his father squats reading a newspaper.  The boy uses his hand to wipe off his chalkboard and again squeals with delight.  He furrows his brows in deep concentration, draws a picture, and again breaks into unequivocal whelps of happiness.  He shows the picture to his father, who nods and says something to him which seems to make the child feel good.  The child repeats this process over and over with unceasing delight.  Each time the father gives feedback.  Images of the children of the western world flash into my mind - children who possess every conceivable electronic gadget known to mankind and yet seem to get so little joy from their use.  You draw the conclusion.

                            *                           *                                *                                 *

Back in my room, geckos scuttle along the walls as I pack my backpack in preparation for my departure at 3am tonight.  I think about my days in Arambol: Rising at 7:30.  Every other day yoga from 9 - 10:30.  A walk through the lanes of my village into town to Tender Coconut where the owner of the stand lops the top off a coconut, sticks in a straw and hands it to me.  I slurp the vitamin-rich coconut water, then hand it back to him.  He takes his hachet and slams it through the middle, dissecting it into halves, he then slices off a wedge from the outside for me to use as a scoop, and hands it back to me.  I sit by the road, watch motorbikes whiz by as i scoop tender slices of fresh coconut from the shell and feel so happy to be alive.

Maybe i take a walk along the beach.  Maybe i go to Dylan's for breakfast  where the tall Frenchman with the shaved head but for one circle of black hair on the back of his head, walks in, tosses his pack on one of the mats on the floor, extends one arm down to the mat-covered floor, and executes a single-arm hand stand, his long muscled legs, toes pointed, rise to the ceiling.  Or some days "Hat boy" practices his hat act in the center of the room, tossing 3 red felt hats from head to air to arm, through his legs, behind as back as customers lounge about on mats on the floor, sipping ginger lemon honey tea as the ceiling fan whirs. And then maybe back to my room.  Wash out some dusty clothes in the blue plastic tub and hang them out to dry.  Late afternoon jumping over the big waves when the sea is rough or floating on my back on calm days. Dinner at Magic Park or Priya or Sai Deep where I savor a freshly squeezed black grape juice.  And then on to live music.  A different concert every night.  Every night me dancing, swaying, leaping in joy to wonderful music.

I walk down to find my landlady to pay for my stay. She looks at my ali baba pants, loose magenta top, red shawl draped over one shoulder and she asks the question i've thought about many times: "Do you dress like that in your country?"

I laugh and say, "I do, but other people don't."

"How do people dress in your country?" she asks.

"They wear jeans and t-shirt."

Because i've thought about what a strange distorted view of the rest of the world the Indian population of Arambol must have.  With this place filled with freaks, alternatives, arrayed in the wildest fashions, hair in the unlikeliest of styles, juggling in the streets, singing and dancing and cavorting like a scene from a bad  60s B movie about Haight Ashbury, what possible conclusion must they draw of foreigners?  

So, goodbye Arambol.  Although I know that geographically speaking you're part of Goa, India, culturally you're part of some warm oceanic hinterlands of freakdom.  It's been great, but i long to see India.

So, i'm off to Nasik, 4th holiest city in India.  A city i visited 4 years ago and never saw another non-indian. 
It's been great, but i long for new challenges.

my gypsy dream realized

i wake with a vague discontent.

"it's time to leave this little slice of heaven," i think.  "I want adventure, some travel in rickety Indian buses, crammed to capacity, bouncing over pot-hole-riddled roads - flying a good 6 inches off my barely-padded blue seat, followed by a tail bone- slamming thud that forces an unsought "Ayyyy!" out of my mouth, as my vertebrae ripple from tail bone to neck.

why would a 65-year-old woman crave such a thing? 
because it's a kind of cultural DisneyLand ride. a sublime challenge.  how much can i let go?  how much can i merge with a group of travelers whose lives are nothing like mine?  creating internal mantras that whisper: "as my heart beats - so does theirs.  as my blood courses through my veins so does theirs.  as my chest expands and collapses, so does theirs." 

besides, there are too many Russians in Arambol now.  the ratio of posters, flyers, and notices in the Russian cyrilic alphabet now outnumber those in English.  Russians everywhere.  tall powerful blond woman with babies suckling at their breasts.  naked blond Russian babies running jubilantly through restaurants and on the beaches. strong sturdy solid little tykes with broad smiles and determined faces.  hardly ever crying.  fat and content - looked after by their barrel-chested fathers and smiling amber-eyed mothers scantily clad in tiny wrapped and draped sarongs.

