Goa
We are now in Goa. The weather is in the 80s, sunny, and low humidity – beautiful beach weather. Goa in Sanskrit means cattle, and in this area cows and bulls were used for all field labor. This area was ruled by the Portuguese and their influence is apparent in the architecture and in the food. The seafood is fresh and fantastic, and coconut is used in the food preparation, but it is not like Thai. The Portuguese converted many of the Indian people to Catholicism and in the southern part of Goa the people are 80% Catholic. There are Catholic churches and crosses everywhere. North Goa is completely different from the South. In the 70s, Ajuna Beach became a hippie haven and drugs, sex, nudity, and rock ruled the area. There are still some hippies but the government has cracked down on a lot of the drug trade; there are still a lot of clubs and parties. Mostly the north is crowded with tourists and the beaches are smaller than in the south. There’s lots of traffic and it can take anywhere from 30-40 minutes to go 10 kilometers. Many Israelis go to Goa after they serve in the army. The Indians call the area where they congregate the Israeli beach. Since I did not bring my “Free Palestine” T-shirt, I’ll pass on visiting there.
I met my guide, Satyajit (named after the director) at the hotel. He was very talkative and filled me in on the local politics (lots of corruption, payoffs in the forms of flat screen televisions, washing machines, and of course rupees – same as US). He laughed when I told him the story of the local PG County politician whose wife was discovered trying to stuff $80K in her bra when the police came to arrest them. He drove me to my cooking lesson, which was a little over an hour away. He said that although India is the largest democracy, the government is for the government and the people are there to serve it or suffer. On the way to the lesson, Satyajit explained the Portuguese architecture and how they ruled Goa after independence from the Brits in 1947. The Indians guided by Jawaharlal Nehru (1st Prime Minister) launched a land attack against the Portuguese to reclaim Goa and it was not until ‘61 that Goa was free.
Also the Hindus look down on the Catholics; they are viewed as a lower caste because most of them only converted in the beginning by force, for better jobs, or other material reasons. The Catholics also worship like Hindus. The roadside is spotted with small decorated shrines where devotees leave alms to honor the saints. I believe I saw one for the Patron Saint Padma Lakshmi (or at least the shrine she set up for the village to pray for another season of Top Chef). Satyajit’s wife is Catholic and it has caused many problems with his family who are Hindu. He told me he basically lives separate from them so he can have peace, but he misses his family and his mother’s cooking tremendously. He also told me that he enjoys cooking, but his food is not always so good because he overdoes it with the spices.
I arrived early for the lesson, so I was taken for a tour of the Alila Diwa Hotel. It is a lovely property, very Zen. I wish I had stayed there instead of the Lalit Intercontinental. The Lalit hotel we are at is just ok. It has a large beach attached (which the Alila Diwa does not, they have a tram that takes the guests to the beach 10 minutes away), but the hotel itself is too large, the food is not great, and the design is pretty nondescript. The most entertaining part is the infomercial that plays on the television upon arrival that boasts the story of the owner’s life to the tune of My Way. If booking, avoid the Lalit Intercontinental and I would go so far as to say all Lalit hotels.
The cooking lesson at Alila Diwa was soooooooooooooo fun. The kitchen was gorgeous and extremely clean. I learned to make vegetable curry with coconut milk and prawn curry with a masala paste and shaved coconut. Both were equally delicious. The executive chef gave me a certificate for completing the course and will email the recipes to me; in return I promised to send him recipes for New York Cheesecake (he loves NY) and for Red Velvet Cake (which he thought sounded intriguing). We sat down to enjoy the meal and had a discussion about food, cooking using traditional slow methods, the onion shortage, using local ingredients, and finally the chefs on television who are often big on personality, but not on talent (particularly Nigella Lawson and Rachel Ray).
