Our cottage was right on the sea and the view was incredible. It was very early in Goa's tourist season. We had the whole beach to ourselves. My first night in Anjuna, with the ocean waves whispering in my ears, was the first night in India I slept straight through until morning.
I woke with one mission - to sit on the beach until every trace of jet lag and culture shock had melted into the sand. Johanna also woke with a mission - to go shopping. I had no interest in buying anything, but I didn't want to alienate my host on my first day, so I agreed to tag along.
I hung back as Johanna haggled with merchants over silk trousers and silver earrings, but I was the only other tourist in a mile-long row of shops. The vendors were not going to let me off easily.
One by one, the salespeople presiding over stalls filled with batik prints, ornate boxes, wrap skirts, hammocks and trance music CDs called to me. “Hello, madam! Come have a look my shop? Many nice things! Hello!”
“Hello!” I waved from my non-committal place in the middle of the dirt road. When their calls did not budge me, they got more assertive. A teenage girl in a shiny blue dress and bare feet marched over to me, kicking up red dust with each step. “What you looking for?” she demanded. “Sarong? I have nice sarong. You want dress? Everything, I have!”
“No thank you,” I said. “I’m just waiting for my friend.”
“You come look my shop!” She grabbed my arm and began pulling me down the road. I laughed nervously and attempted to disengage myself.
Then another shop girl grabbed my other arm. “You come look my shop,” she said. “My shop is right here. Come look. Looking is free.”
I suddenly realized my error in coming to Goa pre-season. I’d thought only of avoiding the tourist rush, but being one of the town’s only visitors meant every merchant hoped I'd provide their daily income. The two girls were literally pulling me in two directions like a wishbone.
“Stop! Please let go!” I said. One dropped my hand and I stumbled into the other, who didn’t miss a beat as I jarred her tiny frame.
“Come!” she said. I looked over my shoulder for Johanna, who was still in negotiations for a yellow silk sarong. The girl dragged me into her shop and began grabbing things off racks and tables. “You like dress? You like? Or pants? You want pants?” She whirled around and swept a pile of scarves off a table into her arms. “Or shawl, you want? I have red, blue, green. What color? How many you want?”
In the U.S., I am the kind of person who will spend half an hour hunting for something in a store rather than ask a clerk where to find it. This high-intensity customer service caused my brain to short circuit.
“I’m sorry, I have to go find my friend,” I said to the girl, who was unfolding sarongs with a flourish. I scurried out of her shop and back down the road, keeping my arms pinned to my sides so no one could grab them. When I found Johanna, she had a new sarong draped around her neck and was busy pricing silk pants. I told her I’d see her on the beach.
I was the only one on the sand that day. I laid out my sarong like a beach towel and sprawled on top of it. The sun was bright, so I propped a hat over my eyes. As the heat poured into my limbs, I felt myself begin to relax.
“Hello, madam! Hello!”
I pulled the hat off my eyes and squinted into the face of a young woman leaning over me. She wore a blue and white dress, with a long braid snaking over her shoulder. “Where you from?” she asked.
I sat up and smiled. “America.”
“Oh, America!” she said. “Your skin, it’s so white!”
“Yeah, I just got to the beach,” I said with a laugh.
“You whiiiiite,” she said, drawing out the word. “You white like chicken!” She threw back her head and cackled. “How old are you?” she asked.
“33,” I said.
“You look older!”
“Um…thanks?” It wasn’t the most flattering conversation, but I felt happy that a local was making the effort to get to know me. Then she stopped the small talk and clutched my hand.
“You come have a look my shop, now!”
Of course. “Not now,” I said, with mounting irritation. “I just want to sit on the beach by myself.”
She protested and pulled my arm. Before I could convince her to leave, another woman joined us. “Where you from?” she asked.
I wrested my hand away and turned to her. “America,” I said.
“Oh. White skin. You white like chicken, eh? How old are you?”
“33.”
“You look older.”
What the hell? Did these women all attend the same sales seminar? Generate Sales with Mild Insults!
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really just want to enjoy the beach. No shopping.”
“Then you come later,” the second woman said. She thrust her hand in my face, demanding a handshake. “You promise!”
I shook her hand out of politeness. The first woman held her hand out too. “You promise me!” she said.
I shook her hand. The two walked off. “You can’t break promise!” one called over her shoulder. I laid back down and put the hat over my eyes. Finally, some peace.
“Hello, madam!”
God. Damn. It.
“What?” I said grumpily, yanking the hat off my eyes.
“Where you from?” Another shop girl leaned over my sarong.
“America,” I groaned, and climbed to my feet.
“You white,” she said. “White skin. Like chicken!”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk now. I am going swimming.” I took off at a brisk pace towards the surf.
“Come have a look my shop?” the girl asked, running alongside me.
“No,” I said. “I’m swimming.”
“After swimming, you come have a look?”
I marched straight into the waves. To my surprise, she followed me without hesitation, soaking her ankle-length dress. “You promise!” she said.
I jumped away from her and splashed out to sea, only to discover that I’d chosen the rocky, shallow end of the beach. The rocks ahead looked too sharp to walk across and too shallow to swim over.
I stood still in waist-deep water and tried to gain composure. Logically, I knew these women were just trying to make a living. There were so few tourists right now that every sale meant a lot. Still, I was on a tight budget and I had to carry every possession on my back for six months. I simply couldn't afford all these elephant tchotchkes and Stevie Nicks costumes. And logic aside, the inescapable sales pressure was making me crazy.
After several minutes of letting the waves lap my thighs and attempting to calm myself with deep-breathing exercises, I turned towards the shore and was stunned to see the shop girl still standing in the ocean in her dress, waiting for me. Water slowly creeped up her skirt towards her waist. Behind her, Johanna was making her way down the cliff to the beach as more shop girls headed out onto the sand to intercept her.
The girl in the soaked dress grabbed my arm. “OK. No more swimming. Now you come look my shop!”
I wrenched my arm out of her grasp and stormed past her as fast as I could through knee-high water. The shop girls heading towards Johanna detoured to me because I was closer. Included in their ranks were the two I’d already spoken to, one of whom ran over like we were old friends.
“Remember me?” she said. “You promised. Come look my shop now!”
“No!” I said sharply. “I’m not shopping. Go away.”
She reached for my arm and I yelled, louder than I’d intended. “Don’t touch me!”
“But you promised,” she said, reaching out again. By now the wet girl had slogged over to my other side and the other girls were approaching as well. I was the last human in a horror movie where the zombies ate wallets. And solitude.
“Can’t you understand?” I pleaded. “I don’t want to shop. I just want to sit on the beach. Alone!”
They kept up their chorus of calls. “Come! You come now! Come look! Looking is free!”
“NO! NO NO!” I closed my eyes and screamed out the words, fists clenched. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” The shop girls stared at me with wonder, and then at each other. Chicken lady has gone insane.
When I opened my eyes, I saw Johanna standing just beyond the group, staring at me with her mouth open in shock. I instantly felt ashamed. Her expression seemed to say, “Oh! So this is why you don’t invite strangers from the train to share your vacation rental.”
I pushed past the girls. Though still ashamed, I felt a very definite satisfaction when they moved aside and let me walk unhindered. I collected my sarong and called to Johanna that I would be taking a nap. I climbed the hill to our cottage, slipped back under my mosquito net, and wept. On my first day in one of the most tourist-friendly towns in India, I’d lasted two hours outside.
If I couldn’t handle Goa, the most Westernized part of India, how would I ever last six months in this country?
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