Bob Marley sings for me, as i begin writing my thoughts on Goa.
I intend to write about Goa while I'm still soaking up under it's own sun, as I smell the salt on my skin, as i hear the Indian waves crashing onto the shore. And as much as i want to just sit back sipping on my mojito, and admire the beauty before me, i believe i owe it to Goa to talk about it, to praise it's beauty with my words.
Sarees, bindis and hindi signs scattered--probably the only remaining sign that we're still in India. When everything else is a quaint reminder of what was once a Portuguese colony--the Portuguese-style houses, the churches, the crosses on every corner, the Portugal-influenced cuisines. i describe Goa like how I'd describe the Philippines. Maybe the Philippines circa 1980 to be fair to my mainland. Rustic--when calm and crazy collides. Simple.
That is probably why I feel so at home here. Minus the fact that I have to double-check the water first if it's safe for drinking, and use anti-bacterial gel every 5 minutes, and apply insect-repellent (which doesn't work by the way) even though im already on malaria tablets for the whole month. Yes, all said and done, I still feel at home in Goa. Maybe it's the tattoo-covered Westerners binge-drinking from noon til the wee hours that made me feel i belong. Or the hippies dancing on trance music around the bonfire--then a vendor would come up to you and sell you nothing but chewing gum (ah yes, trance and chewing gum). Or maybe it's the smell of whatever is "baking" just around the corner as reggae music plays in the bar. *evil grin* Home Sweet Home.
Goa is total freedom. The sanctuary for escapists like myself. The haven of anything unpretentious. The refuge for those who dares to lose himself.
Here I am free. I escaped it all. I found what's real. I lost myself--and found it.
*written underneath a coconut tree in Goa--December 3, 2009.
I intend to write about Goa while I'm still soaking up under it's own sun, as I smell the salt on my skin, as i hear the Indian waves crashing onto the shore. And as much as i want to just sit back sipping on my mojito, and admire the beauty before me, i believe i owe it to Goa to talk about it, to praise it's beauty with my words.
Sarees, bindis and hindi signs scattered--probably the only remaining sign that we're still in India. When everything else is a quaint reminder of what was once a Portuguese colony--the Portuguese-style houses, the churches, the crosses on every corner, the Portugal-influenced cuisines. i describe Goa like how I'd describe the Philippines. Maybe the Philippines circa 1980 to be fair to my mainland. Rustic--when calm and crazy collides. Simple.
That is probably why I feel so at home here. Minus the fact that I have to double-check the water first if it's safe for drinking, and use anti-bacterial gel every 5 minutes, and apply insect-repellent (which doesn't work by the way) even though im already on malaria tablets for the whole month. Yes, all said and done, I still feel at home in Goa. Maybe it's the tattoo-covered Westerners binge-drinking from noon til the wee hours that made me feel i belong. Or the hippies dancing on trance music around the bonfire--then a vendor would come up to you and sell you nothing but chewing gum (ah yes, trance and chewing gum). Or maybe it's the smell of whatever is "baking" just around the corner as reggae music plays in the bar. *evil grin* Home Sweet Home.
Goa is total freedom. The sanctuary for escapists like myself. The haven of anything unpretentious. The refuge for those who dares to lose himself.
Here I am free. I escaped it all. I found what's real. I lost myself--and found it.
*written underneath a coconut tree in Goa--December 3, 2009.
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