On Christmas Eve

In the absence of cards, carols, and my mother's cranberry bread, I decided I had to have a Christmas tree in Arambol this year. For some reason, my Muslim friends got really excited about the possibility.

"Yes!" they said. "You can put it in our shop!"

To prevent incurring the wrath of Allah, I suggested we call it an Eid Shrub. They agreed.

We took a taxi to nearby Mapusa, where vendors sell tiny lights, tinsel, garlands, and cheap plastic ornaments. I stocked up on all of the above and then looked around in vain for a Christmas tree lot. "What do the Indians hang this stuff on?" I wondered.

A few stalls sold fake trees, but I have to carry all my possessions on my back for the next three months. I was hesitant to invest in something I'd have trouble getting rid of.



I carried my lights and garlands back to the source of all my Indian cultural knowledge, the steps of the Blue Fin Guesthouse, and asked my Goan friends for ideas.

"There are pine trees down the beach, towards Mandrem," the guesthouse manager told me. "Go there on Christmas Eve and cut a branch for a tree."

Perfect.

This morning, I did my yoga by Christmas lights (strung up on my window until I got a tree) and headed to the steps with a giant papaya under my arm. My plan: share the papaya in exchange for borrowing some sort of saw/axe implement to aid my hunt for the tree.

I got downstairs and the Blue Fin roomboy looked at me sternly and said, "No papaya this morning!"

I knew he was joking because last night, when they'd seen me carrying the fruit up to my room, all the boys had begged me to stop and cut it open right then. I laughed and asked for a knife and a plate.

"No papaya," he said again. And then he told me why: the old man died last night.

Blue Fin has its own ghost - an old, old German tourist who looks too thin to live and rarely emerges from his room. When he does, he doesn't speak and usually just sits staring quietly at the sea. We've all joked uneasily, more than once, that it's like he came here to die. Last night, he did.

The roomboy found his body this morning. The old man had left his door open, as if he'd known someone should come look in on him.

I took the papaya back upstairs and we all sat on the steps, staring at the sea while policemen in beige uniforms loitered nearby and yelled ineffectually at the beggars on the beach.

When it was clear there was nothing I could do, I decided to look for a tree anyway. I didn't want to trouble anyone for a saw, so I just got up quietly. I edged down the alley, past a black jeep with white letters reading "Hearst-Van."

I found the pine grove about a quarter-mile down the beach. Most of the branches were far too high for me to touch. The few I could reach were spindly and lop-sided. I felt guilty about breaking even one branch off a tree, especially since I doubted these feathery Indian evergreen branches would even stand up straight by themselves. But the sun was hot and I was rapidly losing the reachable options to better-prepared locals with ladders and axes, so I finally grabbed a branch about as wide as my thumb and started pulling.

Christmas or no, the tree did not want me to have this branch. The wood squeaked and splintered, but wouldn't break. I twisted the limb and received a needly slap in the face. I yanked and cursed in a decidedly un-Christian manner as sweat poured down my forehead. Finally, the branch came loose.

I held it up for a proper examination and it listed immediately to one side. It was weak and sparse, evoking nothing so much as Charlie Brown's tiny mishapen Christmas tree. Whatever. It was mine.

I carried it back across the sand to the steps of the Blue Fin. My Muslim friends, my Christmas tree/Eid shrub champions, were nowhere in sight. The Blue Fin manager, who's been celebrating Christmas all his life, stared skeptically at my prize.

"You didn't get a big one?" he said finally.

"I was really limited by what I could reach or break with my bare hands," I said defensively.

"Why didn't you get someone to cut one for you?" he asked, as if the village was crawling with lumberjacks for hire.

I shrugged. He asked me where I intended to put it.

"Right here," I said, pointing to the storefront place of honor we'd already chosen for the Eid/Christmas tree/shrub.

He shook his head. "Maybe you could put it by your room instead," he suggested. (My room is on the third floor, next to the toilet.)



I took the hint and carried my rejected tree upstairs, past the open door of the old man's now-empty room, which reeked of antiseptic.

The roomboy filled a bucket with sand and stuck the spindly little branch inside. It immediately slumped over. He ran to get a bucket of water and made the sand wet. No good. The tree refused to stay up. Undaunted, he lifted it on top of the balcony railing and tied it upright to the building's support post.

