I’m Going Back Someday…
this is the eighth entry of my travelblog, stardate 2004
Monday, November 29, 2004
After such an overwhelming experience at Palitana, and a draining fortnight in Mumbai and part of Gujarat, my mind started turning away from the howling second-class buses in Rajasthan and towards a little paradise fishing village in the Arabian Sea. The place is known as Diu, and it exists as an anomaly in the state of Gujarat for more than one reason. First of all, it is one of several port towns along the west coast of India that was settled by the Portuguese, and because of this the city of Diu, on the island of the same name, retains the charm of colonial architecture and narrow, labyrinthine streets that I would normally associate with Europe. The town has an abundance of narrow enclaves and brightly colored verandas that give it a feeling of a world separate from India, which was what I was needing– a sort of vacation within a vacation.
Secondly, it is a universe away from the crowded, dusty streets in Ahmedabad: like many seaside towns, it is imbued with a mellow, lighter side of life feeling. Even the music was more forgiving and softer. The autorickshaws weren’t honking, the goats weren’t bleating, the snuffling pigs weren’t eating everything in site. All was harmonious: everyone had a smile for me that came from their heart.
The third, and possible one of the most notable differences to a road-weary and parched traveler, is that it is a oasis in a sense in that it offers beer and liquor in a state that is otherwise dry. Throw in a tariff-free beer market that makes Kingfisher at least half the price of a brew anywhere else in India, and you’ve got a recipe for beach bum paradise.
I rolled up after a deafening, butt-numbing bus odyssey from Palitana to Bhavnagar, and then from Bhavnagar down the coast to the island; I’d heard by the traveler’s grapevine that the motel known as Georgie’s by the locals, known by the name Hotel Sao Tome Retiro in Lonely Planet, was the cheapest, best bet for the budget traveler. My autorickshaw driver, who in thirty seconds of conversation had let me know that he liked the US because, “They pay you there,” dropped me off at the base of a large hill looking up to a huge, monolithic cathedral called St Thomas. Formerly a working Catholic Church, it was now the site of the Diu Museum, and looking up there, he pointed and said “Georgie’s.” Having been the subject of autorickshaw driver-cum-tout trickery, I conveyed some obvious disbelief towards the fact that I would actually be staying in an old cathedral. He read my mind and commanded, “Come,” all but leading me by the hand up the steps to the hostel.
This was indeed the place. I got there and saw him, George D’Souza, the eternally cheerful cherubic patron saint of mellow hostel hosts, wearing a dhoti with a black Bob Marley t-shirt. We looked at each other with momentary recognition, but before verbal contact could commence, I was attacked by a mad mob of Indian vacationers emerging from the Museum. The cameras flashed, the handshakes were administered, I kissed the button-eyed baby; I’m sure I had won their vote. After all, I had gotten pretty good at it, being on the campaign trail at this point a little more than three weeks.
One teenage girl lagged behind them. My experience had taught me that the reluctant, shy ones were usually waiting to get a chance to actually converse with me in English. I’m usually a good sport about this, because, jeez, I should be speaking Hindi or Gujarati with them.
It usually starts with a typical, “Your name?” moves on to “Your place?” and moves on into further levels of banality, but this conversation was special. First of all, I noticed that she was wearing the western bluejeans and t-shirt combo, which broke from the tradition of the sari which her mother wore, and at the same time, she spoke pretty advanced English for a native. Her parents were standing behind her as she spoke to me, swelling with familial pride as she formed her first words . She looked up at me through modern, “hi-fi” western oval glasses.
“Could you answer a question for me?” she asked.
“I can try,” I answered haltingly. She led me into the Museum, which had about fifty wooden statues representing a fraction of the universe of Catholic Saints. We paused in front of a small visage of Saint Sebastian, eyes ogling the sky, arrows removed from his body by vandals years before.
Then she laid it on me. “Are these all Gods?”
I guess she thought as the Westerner, I could make sense of this strange, rather death-obsessed religion filled with people who suffered, the most revered being the King of Sufferers, that skinny longhair who looked like he was in need of serious transfusion.
All of a sudden I was through the looking glass, seeing Christianity from a Hindu’s perspective. everything shattered out of context for me. I had to giggle a little, not because she’s asked a silly question, but because she had inadvertently stumbled across a question that would challenge my reality. Let’s face it, if these were gods, wouldn’t they be a sorry excuse? I mean, in Hinduism, you got Ganesh, a bigger than life happy go lucky elephant god who gets all the babes; Kali, who, like Shaft, is the ultimate bad muthaf***er who will lay your ass to waste, and Vishnu, the blue dude salvation of the world who has a thousand names, and all the conquering firangs can come up with are these pasty, three foot-tall gnomes who look slightly constipated? Man, in a contest, there would be no contest.
I had to come up with my best answer quick, despite my swimming brain.
“Uh, no, their not Gods. Their like, uh, gurus –teachers.”
She nodded in appreciation. No more questions, your honor. I was sweating a little. The last thing I needed was to engage in a theological defense of a religion I knew little about with a precocious thirteen year-old. I mean, I still have a smidgen of pride left in here somewhere.
It was time to get with George, the man, and get the accommodations hookup. As I passed into the yard east of the Cathedral, I saw Georgie fiddling with coals in a massive fire pit. I felt I was in the presence of culinary greatness. I had heard about his famous cookouts, and knew that I wouldn’t be partaking in his Goan style seafood, but I just had to watch the master in action. I’d also heard him talking to a traveler earlier about their lack of accommodations. I figured if I buttered him up with idle chatter about his culinary prowess, perhaps some magic could happen. Because in India, I’ve noticed, magic awaits those with patience.
We talked about spicing, oils, and different types of whitefish, and shark, and I showed special appreciation for the potatoes and mixed vegetable he had cooking up in the kitchen. We talked herbs, spices, and chewed fat on the story of the genesis of this special little hostel by the sea he had going. It is a fascinating little story, but I won’t go into it here. After all, this is my blog– let Georgie do his own.
Long story short– It was the last weekend of what seemed an eternal Diwali season, Diu was a favorite tourist destination and all the other rooms in town were full or cost $20 a night (which for India was mighty steep considering my accommodations were clocking in around $1.50 a night). And it was also true that he was full up, but he said he would make a exception for me, like he had done a few others earlier: we could sleep on the roof of the cathedral, bedding and sheets provided, for 50 rupees a night, which would making it a whopping cost of $1.10 per! True, this was a masterpiece of understatement, with no sink, privacy, a communal bathroom for fifteen, and a night under only a roof of stars, but the accommodations were taken care of. My good travel karma continued on. Rock.
The weekend was all I was hoping it would be– with a rented moped, I puttered solo along the nine kilometers of unspoiled southern coast, eventually finding empty beaches (Gomptimata for all you wayward travelers) that could allow me to body surf in total isolation-elated glee; drinking the bottles of Kingfisher with the locals and their kids, eating fantastic Gujarati thalis, and avoiding the doodoo dreadlocked, dope-smokin’ hippy vermin to the best of my ability. Coming out of it, I was fully charged and ready to take on the wilds of Rajasthan. And I have you, dear Georgie, to thank for it. Namaste, my brother.