The long time residents, the long time relaxed. Not inspired but expired. The problem with doing nothing, all day every day, month in month out, is that it leaves little in the way of conversation to be had.
This isn’t a tourist resort of holidaying westerners; it’s a village and with it comes village mentality. The territorial rights of the long established leather tanned and effected foreigners, rights that appear to not even extended to the native Indians; who, indecently, appear to be far more friendly, welcoming and humorous people. However there is an equal distain, reverse snobbery reserved for the obvious 2 week holidayer. If you’re too white you’re a tourist, too Indian and you are an intruder. This is my observation based purely on the negative because raised voices attract my attention and no response to a greeting or smile gets me riled.
I’ve written and re written read and re read, I would tell the other side but I can’t break on through to it, the inner sanctum seems impenetrable.
It’s not across the board, whilst some deadened eyes never make contact; other faces become familiar, because we will inevitable keep crossing on a single path along the cliff. The beam and warmth from a smile of recognition from the unassuming and unbothered will put a bounce in my step.
That mute communication has extended far beyond our differences and similarities, beyond our simple plans for today and the evening that we spent. If something relevant and significant should occur, I like to think it may well be voiced but until then it’s the most comfortable of silences.
The white Russians mix with Bombay weekenders on a speechless beach, drifting across the sand at a speed their time imposes. They are the only actual travellers around here, this isn’t travelling, its home from home for the transients. They know how things work here, they know because they made things work this way. As with any cross section there are the contributors and the complainers, the integrators, the ignorant and me, the intrigued.
If there is a rite of passage to the depth that is portrayed, I’m not finding the key to it and inevitable it’s only the shallow that you meet on the surface. And that is where my cynicism is bread from, confirmed with, and remains.
After several encounters the company I chose to keep is my own. It’s easy I just think of all the boring, uncomfortable, superficial and mismatched social situations I have had to endure and then relax in my own thoughts. When I overhear a conversation I can contribute to, learn from and enter into with a single inhalation of breath, my voice returns, ‘excuse me I could help but overhear...’
With my toes in the sand, stars overhead and food on the table it is nearly idyllic, but for the company I was introduced to.
The mental monotony of a still born monologue.
The going rates for labour and services are discussed regularly and disgust is voiced at the over generous idiots, who pay above the tariff and ruin it for the rest, by rocking the status quo of the local rates. Nothing has a price tag in India, you pay what it is worth to you, experience may discover the bottom line but it doesn’t make it the rule.
It’s like they are playing at being a resident, but integrating little with the native community. Less to say that the preverbal old boys in the local pub. You can’t swap travel stories if you don't go anywhere, you can’t moan about work if you don't do any, and can’t talk TV if you don't watch and whether is a non starter.
‘Sunny today’
‘Yes’
‘Supposed to be the same tomorrow’
‘Really?’
‘And hot too’
‘Oh hot. Right’
This means the local paper is thoroughly scanned and the daily state of things is thoroughly discussed at meal times. The crime, corruption, bureaucracy and committee mismanagement. The paper prints it, the temporary locals debate it and the circle of conversation revolves around it. It’s a global practice the only thing that changes is the size of the village. The New York Times, The News of the World, It’s a standard thing.
These debates are punctuated with the odd local word to truly keep in touch with the country they inhabit. Charis, its weights, quantities, qualities and of course market price, actual value and source are the basic ABC essentials. Along with knowing your Hindi Gods, combining the two and thanking the appropriate one before sucking down a chillum full of Manali Cream is the height of social etiquette.
Knowing that Bombay is called Mumbai is quite important but not knowing that it isn’t the capital is of no consequence it would appear.
The security of a sprung loaded locking mechanism padlock is compared to, and decided superior to the key locked variety. Despite the latter having the advantage of not being able to lock yourself out of you room. It’s not the most stimulating of debates. Squire? Master? Who can you Count on? Unlike King George 3rd, I don't have a fondness for locks.
It’s like armchair travel, there is nothing adventurous about it, there appears to be one-upmanship of time stayed combined with a tally of annual visits, OK you win, so where’s your prize? I’ve stayed in this country, state, village, this room before. I've met some of these people before; I continue not to meet the others. The problem, apart from a massive generalization on my part, founded from the same dead end conversations with dead beats; is it’s so much easier to be cynical and scathing than it is to be interested and thrilled, it’s more entertaining too. I keep my mouth shut and my mind on record and occasionally chip in with a provocative comment to keep the bollocks rolling forth. It stops me from screaming.
An embryonic beginning never grows beyond small talk. The list of topics shorter than my attention span. The length at which they are discussed longer than my life expectancy.
Amongst the most hypocritical topics, is the discussion of diet and health? At last I think, a subject matter with potential but wait. The precise time of day to eat fruit so the body can process it, so the acids of said fruit don't clash with the body’s natural ability to break down a food that is consumed later in the day.
‘What?’
How watermelon will conflict with pineapple in the same fruit salad.