"OK?" he asked, looking at me for approval.

"Wonderful," I said. He left and I got out my tinsel and tiny plastic balls and decorated the tree as best I could. The tinsel kept flying off in the wind and the branches couldn't handle more than one ornament and there was nowhere to plug in the lights, but eventually I got it done.

I took pictures of my creation, but the branches were so thin, there was no way to obscure my neighbor's underwear drying on the clothesline behind the tree. As I tried new photographic angles with limited success, the glue gave way on an ornament and the silver ball bounced away onto the roof below.



I put the camera down. This was, without a doubt, the most meager tree I had ever, ever seen.

"Merry Christmas!" a man's voice called out behind me. My European neighbor was grinning shyly at my tree as he walked to his room.

"Merry Christmas!" I called back, waving with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm, trying to catch the tinsel as it blew off the tree again. Yes, I thought. It's the spirit of the tree that matters! I looked at my humble tree with new, loving eyes and thought about how lucky I am to be decorating any sort of tree on a balcony overlooking the Arabian Sea.

I felt warm in the certainty that Christmas is all about what's inside us, and therefore, I can carry it anywhere I go! The glow of this revelation lasted about five minutes, until my friends began quizzing me about whether I would be dressed properly for midnight mass tonight.

"Yes, yes," I said. "I have a new salwaar kameez I bought special."

My Goan friends looked skeptical. "Better shoes?" they asked. "What about makeup?"

"Um, I have lip gloss?"

They shook their heads. "First the tree and now this," their expressions said. "What is wrong with America?"

"She doesn't need makeup!" my Kashmiri friend defended me. "She's a simple girl!"

Of course, being Muslim and having never attended a midnight mass, his opinion was rapidly discounted.

"Make-up," they repeated decisively.

And there you have it, or rather, me. A simple girl, with a humble tree, who is rapidly learning there is no place like home for the holidays.

I wish you the best and brightest of the Christmas season and a wonderful New Year.

Nothing says merry like an armed police presence

I recently returned to my beloved Arambol beach, after a brief experiment in ashram living in Mysore, to discover the Grinch is trying to steal Christmas in Goa! Fearing further terrorist attacks, the state government has banned all beach parties between now and January 5. No Christmas celebrations. No New Year's countdown. No fireworks. Earlier this week, police even broke up the open-mic nights at local bars in the village, sending everyone home to bed by 8:30 p.m.

I read an editorial in the local newspaper today that said, "If the terrorists' goal was to spread fear and keep us from exercising our freedom, they certainly got their way."

Yesterday, a little fort-like structure made of sandbags appeared in the middle of the beach. I peered into it, wondering at its purpose. Was it a barrier to launch fireworks from? A makeshift DJ booth?

A Kashmiri friend indentified it immediately. "It's a banker," he said.

"A banker?" I echoed, picturing a professional-looking man in a suit approving home loans.

"Yes, a military banker." Oh, a bunker. For soldiers. With guns.

I wasn't sure what was more sad: that Arambol beach would need a banker/bunker or that my Kashmiri friends, who marvel at unfamiliar sights like the fashion models in my magazines or airplanes in the night sky, were so familiar with the appearance of military intervention.

Factor in continuing economic despair, the sabre rattling between India and Pakistan, and a head cold that's on its second week of residency in my sinuses, and it's tempting to feel a bit "Bah Humbug" about everything. At times like this, I try to take a lesson from the Whos of Whoville and remember that it doesn't matter if the Grinch hordes all your presents and parties in his cave, the holidays live inside us.

So, I walk around humming Christmas carols. I eat too many sweets. (One tradition that's easy to observe in any country!) I'm going to midnight mass on Christmas Eve at the chapel in the village. And I'm wishing you all a merry little Christmas.

Luck is a form of faith

Last night, there was a Hindu religious festival on nearby Mandrem beach. Due to my poor grasp of Hindi, I can't tell you the name or the significance of the event. Even my Hindu friends seemed vague on the details.

It was close to 11 p.m. when my friends decided to check it out. This seemed a bit late for church to me, but they assured me it would go on all night and reminded me to bring extra money "for gambling."

"Gambling?" I said, fearing I'd misunderstood the invitation. "Where are we going? A casino party?"

"No, no, religious festival. You know, Hindu."

