Day labor

One thing I've learned on this extended vacation is that it's really hard to be idle every day. I'm not really of any use to anyone in India and it doesn't matter if I get anything done. That was a relief for the first couple weeks, but now it's gotten kind of old.

So when the Exotic Arts jewelry store in Arambol needed painting, I pretty much begged to be allowed to help.

At first my Indian friends who own it were like, "Oh no, no. You're on holiday." Eventually they got tired of my pleading. They found me an extra brush and we got to work.



Of course, having a day laborer from America is a novelty around these parts. I'm not sure anyone in Goa has ever seen an American do anything that looks like physical labor. Other merchants began to gather around. Flashbulbs went off as I painted.



"Look at our worker! From America!" my friends called out, in a tone that said, "Can you believe how ridiculous this is?"

"America, eh?" the other men would laugh. "How much, she paint my guesthouse?"

"100 rupees, whole day! See, Becca? We find you job!"

I went to bed tired and continued to find tiny blue-paint freckles on my body for days afterward.

Bat-frog returns!

This morning, I went to lock my guestroom door and discovered a pair of eyes peering out at me from the bolt hole.



I didn't know what I was looking at. A frog? A lizard? A snake? Whatever it was, I couldn't lock my door until it moved. And it did not want to move.

I called to it. I banged on the wall. I sang to it. I pretended to close the door to fake it out. The creature was having none of it.



I finally resorted to prying it out with an unlit stick of incense, while simultaneously praying it was not actually venomous. One aromatic prod spurred a flying leap to the door.



Could this be the mysterious bat-frog?



Before I could ask, it jumped back inside my room! I was too hungry to bother chasing it around, so I locked it in and went down the hill for breakfast.

When I returned hours later for an afternoon nap, I found I had company.



The frog was already tucked in, so I carefully climbed into the other side of my bed and fell asleep. Frog and Becca are friends.

Miss Manners visits Goa

Now that I've been here a whole week, I'm sure I am qualified (ha!) to offer some advice to would-be visitors of Goa. Thus, I humbly offer my handy guide to beach etiquette.



For the men: I completely understand why you don't use the bathrooms at the bars here. Pit toilets are hard enough to negotiate when you're sober. So by all means, head out to the beach to pee. Just remember to head waaaaaaaay out. Those bar lights are much brighter than you think they are. I saw three of you draining your geckos during one seaside dining experience, which was hardly the oceanfront ambiance I was seeking.

Also, I think we can blame Survivor for this trend, but I must tell you that - unless you are competing for $1 million on American television using only your wits - boxer briefs are not bathing suits. Seriously, all that thin, saggy, wet fabric is doing your package no favors. I can't believe I am saying this, but even a Speedo would be more flattering. Invest in some board shorts and watch your life change.

Now ladies: On busy afternoons, I know it looks like the parking lot of a Phish concert out here, so it's easy to get confused, but please remember you are in India. Conservative India. When Indian women go swimming, notice how they are wearing knee-length shorts and long-sleeved shirts. The Goans are kind enough to tolerate our less-modest Western dress on their beaches, but there's really no reason to strip off all your clothes and go running down the sand screaming 'Wooooooo!' with everything your mama gave you bouncing in the breeze. We get it. You're on vacation. You're a free spirit. But you're making the entire Western world look like a den of sin, so go put on a T-shirt.

For the barkeeps: Enough with "Hotel California." Even if we go along with the popular assumption that most people like the Eagles (which I personally find hard to believe), there is no more depressing song to play for travelers far from home in a neo-Bohemian environment.

Seriously, can you think of one? What's that? Pink Floyd's "Hey You." You're right. Pull that one from your playlist too, please.

And thank you.

Amateur yoga hour

In Arambol, the beaches are riddled with Western tourists doing athletic shoulder stands and serene triangle poses. They all look calm and fulfilled, as if God personally called them halfway around the world to perform a divine downward dog.

I still don't have the faintest idea why I'm here, and I guess it's starting to eat at me. Watching all these Yoga Journal cover models, it occurred to me that yoga might help me connect to some kind of inner guidance. At the very least, I could work out the backpacker kinks in my shoulders.

Yoga and I don't hang out together very often these days, but I can still pull off a sun salutation from memory. So the last two mornings, I got up early and attempted some yoga poses on the sand amidst scuttling crabs and sniffing beach dogs.

The first day, I felt so calm afterward. I lay on the sand, listening to the surf and taking deep breaths in time with the waves. "Nothing can ruffle me now," I thought.