‘Really?’ Stay on record, keep it mute. The benefits of tofu are discussed in relation to nutrition as opposed to an alternative to polystyrene when shipping fragile goods; and of course the inevitable warnings and dangers all things tasty.
‘The pigs eat shit, don't eat pork.’ I know but I’d rather eat it than talk it, I’d give pearls to a sow for a bacon sandwich.
It’s a ridicules discussion, you are what you eat, bland and uninteresting. The ritual of preparation, the type, the time and the consumption are all discussed in relation to the benefits of health; they are spoken with the monotone enthusiasm of the announcement of the late arrival of the 5.15 from Norwich.
All this health and nutritional information would have far more credibility if not voiced, whilst another long folded paper retaining a bed of tobacco is sprinkled with another portion of charis to enhance the consistency of the tripe being spouted. This is the substance that fails to give conviction to their argument. The health benefits of tobacco are over looked like a geographical capital faux pas.
Speaking of bodies like temples with heads that are refuge tips. They’re not exactly yogis, their bodies don’t back up there beliefs any better than their words. I agree it’s important to have perspective on your food; I watch mine from a distance, as the fishing boats catch my dinner whilst I eat my breakfast, mixed fruit muesli with watermelon and pineapple, from a sea front restaurant. I am what I eat, I'm so bad.
There is a fresh water spring a short walk into the jungle, screeching unseen birds and monkeys echo through the palms strewn with creepers, I keep my eyes on the undergrowth of bright red flowers and shiny well trodden rocks, fauna unfamiliar to me brushes my sweat beads away. Down to the pools where the local workers bathe and articulate good morning with tooth brush distortion. They smile and make way for me and my plastic water bottle and I struggle across the stepping stones.
But come the afternoon, when the lazy bathe there bloated western bodies, hostility breaks through the jungle sounds if a local encroaches. Fresh water wars, it was always a prophecy, this would be the beginning. I cringe at the behaviour of this pond life. The natives share it but the foreigner’s wont.
On me bike, where’s me bike? I miss me bike. There was an ease and luxury on the bike that I was not aware of until I left without it. I didn’t realize it but its so slap me round my helmet, splat on my visor obvious. On the bike, on the road; I see it all pass but I don't hear what I don't want to. Right there between my legs is a common interest. The girls admire it, guys envy it and anybody who has an interest will come and talk to me about it. It’s the common ground I ride on; it saves time not just in traffic but in forming acquaintances too. I knew as soon as I saw another bike it was the source of conversation, instantly interesting, often useful, occasionally amusing and always genuine.
The sun, sea and sand may expose the body, tattoos and scars are on display but I can see far deeper into a person as first glance when they are covered by Gore-Tex textile and carbon-fibre armour. I've got a pretty good idea of what’s inside by all the clues outside. The type of bike and condition it is in, the amount of luggage, the nationality of the plate and the distance it is from home and the time it took to get here. It tells me so much more then the exposed flesh, budgie smuggler swimming trunks and dental floss bikinis.
The bandage is the uniform of the bike rider here, the sarong wearing, Enfield riding too cool for protection, too fast for the conditions, doesn’t get my envy or my sympathy. Riding with the responsibility of a used needle. A bandage of bad karma. Self inflicted, not an accident, an inevitability.
My bike was my peacock feathers, my conversation piece. I couldn’t blend in if I wanted to. I'm not sure I blend in here, but under tanned and over exposed without my helmet I just can’t integrate like I can at a Swedish rock festival or speed awareness course. I've lost my element, I'm out of it.
This is an alternative to living in a van. When I lay insomnia in my hammock as an elongated square of stars moves across the sky into the shape of a cross I realize it’s the time I was killing and the space I was dying for that brought me here. It comes with a level of relaxation that only the shedding of possessions will generate. You don't get that with your 2 wheels of concern and calculation. Or with your 4 wheels of accommodation. I wouldn't get it either if I were to step out into the real India. This is ‘India lite’ being trapped here is an easy sentence.
I’m isolated between sea and cliffs a mile from the nearest road and vehicle, an enticing smell and impulse away from a restaurant.
People come here for many reasons. Spiritual, debouched, dehumanization, self improvement, be it a greater understanding or to become a few shades darker. But I can’t ignore the underlying emphasis that is projected of who belongs and who doesn’t.
I’ll run out of time before I'm run out of town, and will be long gone before I belong. It will take more time than I can afford before I tick with the old timers.
From my hammock I watch every sunset
and am aware of when the moon will appear and how much of it. It’s a treat; it’s my retreat, a wonderful isolation so good for reflections, and plans. The distance come and direction heading. How could I appreciate this tranquillity if I hadn’t heard the bollocks? And now I understand, even the hypocrites have their use.
Integration without conflict seems to be the best hope there is here. Perhaps an all encompassing community would be superficial anyway. Don't fuck with me chi and I won’t mess with your shit. We will pass on the path but we won’t meet on the beach.
