Gokarna
Upon arriving at the train station in Karwar, we hired a taxi to take us to Gokarna, about a one-hour drive away. The drive through the countryside was similar to the other taxi rides we had taken (more on that in a bit), but for the first time in India, we were witness to the concept of stray cows. A bit unnerving at first, the sight of lazily lumbering bovines interrupting traffic with their slow road-crossings and zero-fucks-given attitudes has since become quite normal.
While in Gokarna, another pleasant beach town with minimal crowds, we stayed on Om Beach, so named because it’s shape resembles an Om symbol. It’s by far the most popular and picturesque of the Gokarna beaches and the wave-less water is perfect for swimming. Unlike some other spots in India, Western and Indian tourists mingle freely; there’s no weird beach segregation. Every day at about 5:30, dozens of people congregate on the middle part of the Om to grab a sundowner and watch the sun set over the rocks and the water. Similar to Varkala, we spent our time sunbathing, swimming, eating, and enjoying the beautiful views and weather.
Goa
After four sun-drenched days in Gokarna, we hired another taxi to take us to Vagator, Goa, about a four-hour drive. Now seems as good of a time as any to describe the inter-city roads that we’ve seen for many, many hours from the backseat of a number of taxis. I had mentally prepared myself for Indian traffic by thinking of Cambodia; in some ways, Indian traffic is not as bad and in other ways it’s more chaotic. The roads and shoulders are filled with speeding cars, puttering auto rickshaws, motorbikes weaving in and out of traffic while carrying women in brightly colored dresses, screaming ambulances, smoke-belching buses built like tanks, and pedestrians navigating all of this as they cross the road in a real-life version of Frogger. Road markings might as well be nonexistent as any part of the pavement is fair game for passing at any speed and at any time. As we passed trash fires and felt our backs getting sweaty in the dry heat, we watched vehicles chaotically swerve around each other, avoiding accidents or dismemberment by mere inches.
And the honking! Honking has a much different use in India than it does in the West. Everything from passing to approaching an intersection to seeing a pedestrian results in a honk. It basically means “I exist”. I honk, therefore I am. In fact, most trucks and auto rickshaws have a message on the back instructing drivers to “Please sound horn” or something similar. I’ve heard some very inventive horn noises as well, like the automobile manufacturer ripped out a small snippet of a high-bpm trance track, looped it, and cranked up the volume to an obnoxious level. Needless to say, with every driver constantly using one hand for steering and one hand for honking, the Doppler effect is alive and well and ubiquitous in India.
Once in Goa, we found ourselves overcome with the slow and tranquil pace of life; our 4-day stay very easily became a 12-day stay when we realized how delightfully lazy our days could be. Goa is quite touristy, so at times it didn’t feel like we were in India. The Portuguese influence leads to interesting visuals; for instance, imagine a very Indian scene of green rice fields and a line of palm trees in the distance, then add a bright white church in the foreground. This is absolutely correct for Goa. The towns here have lots of great restaurants (mostly catering to Westerners), quite a few beaches (of varying quality), and trance or house parties every night. Lots of tourists fill their days with these activities alone, with a possible sprinkling of yoga or Pilates.
The Saturday night market, accessed by a clogged chokepoint of a small road, was a very crowded affair where tourists could get their fill of colorful textiles and clothes, teas and spices, carved wooden statues, bags, shoes, and jewelry. Ashvem Beach, arguably the nicest in the state, was full of sunbathing Russians on holiday, sipping drinks under their beach umbrellas. A typical trance party at Hilltop was full of India-partial Western travelers – no shortage of dreadlocks, bare feet, or body odor here – exhaling clouds of smoke and mindlessly shuffling their feet to the monotonous music.
Though the lazy days and beach and pool time were fantastic, I sought out a more philosophical or spiritual experience, something I figured I should have at least once while in India. The experience came in the form of Krrish, a spiritual guru in Calangute and also the uncle of one of my very good bay area friends. I went to Krrish’s family’s home one afternoon and we talked for hours over some lunch, cake, and, of course, several cups of masala chai. Krrish is a non-religious philosopher and guru and provides his clients with guidance on a variety of issues, from marriage problems to substance abuse to the meaning of life. After some small talk about travel and our mutual connection, we talked for a while about various perspectives of spirituality and his ideas and advice for what my next moves in life should be. It was a very productive conversation and Krrish’s words have given me a lot to ponder. It was also a really good feeling to have some of my personally cultivated views on life validated by someone who spends most of his time thinking about such things.
Mumbai
After twelve lazy days in Goa, it was finally time to leave and catch our flight to Mumbai. We had initially planned on taking the train again until we realized that the flight was faster, cheaper, and more convenient, a rarity in the world of travel (or anything, really). After getting an auto rickshaw to Khar Station, walking through the neighborhood to our Airbnb, having an incredibly satisfying shopping experience at Santacruz Station, and eating a ridiculous feast for dinner, we felt like we were in real India again.
Before even arriving in India, I had reached out to Neha, a friend of mine from Riverbed who had moved back to India within the past few years. When I told her that we were thinking of traveling to Mumbai, she immediately invited us to her Indian wedding celebration, which was to be held on March 1st, the night before my 30-day tourist visa would expire! Ayu and I happily agreed to attend, so on the Friday afternoon before the party, we stopped by the family’s beautiful home to see Neha, catch up, meet some of the family, and watch the women – Ayu included – get their henna.
Saturday was our only real sightseeing day in Mumbai, so we hired a taxi to take us to Colaba to see the Taj Mahal Palace and the Gateway to India. The rain started and stopped throughout the day, so traffic was worse than usual; we even saw a handful of accidents during the day, something we hadn’t seen at any point anywhere in the country. Since the weather wasn’t cooperating, we ended up having a very long (and overpriced) afternoon coffee and snack at the Taj Mahal Palace before embarking on another long taxi ride back to our place in Bandra West. One of the most interesting parts of the ride was driving along the waterfront – which reminded me of the Embarcadero in San Francisco – and watching all the couples on benches and groups of friends horsing around. Many of the couples were engaged in acts of PDA, which greatly offended my Indian sensibilities. Okay, okay, as an American, I wasn’t offended, but as someone who’s traveled a lot in Southeast Asia recently, I found myself slightly taken aback.
Also, Indians don’t use umbrellas. Why? Why do that to yourselves? We have the technology!
We peppered our lazy Sunday with some last minute shopping for the wedding celebration until it was time to actually get ready and head out. The celebration was not a regular Indian wedding since the couple had “eloped” to San Francisco a month or so prior. This party was closer to a Western-style wedding reception for the enjoyment of the couples’ friends and family in India. Over the course of the evening, we ate probably three meals’ worth of delicious food, danced to dozens of Indian songs we don’t know the words to, and drank half a dozen shots of (… shudder …) Jager bombs out of a teapot that was forced into our faces by some of the waitstaff. How can I say no to hard alcohol poured directly into my mouth out of a teapot in India? I can’t, which is why I blacked out for portions of the rest of the evening and had a phenomenal hangover the next day. Totally worth it though!
With a relatively minimal amount of Indian bureaucratic nuisances and (physically) pushy travelers, which were very much appreciated as we fought through the fog of our hangovers, we boarded our flights to Delhi and Kathmandu to start the next adventure: Nepal!