"I'll walk along the beach, then go to Dylan's," i tell myself, needing a plan to catapult me out of the oh so Shanti Shanti calm that envelopes me. "then after breakfast, i'll figure out where to go next.  maybe have a coffee to snap me out of this heat-lulled stupor.

and then my whole attitude shifts when Pierre sits down next to me.

1 hour after arriving in Arambol, I met the dancing Pierre and Emilie at the Prem Joshua concert.  on the free side of the billowing sarongs stretched to form a wall of color.  we just started dancing together under the full moon and hung out together like old friends.

i hadn't seen Pierre since, but now we pick up conversation as if we were long time best friends.  with complete openness.  with depth and transparency, we share ourselves.  for 3 hours we sit on the cushions on the floor and communicate our fears and longings, our joys and raptures.

leaving Dylan, i think: "what an amazing place this is.  i think i'll stay a bit longer."

then evening, after dinner at Magic Park, as a cool breeze blows off the sea of Arabia, i hear music as i approach Mohan's.  my step quickens.  my heartbeat speeds up.  a smile spreads across my face.

and sure enough, when i arrive, Sergei, the Ukranian accordian player gives me a full toothy smile.  Maria Peligro (a chilean singer that i know from istanbul) opens her eyes wide and flashes me a huge laughing welcoming.  Jaime, (the chilean guitar player who i also know from his playing with "Billie Not on Holiday" in Istanbul) welcomes me.  i lean over and kiss the head of my Turkish musican friend Firat, who is squatting on the ground playing darbuka.  he turns, hugs me and kisses me on each cheeks.  the other Ukranian musicians smile and nod at me.  AND OF COURSE, WITHOUT A MOMEMT'S HESITATION, I SLING MY BAG UNDER A CHAIR AND START DANCING!!! in the only place available, as the musicans and spectators spill out of the small restaurant, in the street.

Sergei swigs whiskey from a tall, squarish bottle and breaks into song while accompanying himself on his accordion.  the baby-faced tuba player puffs out his cheeks and blows the full bass notes.  the male and female violin players slide their bows across the strings of their instruments , then sing harmony.  Maria slaps her tambourine.  the full-bearded Ivan beats the bass drum, and 2 men play guitar.

song over, Sergei takes off his white panama hat, slicks back his long brown hair with his fingers, re-dons his hat, takes a healthy slug of whiskey, and shouts: "Let's go!"

the musicians rise and promonade down the dusty road to the beach playing wild gypsy music: "Ay tchiki tchiki..." as i swirl my purple and white shawl and dance exuberantly - part of this band of mad wonderful musicians.

we stop at ouside tables of diners on the beach.  i pull people up to dance with me. Russians join in, singing along.  and finally Sergie removes his white panama and extends it to the people, urging them to contribute.

we move through the sand as waves' foam fringes the coast, then recedes.  overhead Orion winks at me and Cassiopia rocks a littel moe vivaciously in her rocking chair.

like a scene out of a Tony Gatliff film.

i live out a long-held dream: to dance with a band of gypsy musicians in total abandonmnet, beneath a starry sky.

is life perfect or what?

 

first day of summer in arambol

Friday, Narch 1st.

An explosion of sound at dawn.  The birds go mad in a riot of shrieks chirps trills tweets cries caws whistles whoops warbles and hoots that pierce my sleep and wake me laughing out loud. Plus it sounds as if maybe 3 huge birds are dancing a wicked watusi on my tile roof. Tiny gray squirrels scamper up and down the huge banyon tree outside my balcony at the edge of the rice paddies, chattering wildly. Cows low.  Bulls bellow.  Lizards 'hoop hoop hoop.'

It's nature's dawn alarm clock.  

"Wake up sleepyheads!  It's March 1st.  The first day of summer in India.  The meteorologists predict a high of 37 degrees Celcius (99 degrees Fahrenheit). So enjoy the dawn's fresh cool while you can!"