Just then, two beggars - a woman and a little girl wrapped in faded shawls - came up to my blanket with their hands out. I didn't have any money on me, just my blanket and my shoes. I shook my head no. They kept their hands out, both less than a foot away from me, reaching and reaching.

I said, "No, I'm sorry."

I tried to ignore them. They just stood there, calling, "Hello! Hello!"

Every time I looked up, they held out their hands and fixed me with these pitiful stares. I stood up. I said no again. I mimed having no pockets, no money.

"Where would I be hiding money?" I asked, exasperated.

They just continued calling, "Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello!" This went on for five minutes. I walked down the beach. They followed me. I started a conversation with someone else. They waited. I walked halfway back to my room before they eventually faded away and, by then, I was really, truly ruffled.

On the second morning, I went to a different beach. About a half hour into my solo routine, a young man appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing only plaid cotton boxer shorts and aviator sunglasses. He crouched right next to me and peered into my upside-down face.

"Yoga!" he said, with a huge smile.

"Yup!" I gasped, somewhat embarrassed in downward dog. He just kept sitting there, looking at me.

I dropped my pose and asked, "What's up?"

Through a series of gestures and many words I didn't understand, he communicated that he was from Russia, he didn't speak English, and he wanted me to go swimming.

I was not going swimming. I was wearing pants and a shirt, for one, and I didn't want to leave my bag alone on the beach. Plus, I was in the middle of yoga!

"Damn it," I thought. "I'm trying to be a disciplined, healthy bad-ass, so why won't India let me finish a single yoga practice?"

The man just kept talking in Russian. Every time I broke a pose and looked at him, he would make a motion like he was dancing The Swim, point at the ocean and give me a thumbs up. "Good, OK?"

"No," I said, over and over. "No. No."

"I don't have a swimming suit," I'd say, pointing to my pants. "I don't understand what you're saying. I'm doing yoga now. Please go."

"Yoga? Good!" Thumbs up. Then more swimming motions.

I couldn't get him to leave and I couldn't just keep doing yoga with him watching and chattering. "Screw it," I thought.

I jumped up and ran into the ocean with my clothes on. He laughed and followed and we both got clobbered by the waves. My waterlogged yoga pants kept pulling me down and it was hard to swim. Still, I swam way out towards the horizon, much further than he did, and floated for awhile.

When I came back to the shore, he followed me out. "Good," he said. "Yoga! Bye, OK?"

He waved, still laughing, and walked off the beach without a backward glance.

Clearly, the lessons of yoga extend far beyond the mat in India. I'm still not sure I understand, but I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow.

The disappearing bat-frog

Whatever you do, don't look under your bed. I'm not sure yet whether this advice applies to all of India or just Goa.

Last night, I was getting ready for bed by flashlight when I heard a wet sort of splat behind me. I turned and saw a fist-sized shape on the floor that was clearly an animal. I couldn't tell if it was a bat or a frog or a ???, so I walked carefully across the room and flicked on the big light.

There was nothing on the floor anymore.

Well, I couldn't just crawl into bed after that, so I picked up my headlamp and shined it in all the corners. The frog/bat/what-have-you was gone. However, I could see some big ol' insect legs wrapped around one of the legs of my bed. Big ones. A spider? A roach?

I wouldn't be able to tell until I moved my bed and, once I did, I had no idea what else would come out of there. I was not brave enough to continue this investigation at night, so I turned off the light and went to sleep with my mosquito net tucked in extra tight.

In the fortifying light of day, I dared to look again. The legs were gone, but some other thing, some crawly wormish, centipedish, snakish thing is wriggling around under there even now as I type. I am not looking under my bed anymore. Hopefully the invisible bat-frog will take care of all of them.

Travels with Lonely

I am still in Goa. I've been staying at a guesthouse overlooking the ocean at Arambol, which is a kind of international hippie gathering place. With all the dreadlocks, Bob Marley music, dayglo mushroom decorations and Che Guevara T-shirts, the main street in the village seems less like India and more like my freshman year in the dorms at U.C. Santa Cruz.

To get from my room to write to you, I have to hike down a hillside trail frequented by cows and then walk past many clothing stands, and then duck down a set of stairs behind the Eyes of Buddha restaurant, kick off my flip-flops and wade across a small stream, walk along the shoreline - usually getting hit by a wave and wetted from the knees down - and then cut across the beach and up a road lined with motor scooters and plenty of "Taxi, madam?" calls, and peer into shop windows until I find a vacancy at one of a half-dozen internet cafes.