"With gambling?" I asked again.

"Of course," they said, shrugging.

I was sure I'd lost something in translation, but I packed a few extra rupees and we headed out across the sand.

Soon, a giant tent appeared on the horizon, its pyramid peek flashing white lights against the night sky. Shrieks and cacophonous drum rolls rushed towards us in the dark. When we reached the tent, an epic drama was taking place inside. A shirtless actor in a feathered headdress, his chest smeared with paint and his eyes bulging from his fiery face, yelled to the heavens in Hindi. A sleepy two-man band - one organ player and one drummer - occasionally roused themselves to punctuate his assertions with startling musical interludes. An equally drowsy crowd of about 50 men and women sat on the floor, watching through heavy-lidded eyes.

My friends paid polite attention to this production for about 15 seconds before pushing me out the back of the tent to a nearby field. There, I was surprised to find a crowd about four times the size of the one in the tent. Everyone crouched in small circles around lanterns placed at intervals on the ground. When we got closer, I saw they were all playing card games on blankets.

We gathered around a blanket which had 10 playing cards sewn to its surface. My friends dropped 50-rupee notes on their favorites - Queen of Hearts, eight of diamonds - and then waited anxiously as a grizzled dealer split his deck of cards one by one into two piles. If the card my friends bet on landed in the left pile, they won money. If it landed in the right pile, they lost. They urged me to play, but being the only non-Indian and the only woman in the field, I felt too shy.

Nehi, nehi, mai achi lardki hei, I told them in my fledgling Hindi. "No, no, I'm a good girl."

They laughed and kept on until they ran out of money. (Just like in America, the house always wins, even when "the house" is just a blanket in a field.)

The next day, I tried again to understand the marriage of gambling and religion.

"Is there always gambling at Hindu religious festivals?" I asked.

"Oh, always," my friends assured me.

"But isn't that weird?" I pressed. "Isn't gambling considered a vice in most cultures?"

"Sure," they agreed, "but if they didn't have gambling at the religious festivals, no one would go."

Bangalore Fried Chicken

I've been vegetarian for almost 20 years, so it's hard to remember the last time I dined at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Oh wait, it was yesterday.

I stumbled across this KFC in Bangalore while waiting for my sleeper bus to Goa. I could not believe how happy I felt to see something familiar, even if it was a fast food restaurant I never even visit at home. I paused to wave at the Colonel, and that's when I saw the banner in the window advertising vegetarian chicken. Whaaa?

I ran inside, feeling a little guilty for being seduced by corporate culture, and ordered up some veg chicken sticks and French fries.



Then I sat at my little table with my hands folded and watched the smartly dressed waiters - Indian KFC has table service - hustle around, accompanied by a Muzak version of Madonna's greatest hits. The comfort factor was overwhelming.

The veg chicken was sort of like fish sticks - rectangular, unnaturally white and uniformly processed - with an occasional pea or carrot chunk for texture. It wouldn't win any culinary prizes, but the appeal of salty batter never fades. The fries were like heaven and, as a bonus, my tray liner included this intriguing game.




It's a maze with a bucket of chicken at the starting point. The directions read, "Try coming out of its taste." Hmmm...

So if KFC is mass-producing vegetarian options for India, why don't we have them in the U.S.? I know there's less interest in vegetarian dining in America, but how hard would it be to throw a pack of these Bangalorian veg sticks in the freezer?

Look into that, would you Mr. Chicken?

Drive-by Santa

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Mangalore:

Wishing you a Cafe Coffee Day!

Most backpackers I've met are way too cool for Cafe Coffee Day. These coffee shops are nowhere near as ubiquitous as Starbucks back home, but they are a Western-style chain operation, and thus ripe for ridicule from the adventure club.

Well, I guess they'll have to revoke my membership, because I nearly wept with joy when I saw this waiting for me!



My first brownie in at least two months! Praise be!

In fact, I completely scrapped my plans today as soon as I found both a bookstore and a Cafe Coffee Day on the same street as my hotel in Mangalore. My entire daily budget was blown before 10 a.m. on books, magazines, newspapers and a mocha. A girl's gotta have her priorities.

Animatronic Jesus loves you

Yesterday, a Goan friend of mine invited me to Old Goa for the novenas of St. Francis Xavier. Every November, for nine days, Catholic pilgrims come from all over India to attend a truly massive mass at the Basilica Bom Jesus and to gaze upon the actual corpse of St. Francis!



