Friday, March 31, 2000

Why the hell are you still in Goa? the voice asks me. Whose voice, I don't know; it never introduces itself, it just pops up every so often with its interrogation and criticism.

At first I'm defensive. I don't know, I respond in a voice not so different from the first one, but I can stay here as long as I like, thank you very much. Soon, though, that answer loses its flair of spontaneity and other possibilities begin bubbling to the surface.

I'm recovering from culture shock, I say, explaining how I'm in a new ountry with a completely different philosophical and cultural background from any country I've been to before. And on top of that, I've just entered a legendary enclave of the rave subculture, with an extremism and international flavor that makes it unique. So it's a double culture-shock, I summarize to the voice, and wait expectantly for some sign of satisfaction.

Silence.

Okay, I plead, trying to engage some sort of dialogue, I'm still here because I want to explore the scene. You know, get beyond the tourists and find the source of the Goa mistique. Even though it's obviously pretty dead here compared to what it must be like in the height of the season, there are enough people where *something* must be going on.

Nice rock carving on Anjuna Beach.

Every night, for example, there are dj's spinning Goa trance at the Nine Bar until ten o'clock. When the music shuts off, everybody gets on their motorcycles and drives away in different directions. Where are they going?

Often, though, there's a party being held somewhere else so the nine bar doesn't bother opening. I stumbled on one being set up in a small grove of twisted trees. The massive speakers for the sound system had just begun pumping out the beats, one after another, one-hundred-forty per minute. A small crew was putting the finishing touches on the space: stretching fluorescent string between trees to form geometric patterns, painting psychedelic designs on the trees with a temporary fluorescent paint.

Painting the town psychedelic.

Having been yearning for some creative outlet for several days, I volunteered to help paint trees. Thinking of it just now brought to my mind's eye an image from Alice in Wonderland: the Queen's soldiers, in the form of personified playing cards, with their brushes and buckets painting the trees. I don't remember why they were doing it, perhaps the Queen was throwing a rave.

Goa Trance in Goa Trees.

While the group setting up the party was comprised entirely of foreigners, the business of concessions went to the Indian locals. A bar was set up, selling beer, soda, and shots of liquor. Mixed drinks were Do-It-Yourself, made by adding your shot to your soda bottle. As afternoon turned to evening, more and more chai ladies appeared, carrying their wicker mats, gas burners, and assortments of snacks and cigarettes. By nightfall there were chai stations scattered everywhere around the central dance area, islands created by lanterns and inhabited by resting ravers. The black-lights, meanwhile, lit up the painted trees and glowing clothes, recognizeable from the many shops.

But there must be more, I insist to my very patient (or sleeping) listener; I can go to a dance party without going all the way to India. Surely it's not just the weather and the beaches that draw everyone here.

Wednesday brings the flea market to Anjuna, attracting the bulk of the surrounding area's shop keepers for selling, and tourists for the spectacle, if not for the shopping itself.

Allison, my first travel friend in India, at the Wednesday Market in Goa.

I went with Allison, a Canadian I'd met at the party the evening before when she was swinging her poi-pois to the music. Being a girl, she has a genetic advantage over any boy when it comes to shopping. But the gap between my considerable lack of experience and her impressive bargaining skills was very apparent -- while we both spent roughly the same amount of money, she somehow ended up walking away with about four times as much stuff as I did. Note to self: must remember to practice shopping and thinking at the same time.

I finally gave in to the peer pressure and rented a motorcycle. I think I was the only person without one, and walking makes you a constant target for offers of, "Motorbike? Good price!" I got a little sky-blue scooter with no rear-view mirror, bad brakes, and it stalls going downhill. The most exciting characteristic, apparently in common with all scooters in these parts, is that the brightness of the headlight is proportional to how fast you are revving the engine. So going downhill at night is a triple adventure for me -- if I go too fast I can't stop, but if I go too slowly I can't see anything and the engine dies.

View from the ruins of a fort in Vagator.

My first adventure with my new set of wheels was a trip with Allison to Arambol, a beach to the north, reputed to be particularly beautiful and less developed. We made a wrong turn on the way back, which gave us the dubious opportunity to drive through a real city with real traffic. Nothing like confronting your mortality on a sky-blue scooter to top off a day at the beach.

The left side of your brain, claim the men with sharp knives and cat scanners, processes linear information, while the right side operates in a more holistic fashion. Experiments show that the left brain, when seperated from the right, retains language skills, while the right brain remembers song lyrics.

Last night I was invited to a jam with Laurent, who noticed me playing didgeridoo after the party. The location felt like I imagine an opium den to feel. It was in a side room of a crowded restaurant, the floor covered with cushions and mats rather than tables and chairs. Smoke was constantly billowing from the chillums being passed around, the smell of hashish and tobacco coming through the air in waves. Laurent played his doumbek and Scott played a jews harp and vocals in a style strikingly reminiscent of a Roland 303, obviously heavily influenced by electronic music. It was quite amazing really. I felt as if I had infiltrated an inner circle of creativity in the touristy Goa scene. Unfortunately my didgeridoo playing was not in the groove. At one point Laurent said to me, "Don't just blow it, let it come out of you." I was crushed. I knew what he meant -- play with your right brain, not your left. But how? Answering this question for myself might be my single biggest challenge in life.

An old Far Side cartoon just appeared in the slide show in my head. The caption is explaining the right/left brain dichotomy, and the little boy, who is a genius computer hacker, topples over to his left side.

The voice has remained quiet during my soliloquy, letting me explore for myself the possible answers to its question. Far from giving me a gold star, I do however sense a gentle nod. I listen carefully for the hint of a snore.