I'm starting to feel like a part of the community as I become witness to the rhythms of life in this seaside town: the man who dances down the beach with his ipod every morning, the students from the nearby yoga school practicing their asanas on sandy blankets, the restaurateurs putting out plates of rice for the beach dogs, the fisherman who are always up before me, the too-cool Euro tourists with their endless chatter and cigarettes, the lizard who crawls alongside my bed eating bugs every morning, the cows heading past my door into the misty morning hills. Needless to say, I really love it here.

But that hasn't always been the case. Once I got out of Mumbai and survival mode, it hit me that I am way the ^*£$& out here on the other side of the world with no local friends. Intellectually, I knew I was surrounded by stunning ocean views and mind-expanding culture and exotic food, but my spacious seaside room at Sunny Guesthouse suddenly felt like it was down at the end of Lonely Street.

I moped around, barely noticing the sunlight on the waves or the little boys flying homemade kites or the women in saris balancing big baskets of fruit on their heads. I was too busy listening to the monologue in my head about how I should be better at making friends and why aren't I more outgoing and I'm too old for this kind of travel and no one's going to talk to me and blah, blah, blah, blah.

After two days of crying into my ginger tea and wondering why I came, I decided to implement some of that Eastern wisdom everyone's hunting for over here and see if I could meditate my way out of my depression. I went down to the beach by myself and just sat with my loneliness, like a grumpy friend who refused to be cheered. We sat there all day, feeling blue, passing the sunscreen and taking small comfort in each others' company.

After awhile, being with lonely stopped hurting so much and just felt normal. And then, it occurred to me: Loneliness is just a feeling. It's not going to kill me. It's not even as dangerous as that paneer I ate last week that gave me indigestion. Loneliness is not even a problem I have to do something about. It just comes and goes whether I want it to or not. In the meantime, I'm in India! And I can spend my whole trip wishing for different feelings or better company, or I can just get out there and make the most of it, no matter how I feel.

Loneliness seemed skeptical about my breakthrough, but I felt light and happy. I took us out for vegetarian thali at the Blue Sea Horse bar, where they show movies every night. That night, it was I am Legend. Nothing like a movie about the last man on earth to put loneliness in perspective. The bar was pretty crowded, but my table still had a seat open. A few minutes into the movie, a waiter sat someone at my table, who leaned over and asked, "So why is everyone on earth dead?"

"They made a cure for cancer, but it backfired," I explained, and within a few minutes, I had my first Arambol friend.

Becca vs. India Rematch

Becca vs. India: Sleeper Car Endurance

The Darjeeling Limited gave me some romantic notions about train travel in India, but when I board the train to Goa, I balk at my sleeper car bunk. This tiny blue platform near the ceiling of the train car has it all: dirt, a faint urine smell, and cockroaches.

"Suck it up, Becca!" I tell myself as I make a bulky pillow out of my backpack. I settle in for what I assume will be another sleepless night. 15 minutes later, I am dead to the world, lulled into a restful sleep by the gentle rocking of the train car.

I wake to the smell of hot samosas. I dig out 12 rupees change for two, flag down the vendor and have breakfast in bed.

Challenge winner: Becca (or Wes Anderson)

Becca vs. India: Haggling

I am totally afraid of haggling, so I've avoided buying anything so far. I'm the kind of person who darts down supermarket aisles to avoid potentially helpful salesclerks, so I positively wilt under the high-pressure exchange of bargaining. Am I getting ripped off? Am I being too aggressive? How much does this brass Ganesh statue really cost? Isn't it sacrilegious to haggle over the price of a deity? I don't know what my best price is! I was just looking for bottled water! Aggghhhh! [Cue frantic sprint away from puzzled merchant.]

I would happily travel the entire six months without buying anything but food and train tickets, but it turns out my clothes are too hot for India. I've been sweating through my days in khakis and T-shirts that suddenly feel like thermals, swiping at my constantly dripping forehead with an endless array of wadded up tissues. At the very least, I need to purchase some handkerchiefs.

I decide to brave the weekly Wednesday flea market at Goa's Anjuna beach. I cautiously approach a sarong stand, hold up a black elephant-print number, and ask about the price. A stunning woman with beautiful gold jewelry in her ears and nose names the customary "way too high" starting price and then asks me to name mine.

I know I don't want to pay more than 100 rupees for the sarong, but my voice just sticks in my throat. "I don't know," I say. "I should go."