Mr. Stamina @ Arambol Sunset Drum Circle

the sun glows crimson as it sinks into the Sea of Arabia.  a swath of shimmering reflection streaks horizon to sand orange pink..  the wet sand reflects and mirrors a second red globe.  12 people pound drums, 3 shake rattles and shakers, 1 old, gray-haired, gray-bearded hippie plays a wooden flute, the melody of "Caravan" whispering above the primal drumming.  old hippies, neo-hippies, freaks, alternative types, a whole lot of vacationing Russians, and a few Indians writhe, shake, shimmy, jump, hop and skip, churning the silken sand under their feet to a cool gray powder.  dreadlocks fly, babies run naked through the crowd, parents twirl children in wide arcs.

next to the drum circle, crafts people display their hand-made jewelry, clothes, and other goods on sarongs laid on the sand.  Jugglers juggle.  poi twirlers twirl.  partners balance in acrobatic yoga.  other yoga practitioners view the sun upside down in headstands.  and of course, no sunset celebration would be complete without the requisite fire dancers.

a bare-chested young man in khaki-colored knee-length shorts and a tie-dyed shawl draped around his neck walks around near where i'm seated, looking in the sand, and muttering: "Where are my shoes?"

at one point, he looks down at me and says: "Stamina."

i hold his eyes and wait for more to come but he only repeats this one word.

"Stamina."

he resumes his search for his shoes, then turns back to me.

"Stamina," he repeats. "Do you know what that means?"

Yes," i answer.

"Stamina," he says for the forth time.

"Yes?" i ask wondering where this one word mantra is headed.

"Stamina," he asserts, "I've got it."

"Good for you," i say.

he finds his shoes, tosses his colorful scarf around his neck.  it waves behind him in the sea breeze as he makes his way along the beach and a band of scarlet forms where the sky meets the sea.

So You Think You Can Dance...With Fire: Arambol Cabaret

It appears as if this year, the acts that didn't make final cut for Cirque du Soleil decided to winter in Arambol, Goa, India.

And since one of their members was turning 30, they agreed to celebrate by putting on a Cabaret/Burlesque Show at Totem, a guest house/ restaurant/bar/performance space at the far south end of Arambol Beach.  And yes, there is a large wooden Totem Pole. Did the Indians confuse themselves with Indians??? and a large circular stage painted with North American Indian tribal designs.

As people strolled in and took their seats at this free event, a dj spun Indian trance music.  children of many different colorings, from many different countries, leapt and froliced about on the stage giggling, twirling, beaming in joyous abandonment like an ad for Bennetton. 

i didn't  try to suppress the grin that spread across my face ear to ear.  what could  i say.  it was a slice of Utopia.

From behind the sarong-hung, makeshift dressing room 3 plumed feline creatures emerged bearing trays of fruit.  they slunk and slithered between the rows of red plastic chairs, hand feeding chunks of watermelon or dangling bunches of grapes before the mouths of the crowd.

the Costumes: imagine a raid on the storage shed of Mad Max meets Cirque du Soleil meets neo-hippie rasta punk. it gives a vague impression of the leather-clad performers - costumes ripped and torn with fashionable unstitched, scalloped edges, buckles and rivets.  and feathers.  lots and lots of feathers.  plumes.   glittering masks.

the Acts: i could never have imagined the art of fire dancing could come so far.
     solo and with partners
     flaming batons twirled
     flaming poi spun
     flaming hula hoops crcled
     flaming candelabras twisted and turned and looped
as zen-like masters slid across the stage manipulating their fire devices in impossible configurations while belly dancing or doing tai chi and even a hot swing dance number straight out of "So You Think You Can Dance," with 2 jitterbugging dancers hot steppng it while swirling batons of fire.

to break up the pyrotechnics, a 'popping' bellydancer isolated muscles never before isolated in public; Johnny Boy from France performed martial arts breakdancing; a man and woman juggling team in black leotards and tights, undulated as one gyrating organism rolling a white, yellow and red ball up, over and across their bodies like pebbles in the ocean; and a Russian pole dancer extended one finely-toned, all muscle, no fat, 5 mile long leg behind her ear while her other equally classic-long lean leg stretched to Mars, as she posed half way up the pole, suspended by her armpit clasped against the pole. 

i had come expecting a few talented individuals amidst a lot of 3-chord guitar strumng accompanying flat singing.  what i beheld was a jaw-dropping, breath-taking display of incredible artistry.

the climax of the evening's performance: the tall blond fire dancer brought out his bow and arrow.  lit the arrow on fire and shot it onto  a paper covered target.  as the paper went up in flames, what was revealed was a heart and OM sign glowing behind.