My guide came to pick me up, but there was so much food left he sat down to join us in the feast. The chef took his leave and Satyajit and I sat and talked more. It is always fun to break bread with someone because that is when people truly open up and share. From him I learned what life is truly like being a tour guide in Goa. Similar to being a waiter/bartender in NY (or at least when I was there), the company pays the employees a pittance and the guides rely heavily on tips for their existence. Note to anyone who travels here and has a guide – be generous. Goa used to be the No. 1 place for tourism, but it has now dropped to No. 12 due to the heavy influx of tourists from Russian and other former communist countries. He said they are loud, rude, drunk, break up hotels, gorge themselves on the food, and treat the locals with little if any respect. Veta and I witnessed this behavior in our hotel. As a result of their antics, many tourists from other countries have opted not to come to Goa and instead head to Kerala for a more pleasant environment. (We are headed there next) Also, the Russian Travel Agents cheat their clients by working out deals with the Indian merchants to triple the prices for the Russian tourists so that the agents can share in the profits from all sales. The Russian agents make the local guides work all hours taking their clients to clubs at night, but tell their clients not to tip the local guides. Satyajit told me he and the other guides hate to get Russian groups for this reason. They are killing tourism in Goa and he makes very little when they come. The most disturbing for him was the increase in prostitution and gambling on bull fights (bulls fight each other to the death), which the Russian tourists enjoy and ask for when they come.
On a pleasant note, he shared photos of his wife and daughter. He wants his daughter to have a great career. He said he prefers daughters because they are more loving and loyal. He has high hopes for her, but realizes he can only give her advice, and the choice is ultimately hers to make. Funny, we passed a tree that had been turned into a roadside shrine to Ganesh because the local people thought a low branch resembled an elephant trunk.
Veta had some spa treatments while I went to my cooking class. I did allow myself some time to sit by the pool and swim in the Arabian Sea. While lounging on the beach I saw an Indian woman in a sari carrying her purse, her son, and a bag of their stuff for the day. Her husband strolled unencumbered by her side happily chatting away. They stopped by the water’s edge and he stripped to his underwear handing his wife each piece of his clothing. She dutifully held his clothes with all the other stuff. He took their son from her arms and the two merrily played in the water while the wife stood by in the heat watching them and guarding their things. Whoever wrote the song “It’s Hard Out There for a Pimp” obviously never bothered to observe the life of the Hos. From the water he hollered for her to take a photo of them frolicking in the sea. She did; then he hollered for her to get him a towel and a bag for his wet things. She went off and returned with both. He then walked to her, put some wet things in the bag and handed it back to her. The three walked off. The husband and son strolled without a care in the world while the woman struggled and trudged through the sand toting all their bags. I do not write this to say poor Indian women; I write this to say poor women in general because this scene happens in all cultures and countries.
I got a chuckle as a camel and a horse strolled down the beach. Of course they were working, as everyone in India has a job whether it’s as an actual employee or self-created. Two men were hawking rides on the beasts of burden to the lazy tourists.
Later that evening, Veta and I drove for 1 ½ hours to Martin’s Corner for dinner. I was told that I could not stay in Goa without dining at Martin’s. Soooooooooooooooo. I have to say that the food lived up to the hype. I was expecting an old Mama Leone’s type restaurant, but the food was great!!!! I had chicken chili to start (bits of extremely tender marinated chicken and sautéed with onions and lots of sliced green chilies (spicy and yummy). I finished with the garlic butter prawns, which were heavenly. The butter and garlic sauce was so thick it looked like a yellow mustard coating. Good god they were phenomenal. By the end I was drunken with food. I was so full it was hard to breath. I am rancid with the sweet and pungent odor of garlic. I feel sorry for the person who sits next to me on the plane. Martin’s Corner is a definite favorite. Cars upon cars piled up in the skinny street while the hungry masses clamored for a table, but the wait staff is very nonchalant and take pride in watching the lines of people awaiting a table.
Veta and I had a great seat with a fabulous view of the door. We entertained ourselves playing “guess the nationality” of the people who entered. All the while, our game was serenaded by a one-man band/guitarist who played and sang 80s elevator music and soft rock. To play the game we had to engage in a lot of racial profiling: If they were brown, they were Indian; If the woman had cotton-candy hair, high heels, and a disappearing skirt, she was Russian; if they were smiling like freaks and looking around wide-eyed, they were Americans; if the man was over 6 feet and had a big belly, he was Russian; If the couple was thin with chicly knotted scarves, French; Glum-faced, English. It’s funny, but we were right 95% of the time. The really fat people were always a tossup whether they were American or Russian.
On the ride home a massive spider scampered across the roof of the car just above my head. I shrieked; the driver reached back and scooped it in his hand and threw the spider out the window…all without breaking. Crazy!
Tomorrow we head to Kerala.