I turn to leave but she grabs my hand. "How much?" she asks.

She starts reducing the price and begging me to name my price. I'm not trying to pull any "pretending to leave" strategy here. I'm really just trying to leave, but she won't let go. I get more flustered and keep giggling like a schoolgirl. I don't know what to say, I can't name a price and I can't get away.

"Fine!" she says, "100 rupees!" The elephant-covered sarong is mine.

Somehow, my utter inability to function as a haggler or even speak at all has landed me a decent price. I have a strategy I don't even know I have: shrugging, giggling, and saying things like "I have no idea!" and "I'm not good at this!" and "That's OK, I really don't need it."

I move down the row and do the same thing (with a little more self-awareness this time) and score a dress and a skirt for cheap.

Haggling challenge winner: Becca

As you can see, Becca vs. India is going to be a tight race. A winner probably won't emerge until much later in the trip. Although, I have to say my favorite moments are when Becca and India cooperate--like when I swim into India's oceans and her waves carry me back to shore, or when I forget to bring my headlamp to dinner and India tosses up a full moon to light my way home on the beach, or when the stray dog that randomly adopted my guesthouse porch also functions as security. So far, my only visitors are gently mooing cattle, but it's still a lovely gesture.

Becca vs. India Challenge #2

Becca vs. India: Distance Walking

My right flip-flop breaks apart as I am crossing a busy intersection in Mumbai. I dodge a cab and hobble on the hot asphalt, shoe foot/bare foot/shoe foot/bare foot for a couple of blocks until I find a sandal vendor.

Now, the best way to haggle for something is to act like you don't really need it, but I am literally hopping towards this man with a broken shoe in my hand, so that strategy is blown. It takes the chappal wallah quite awhile to unearth a pair of sandals large enough for my huge Western feet. As he digs through his stock, he keeps remarking on how big my feet are. His co-worker just stares at my toes and laughs.




The man's stall is filled with delicate, bejeweled ladies' sandals. The only pair that fits me are the sort of wide, straw-bottomed flip-flops generally sold at American flea markets for a dollar. As soon as I step into them, the vendor demands $10 U.S.

I try to bargain, but the asphalt is sizzling and he's already thrown away my other shoes. When I refuse to pay so much, he pontificates at length about how, since my feet are SO LARGE, it's taken him much more material to construct these shoes. (As if he personally handcrafted these "made in china" specials.) His co-worker continues to giggle helplessly at the sight of my feet. I pay $8 to escape humiliation.

Distance walking challenge winner: India again

Becca on Theoretical Smackdown!

My friend Jason Adair informs me that my trip is now part of his new blog, Theoretical Smackdown. It's a place where people can vote on who will win various battles - like "Eric Clapton vs. a fist-sized rock" or "Jim Jones vs. zombie." Becca Costello Vs. Six Months in India is now challenge number 4.

Before I got Jason's e-mail about this, I hadn't really been thinking of my trip to India in competitive terms, but ever since I heard about it, I've started keeping score in my head. I promise to tally the last couple of days for you, so you can make an informed decision. Here's the first challenge:

Becca vs. India: Staring Contest

I arrive at Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus in Mumbai two hours early to catch my midnight train to Goa. CST is a giant, giant train station. It looks like three huge mansions all strung together and decorated with stone lions and gargoyles. You would think a king lives there, but in fact it's just the place where more than a million people catch a train every day.



I'm wearing non-descript black yoga pants and a T-shirt, but I'm strapped to an orange backpack approximately half my height. India (in the form of several thousand people sitting on the floor and every available chair) starts staring. Hard. Unwaveringly.

I look for a seat. Nothing. Nowhere. The floor is an option, but a filthy, filthy one, and I have to wear these clothes for the next 14 hours. Every time I look at anyone, they are looking at me. Always. It's unnerving.

I circle the station over and over. The pack cuts into my shoulders and I start muttering things about how, if Mumbai is going to consider itself a cosmopolitan city, then people need to stop gawking at every single visitor who looks different. India doesn't blink.

Finally, I spy three empty seats in a row! One for me, one for my bag, and one for that comfortable American social distance! I hustle over and immediately see why no one has sat there. On the floor is a man who is not moving. His limbs are rigid. His eyes and mouth are wide open. He does not blink. Flies buzz on his tongue. He is maybe dead. Dead.

