Today, Sat the 23rd, I went down to Anjuna beach, home of Goa trance. I wanted to see it in the daytime first, not at night when a sea of bodies covers the beach, bodies moving to undanceable trance rhythms (I've later learned that those parties don't happen this time of year anyway; the time to see or join them is December). Plus when or if I go back at night surrounded by said bodies high on who knows what I'd rather be a bit more orientated to my surroundings, which are beautiful. Actually the beach is beautiful as long as you keep your gaze in that direction. The rest is a bit of shit hole. The bar restaurants are a mix of super shabby to tacky and bright. We ate somewhere in the middle at Cafe Lilliput. All the restaurants have the tables staggered on ledges up the hilltop, so everyone has a fab view of the ocean, beach, and flesh thereon. The various steps going up to the bars are weather-worn and garbage strewn, one notable pile of garbage containing a mix of flip flops, plastic bits of something, sandals, cloth, and glass bottles of what was some hard liquor. Anjuna beach definitely has the "I'm checked out and travelling" vibe you'd expect, and the fashion, which primarily is tie-dyed skirt wet with saltwater at the bottom, jingle anklets, long stringy hair, and a very heavy backpack. Later, when we were ready to leave, we happened upon a sculptor and chatted a bit. "First time to Goa?" Yep we reply. "Yeah you look it..." That cracks me up because it's very true.
The women on the beach were driving me crazy. And I don't mean the goofy white chicks taking "sexy" pictures of each other in the surf, to the delight of Indian male onlookers. That was just damn funny. I mean the jewellery merchants. I'm tired today, very, and I just wasn't much in the mood for it. Talk to one and you'll have 6 or 8 literally surrounding you. "We don't have as much money as you think...I can't buy from all of you" I say, to which they only reply "yes you money, you have you have. what you want? I give you good deal. tell me your price we start there. [Ok fine. you name a price.] Are you kidding me? Are you trying to kill me? Ok I say my price then you say and then I say. My price is 1200 rupees. Now you say." And while this conversation is going on with one another is fixing an anklet on you and another a bracelet. Oh my god--are you trying to kill ME?! I need a taxi back to my hotel I say, laughing, nor do I actually have anywhere near that many rupees in my purse, but that falls on deaf ears and the whole what you want name your price bit starts again for the 50th time. They also use this interesting "ok you come back tomorrow and give me rest" schtick which we couldn't quite figure out. Surely they know I'm not actually going to come back and pay them? What's the deal? I bought two jingle anklets for 300 rupees (original starting point 1200, down to 500) and I owe her 200 which I'm supposed to pay tomorrow. As if. Why do they do this? Anika figures that with all the backpackers living on the beach maybe many do actually come back and pay the next day. Or is it that they are trying to guilt you a bit? That you're ripping them off if you don't pay the full amount right at the moment and especially since they're doing you a favor by cutting you a one day loan? I'm not sure, really, but they all do it.
On the way to the beach we walked by two women working by the side of the road, seemingly building something, and they explained to us that they were cooking rocks. No not cooking she corrects herself, and finally we understand that they are heating rocks to form bricks. She and her mother are building her shop; she's a jeweller. After some pleasant exchange we get to the point: come see my jewellery. The convo as described begins and when I say 250 rupees for both anklets I get oh my god are you kidding me? Ok I say my price. After conferring with her mother she names it: 7000 rupees, very good silver and I build my shop; you know I need shop. I burst out laughing; that's close to 200 CAD for inexpensive silver. Not that I'm unsupportive
When we were back up on the roads, walking away from Anjuna, I commented to Jackie that you know, we do they same thing in corporate business but here's it's just so in your face and super raw. We build rapport, loyalty, offer special deals and sales, we extend loans, and we build relationships with our clients. In their way these women are doing the exact same thing, it's just a lot less smooth. One can't fault them for it, and I don't, but I did make an escape up some restaurant steps because the women aren't allowed in the restaurants. This worked, they left and headed down the beach, but I got some snobby looks from some white flesh splayed on lounge chairs. For what; standing there? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm not cool enough for Anjuna...and how much did you drop on jewellery today from the safety of your lounge chair? I wonder silently.
Interestingly, no kids were begging anywhere. On the way out we pass a bus that says, "El Shaddai Child Resuce" on the side, with a group of little ones playing nearby. "Hey I know of these guys," I say to Jackie. "This is one of the voluntourism companies Rohan has been talking to." Two men are working and they smile at us, but even though my project is on the kids they're helping I don't find the energy to strike a convo. It's getting late, we need a taxi, and Tuesday is voluntourism day with either them or another organization helping homeless kids. That'll be the day to find out more about El Shaddai. Right now I need a nap. And a taxi. Where the heck are the taxis...!
Did I mention I love my anklets? They're very pretty and sexy, and they do indeed jingle. Buying them was a little traumatizing but the jingle will remind me of that experience on Anjuna beach. And when I wear them at home, fully rested, away from the women's overwhelming insistence and borderline harassment, I'll smile at the sound of both my anklets and the verbal jingle jingle jingle it took to get them.
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