Monsoons and Tattoos in Goa

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I was thinking about Peru, Chile, anything except the fact that there was a needle slicing into my flesh, depositing ink at about fifty drops a second. Lying on my stomach, I chanced a glance behind me and saw the tattoo artist (an artist no less) thoughtfully at work. There was a blackout, and because he was running on generator, Andy apologized for not playing music to distract my attention from the zzz-zzz of the needle. No mindless banter here, just zzz-zzz zzz-zzz, and the rapid overcoming of my fear of a) needles b) tattoos and c) pain. I guess being holed up for four days in a monsoon will do that to you.

Oh, I have new respect for the power of rain. Living in Vancouver, where it supposedly rains three hundred days a year, you would think I would have more than enough respect already. After two days of overcast skies, the last of the monsoon lashed out like an injured tiger, slashing away at the Goan coastline with high winds and heavy downfalls. A few seconds outside would drench me to the bone, as opposed to the cold-water shower in my hotel, which didn’t so much spray as mildly leak on my shoulder. The locals hadn’t seen rain this late in September for generations, further adding to the growing worldwide phenomenon of climate change. It’s as if the weather is playing musical chairs (maybe Vancouver will get Hawaii’s sun?). All of which left me stranded in my room with a book on major religion, a book by the late father of foreign correspondence, Alistair Campbell, and thirty or so DVD’s picked up on the streets of Bombay. So I studied a bit about Buddhism’s relation to Hinduism, read about and unsuccessfully tried to meditate, learnt about America from an Englishman, and fulfilled one lifelong dream by watching the Godfather parts 1, 2 and 3 in succession. And during this time, holed up under the relentless rain and a scratchy ceiling fan, I began to think about another. But needles? I hate needles.

The rain stopped, and the monsoon packed up its things and went to college for another semester. Newspapers reported serious flooding throughout the country, but in the quiet beach village of Arambol, the flooded streets were dry within hours, the water running off into the sea. The locals took down their tarps, stalls opened, and in effect, the busy season had at last begun. Green foliage was bursting, coconut trees stood tall - it was as if there had been no monsoon season at all. While there were just a handful of travellers before the final onslaught of rain, now there were groups arriving every hour. Wherever travellers found themselves in Goa the last few days, that’s where they stayed. Now the word was out on Arambol. I had originally intended to stay here for just a few days, but now it felt like home. I knew the crowd, a few locals, where to go, what to order. Besides, a scooter cost just $3 a day, and it was time to do some exploring. Is there anything better than bulleting along rice paddies and coconut groves, the wind in your hair and the sun on your back? Throughout my travels, the scooter always finds a way to kickstart my travel bug heart, and it is the scooter, of course, that I owe being on this trip in the first place. The roads in Goa were in pretty decent shape, considering what I’d seen in Bombay, although the horn continued to be used as an essential driving aid to alert drivers, dogs, children, and especially cows of your immediate vicinity. In one stretch I almost hit a monkey (I gave it the finger; my opposable thumb!) Colorful Hindu temples were broken up by small, spooky Portuguese-style churches, and through the green jungle-like thicket lay crumbling old-style villas from another era. I drove to Anjuna, ground zero for the trance-hippie scene. Like Arambol, it had a great beach and dozens of restaurants and guesthouses, but prices were significantly higher. It did not take long for me to start calling a $4 meal in India expensive. Anjuna’s famous Wednesday market was unfortunately closed, awaiting the official beginning of high season with the arrival of the charter flights on October 15. “Goa has changed,” explains an Austrian dance music producer who moved to Goa eight years ago. The charter flights and package tours are, to some effect, gentrifying the area. Local government and the police are clamping down on parties, drugs, and even music. That is unless you pay baksheesh, which is why parties still take place at all. Imagine then, being at a candle-lit beachfront cafÈ ten minutes walk up the beach, under the stars on a warm, breezy night. Bob Marley or Manu Chao grooves from the speakers, the pool table is busy, chatter is calm and relaxed. At 11pm, the music stops. That’s it. No music past 11pm. “You’ve got to be kidding me, we’re in the middle of nowhere!” The local Goan government, a banana republic very close to ripening, has banned music past 11pm in a bid to shut down parties. I ask E.B, the Nepalese owner of the Rice Bowl, why he doesn’t just pay baksheesh. “I pay the police from Arambol, and the police from Anjuna come. I pay them, and the police from Mapusa come. Sometimes, it’s the other cafÈ around me who call them. There is nothing I can do,” he explains, shaking his head with frustration. The Rice Bowl has only been open for a week, and the food is incredible. As a Nepalese, and outsider, E.B has his work cut out for him keeping the sharks at bay, but still on the menu.

Gonzo Gallery for Monsoons and Tattoos in Goa

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