No one is paying any attention to him. Not even the people sitting nearby. Everyone is too busy looking at the amazing spectacle of a foreign traveler... with luggage ... in a train station... in a major international city. I consider calling 911 until I realize there is no such thing here. I run upstairs and crash the "upper class" lounge, figuring my American sense of entitlement would qualify me if my ticket wouldn't, and hide behind a book.

Staring contest winner: clearly India.

India travel takes guts (and throws them on my flip-flops)

I haven't been sleeping at all lately. Jet lag is a stubborn bitch and, so far, she's granting me about an hour's rest a night.

In lieu of sleep, I operate on black tea, amazing food, and my excitement that absolutely everything around me is brand new. Crossing the hectic streets, learning the value of foreign coins, squatting over pit toilets, puzzling out menus, sterilizing water - everything takes focus. Not to mention trying to entertain myself for the 10 sleepless hours I spend in my closet-sized but luxuriously air-conditioned hotel room each night.



I only get two English TV channels: a 24-hour news network and The Hallmark Channel. While it's comforting to know that you can never travel far enough to escape the influence of Oprah, I can only watch so many episodes of "The Nanny." Like, one.

Last night, I busted out the Lonely Planet and drew a map of all the places I planned to walk to today. I sketched in the fashion street market, the oceanfront promenade on Marine Drive, and an English tea cafe. But when I emerged from my hotel this morning, something was off.

Every morning so far, I've stepped outside, admired the sunlight in the Banyan trees, and thought, "I can't believe I'm in Mumbai! Wow!"

This morning, I inhaled a big whiff of nearby dumpsters and car exhaust and thought, "I am so over Mumbai."

Uh oh. That's a bad sign for my first week in India, right?

Determined to overcome my sleep deprivation and sour mood, I marched to the first place on my map. Crawford Market is a large indoor fruit and veg market about a block up the road from my hotel. As soon as I entered the building, the overwhelming smell of overripe fruit combined with the urgent shouts of salesmen - "Hello! Hello! Madam! Excuse me! Hello!" - made me realize my error. There was no way I could handle this without a full night's sleep or a really strong chai. I made an abrupt turn and headed for the nearest exit.

Once outside, I was shocked to discover I was lost. I was only a few blocks from my hotel, but nothing looked familiar. A towering freeway overpass had sprouted out of nowhere, blocking my path. I retraced my steps back to the market and went inside, only to discover another mistake. Bloody animal carcasses were swinging from hooks. Chickens were shrieking. The floor glistened with slime and everything smelled, literally, like shit. I was in the meat market, where the vegan me never, ever wanted to be.

I clapped my hand over my mouth and ran outside where crows were fighting over metal bins piled with innards. I felt something gush over my bare feet in their flip-flops and looked down to see that I was standing in a puddle in unidentifiable animal matter. Welcome to the real Mumbai, tourist!

After a few more wrong turns (and yes, a few stifled sobs) I found my hotel and walked straight into the shower with my shoes on. A few minutes later, I was clean, but seriously bummed for the first time on my trip. I didn't want to go out, but I couldn't stay in my hotel room another minute either. I needed a friend, and since I only have one in India (so far), it was an easy choice to jump in a cab and head over to Breach Candy district, where I knew she'd be at her guru's for morning satsang.

Well, only in India could you be standing in guts one minute and sitting across from a guru with a microphone strapped to your chest the next. Every day two people are chosen to converse directly with Ramesh Balsekar during his satsang, and for some reason I was one of them today. I mostly kept quiet as this tiny Indian man in white expounded on his philosophies.

In the reverent atmosphere of his airy penthouse sitting room, I had the feeling that the sleeplessness and the guts had conspired to bring me there, free of resistance and ready to absorb new ideas. Unfortunately, I am way too sleepy to recall any of them. (That's OK. I bought one of his books, which I plan to read tonight when I can't sleep.)

You might think "guts to guru" would encompass the full spectrum of Mumbai's surprises for one day, but no. Fast forward a few hours and my friend and I found ourselves sitting on the patio of the members-only Cricket Club of India drinking Foster's beer and watching the green.



We met a man at the satsang who took us to lunch there for Indian Chinese food! I was a little embarrassed to be so sweaty and backpackerish at such a posh establishment, but I couldn't turn down the invitation. When would I get another chance?

Then again, this is Mumbai, where apparently anything can happen.

Public Service Announcement

This is why you should always get up and walk around a lot on long plane rides, even if you are stuck in the window seat and feel bad about waking up your neighbors.




Don't let traveler's cankles happen to you!