Man, what to say about India? This is a crazy country, I'm telling you. A place to come back to - again and again. In the Mauritian Airport, waiting in line with a huge hurdle of Indians, we already get a pretty good impression of the people. They all have six huge pieces of luggage each, and - I am not kidding - 50% of those checking in have baggage overweight, so we´re asked to take extra bags from six different families. Complete Texas, completely disorganised. On the plane we get Indian food and watch endless Bollywood movies about quiet and feminine girls getting married to strong, handsome and rich men. Enjoyable. After hitting Indian ground, these funny, messy people leave the airplane looking like a pigsty with paper, melted chocolate and crumbs of various origin all over floors, seats and lavatories. Frilled flight magazines everywhere.
We start the whole Indian ball in Goa, tourist place nr. 1, but totally out of season at the moment. Humid, tourist free and rainy. Monsoon. Ah, I love monsoon and I hope I can experience it again. You can truly drink the air. Everything is green, green, green, skin sweaty, clothes wet, feet nice and muddy; Theit all makes you feel like a true traveler.
I make some good friends in Goa. Mark; an Indian couch surfer and passionate Portuguese student, Clinton; a dedicated environmentalist and liquor connaiseur who wants to show the finger to responsibility and spend all his savings on a road trip from India to Sweden. A group of four fantastic guys from Maharashtra living, studying, laughing and crying together in a family guest house in Benaulim. They share the most intimate stories of family, life, passion and tragic love. Their friendship is so strong you can feel it in the air hanging out with them - they're caring, warm, reflected, articulate, I really enjoyed their company.
We spend a day and a night with two of these guys, Parijat and Trosswald, on their off-day. We hire a driver to take us to a beautiful Hindu Temple on a mountain top, the highest point in Goa overlooking the whole region. After exploring the mountain top and appreciating the scenery we enter the Temple, take in the peaceful atmosphere and admire the decorations. As the rain clouds thicken in the sky, the Hindu part of the company - Parijat - makes a quick prayer and we head down towards the car before it starts to pour.
Back in Margao City we walk around town, the guys introducing us to all sorts of delicious Indian food. Masala Dosa (haha my India girls), Palak Paneer, curries curries curries, soups, youghurt and weird, acid drinks. Eating with your fingers is required, but mamma and I really suck at it, so our hands are greasy green and orange at the end of the meal. The tea is a lower culinary experience. It looks like coffee, and the taste is strong and bitter (The coffee on the other hand looks like tea, and it tastes like water). That´s another sad thing about poor countries; India, growing the world finest tea leaves and coffee beans, export the best quality products to rich countries like my own, while the Indian population is served the crap that's left. Same in Kenya. Same in Colombia, El Salvador, Ethiopia.
We walk around town talking politics, social welfare and corruption. Parijat is very engaged in India's situation and talking to him is utterly interesting. He tells us some pretty weird stories - like the story about the Sky Bus. A couple of years ago some businessmen invested a whole lot of money into building an air tube that was finished successfully, and with revolutionary construction it was even more efficient than the ones they have in Japan. It was a great investment - India desperately needs public transport. Before they had completed testing and security of the system, there was an accident followed by the death of one person. This together with the fact that the profit from ticket sales would benefit the actual town and not fill up the private pockets of politicians, led to the close-down of the Sky Tube for good. Today it is one of the many sad sights of Margao - a ghost monument of corruption and lack of political direction in India.
India was invaded, exploited and left by it´s former abusive husband England. It is corrupt and fucked up, but it is absolutely breathtaking. You´ve got to take in the sadness, but there is endless beauty to enjoy as well. There is colour, smell and sound everywhere - in the market full of fresh fruit and vegetables, spices, herbs, umbrellas, eggs, shoes, flies and dogs and ayurvedic medicine. Beauties in colourful saris, their long, black, shiny hair, flowers in the braids. Dirty houses painted in bright coulours slightly faded in the burning sun. Honking from cars, rickshaws, motorbikes. Sudden rain forcing all of Margao to halt - everybody in the group seeks the nearst shelter. We all run, mamma, me, Trosswald, get under a roof, stay dry. But Parijat walks slowly, making sure to get hilself really really wet, facing the sky smiling. My kind of guy!
Parijat and Trosswald are studying hotel business. Trosswald, being a kitchen trainee, tells me some deeply disgusting stories (that will remain in my head, because to hear them I had to promise not no publish them in the blog). Some innocent leaks I have to post, though; like health authorities inspectors drinking tea in an air conditioned lounge, receiving a proper bribe and leaving again without ever seeing the kitchen. Like one knife used for several different purposes - not all of them involving food. Like the making of "fresh" fruit juice. I know I will never eat a five star hotel meal in this country again - ever.
I make some good friends in those guys, people I want to keep in my life, people I want to visit again in Maharashtra as soon as possible. Before we say goodbye that night we're standing in front of our hotel in central Margao talking. It has been dark for a while, the time is around 22.00. Our plane will be leaving for Chennai early the following morning. It is time to say goodbye, I give Parijat a hug. He doesn't seem to hug me back. I'm a little surprised, and figure well, he probably doesn't like hugging. Soon I learn there's a very different reason for why he didn't want the hug.
In most parts of India, it's not allowed for a boy and a girl to be together in public in the night time unless they're married or closely related. Even talking to each other is considered an offence, so hugging Parijat in the main road of Margao wasn't the smartest move I've ever made in my life. Three big guys in sivil clothes immediately walked up to us and started questioning us rather aggressively. Trosswald told me to get away from here - "we can handle it!", but I felt bad about leaving, so I stayed, trying to answer questions. After a while Parijat suggested in an insisting whisper "you should really get out of here now" and I did. Turning around I saw Parijat and Trosswald running like crazy and worse, the three biggies following me into the hotel. My heart was beating like crazy and asked one of the hotel guards to take me to my room. We shook them off. Decency police. What a shocking experience. I didn't even get to say goodbye to my new friends. Well good night, India.
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1 comment:
Good words.
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