Arambol -  a tiny beach town in the north of Goa.  between jungle and the Sea of Arabia.  a vortex that pulls the strange, the beautiful and the very very gifted.

Palolem Beach

Monsoon-like downpour in the middle of the night.  Rat a tat a tat of fat raindrops pounding the blue plastic tarp that covers the roof of my thatch-roofed coco-hut. Somehow this thrown together shelter - part palm fronds, part bamboo, part cheapest of cheap particle board - weathered the storm.  But all the locals and frequently visiting tourists mouth the same sentiments: "It's so strange.  It never rains this time of year."

Yesterday evening my friend from Strasbourg, France thrust a pair of leather slip-on shoes in front of my face.  One was conspicuously marked by a huge gnawed-out hole, tiny teeth marks scalloping it's edges.

"Oh my God," I said.  "Something's eaten a huge hole in your shoe."

Marion tramped off to display this travesty to the managers of our huts - Flavia and Louis.

Marion returned ashen.

"Rats," she announced like a biblical prophesy. "I know it's not rational, but I'm scared to death of them."

Louis and Flavia arrived at Marion's hut.  The rotund Louis smiled broadly and laughed.  Usually taciturn, he had never displayed such joviality before.  Who could have guessed that rats brought out the best in him.

Like a crusader dressed in a black and green striped polo shirt, knee-length khaki shorts, and a gold crucifix around his neck to save him from harm, Louis strode into Marion's hut on his pudgy legs.  A man on a mission.

Flavia appeared more shame-faced, smiling weakly and studying the sand around her flip-flopped feet.  She looked up at me, knowing she could count on me for empathy. "Ah, what can we do?  Here it is jungle.  We cannot control.  These things problems everywhere."

"Yes," I smiled understandingly.  I remembered a friend complaining last year about having to share her beach hut with a family of rats that had made their home between the palm fronds in the roof of her Arambol hut.

Flavia and Louis are Goan Catholics.  A tradition started by the Portugese who ruled Goa so many years ago.  The Portugese eventually left.  The religion stayed.  But Goan Catholicism differs wildly from Western Catholicsim.  It has taken on some of the colors and feel of Hinduism.  For instance in the Catholic churches in Choudi, the faithful adorn Jesus with strands of marigolds and other flowers as is common with Hindu followers and their deities.

Louis emerges from Marion's hut grinning.  He puts her leather shoes in a plastic bag and hangs them from a bamboo pole.  "They like to eat leather," he says, his ample belly bobbing up and down with each laugh.  "I'll buy poison tomorrow." He smiles, showing his straight white teeth and wobbles down the three steps to the sand.

"No," Marion says. "I can't sleep in there tonight.  It is not possible."

I understand.  No one wants rats running around where they sleep.  But what can we expect?  We are in the jungle.  Facing out to the sea, a perfectly clean silken-sand beach stretches to the Sea of Arabia.  Every morning local women wearing palm frond hats, cholas, and sarongs sweep the beach clean.  Bending over they create infinity patterns in the sand with their short strands of coconut branches tied together with string. They smile. Chatter together.  Laugh.  Bent over with their short brooms.

But walk out the gate at the back of Flavia's and you enter another world.  A world of villagers.  Blue plastic tarp-topped shacks.  Small cement houses painted pink and apricot and yellow. Long-nosed, slate-gray sows and their baby piglets rooting around in the dirt.  Lucky ones roll around in dirty holes of black mud. Iridescent roosters with flaming red heads, golden necks, shiny green-blacks bodies, and blue tail feathers strut next to yellow-orange hens who scratch the dirt as a parade of fuzzy chicks scuttle about pecking at insects.

Black dogs lie in the shade of tangerine buildings.  Crows hop about shrieking.  Smoke rises from pits of burning rubbish.  Piles of whiskey bottles leaning against the side of the local's watering hole gleam in the sunlight.

One old Goan man seems drunk frm morning to night.  Whether I cross his path at 10 am or 10 pm, he bellows out to me:
"Happy New Years Madam!"   
.
Ah Palolem Beach. I love it here..