SFX's corpse is legendarily known as "the incorruptible body of Francis Xavier" because it has resisted decay for hundreds of years. Until recently, they hauled it out every year in a glass coffin for everyone to touch and kiss (the coffin, not the body). Lately there are rumors that the miracle may be over, because the body is starting to fall apart. My friend wasn't entirely sure they'd bring it out this year, but I was crossing my fingers.

When we got to the Basilica, there was a huge tent outside with thousands of chairs set up for the mass. A glittery sign said "St. Francis Xavier spreads the Jesus Glow" in English and Konkani (the regional language of Goa). Next to this was a long maze of ropes, like you'd see in front of a ride at Disneyland. Luckily there were only a few hundred people in line because it was day 7 of the feast. (All the locals go before day 9, when things really get crazy.)

Every single person there was dressed in their nicest party clothes, except me. Foolishly, I'd worn khakis and a T-shirt. I looked as if I'd just spent an hour riding a scooter through the dusty countryside. The fact that I really had was small consolation amidst the gold jewelry and sequined dresses of Catholic pageantry.

We shuffled into the church and past the altar and before I knew it, we'd reached the body of SFX! The church had compromised on the decay issue and displayed him in an ornate wooden coffin with glass windows on a platform above our heads. He was very clearly in there, but you could really only see his brown shriveled hands, feet and profile. The pilgrims touched and kissed the base of the platform and dropped marigold flower leis into baskets placed at regular intervals. I touched the platform too, but I wasn't really sure what to say/think/pray.

No matter, the tide of bodies quickly shuffled us out the door and into seats for mass.



The whole sermon was in Konkani, so I just stood up and sat down when everyone else did. At one point, the priest yelled out "Money! Mobile! Motorcycle!" and I knew he must be warning against the growing materialism of the younger generations. The rest of the time, I just let the unfamiliar words wash over me and prayed silent Tiny Tim prayers.

"God bless us every one!"

After mass, we headed to a nearby museum where Portuguese colonists had stashed all the "heathen" Hindu statues they'd removed when they were building Christian churches. Then we hit the carnival midway for lunch, beer, and popsicles. I contemplated riding my first Indian Ferris wheel, but I never saw anyone else on it the whole time I was there. If the Indians - who shun seat belts and helmets and maximum capacity laws - don't trust their carnivals rides, I sure as heck won't.

I didn't think the day could get much better, but my friend had saved the best surprise for last. We went back to the Basilica and walked through a courtyard where hundreds of pilgrims were camped out for the duration of the novenas, and we got in line for something called "The Sound and Light Gallery, A Pilgrimmage of the Heart."

We had to wait 15 minutes for an English-language version, for which we were the only audience. It turned out to be an animatronic Chuck E. Cheese-style show on the life of Jesus!

I was strictly forbidden to take photos - even of the sign outside - so you'll have to take my word for how awesome it was. We walked from room to room watching robotic John the Baptists and Pontius Pilates acting out the familiar story, simultaneously aided and hindered by our thickly accented tour guide.

"Behold chew slum!"
What did she say? Oh! Jerusalem!

When Jesus was transformed on the mount, Indian pop music started playing and a strobe light went off over his head. Then multi-colored disco lights turned on over OUR heads, to demonstrate God's love reaching us through Jesus. (And that God's love is very like a Bombay nightclub!)

At one point, we entered a small fiberglass cave with a life-sized Jesus sitting lotus-style in one corner. "Pray with Jesus!" our guide commanded. My friend and I bowed our heads obediently, but started fidgeting after a few minutes.

It was a relief when the guide led us away, even though we were obviously headed to the crucifixion. I never thought anything could top seeing the possibly miraculous corpse of a saint, but when the animatronic Jesus died on the cross, the room went dark and the floor literally shook under our feet! I sincerely wish I could have teleported every one of you there with me.

Don't worry, I'd send you back home before I get on the 12-hour bus to Mangalore tomorrow. I'll be in an ashram in Mysore doing yoga from December 8 through the 15, with some long bus rides before and after, so my blogging time might be limited for awhile. May the awesome disco strobe-light of God's love sustain you until we meet again.