India
Holi – The Festival of Colours
We are now in Arambol, a place just north of the last one, Ashvem Beach, where we recently said goodbye to Ben and Shreya.
This place is teeming with tourists, dreadlock heads and Russians. So almost all the menus and signs are written in Russian.
At one point, a friendly but completely drunk guy starts talking to us in Russian. He talks incessantly for a quarter of an hour. And even steals Simon's beer, which Simon is glad about this time, because he doesn't like the beer. When our food arrives, he gets up, babbles something, and staggers away.
Today we dress in our oldest clothes to go out on the street. It's Holi, India's annual festival of colors. In the early morning, you can already hear the screaming of the kids outside. Annoying Goa music is blaring from the neighbor's decommissioned speakers.
We head for the beach. And already after the first bend, where there is a gnarly holy banyan tree, we are politely stopped. Hands full of purple powder are smudged on our faces. As always, we shake hands, wish each other "Happy Holi" and continue on our way, looking for the next victim who is already in sight.
Every few meters on the beach we are painted in all colors. When Simon goes for a swim to clean himself up and to provide a new painting canvas for the color-crazed, a 50-year-old Indian comes flying at me. Suddenly he is there and almost lands on top of me. I push him to the side. By then, three more guys are already standing in front of my view of the sea. With paint bags in their hands and "photo, photo" on their tongues.
One of the guys, who looks like a metalhead because of his long black hair and black shirt, explains to me that two of the three are deaf and dumb. We smear each other, take photos and they happily move on.
For me, all the totally open encounters are beautiful! You approach strangers without the slightest hesitation as if you've known each other for a long time, and you treat each other with respect.
The Indian nitwit is still sitting on the floor when Simon comes back and takes a photo of me. Such encounters, on the other hand, would not be called for. But in Goa, Indian men seem to could just eat up lonely white women. So one must not shy away from shouting no when reason does not help. These guys don't get it unless you bare your teeth!!!
Completely exhausted, wet from seawater, and slightly colored, we treat ourselves to a large Kingfisher beer and Tibetan momos.
Holi Festival
Holi is the Hindu spring festival. Many Hindus use it to welcome the new beginning of nature. At the same time, they celebrate the victory of good over evil.
This festival is attended by all Indians together, the caste system and social status disappear, and foreigners mingle with the locals – because splashed with bright colors, everyone looks the same.
Already on the eve of Holi Day, many Hindus gather together. A doll made of wood or straw is burnt. The doll is called Holika, named after the demonic sister of King Hiranyakashyap from Hindu mythology. She represents evil. The fire that burns her is supposed to put all evil spirits to flight, free the visitors of the festival from their sins and ignorance and remove old disputes.
The Cows of Agonda
We want to stay in Agonda in the very south of Goa for a week and book a spacious flat on Airbnb. The neighborhood where it is located reminds me of a mountain village with simple huts, stables, goats, chickens, and old people.
The flat itself is a shock. How can you even rent something like that to someone without any shame? The two armchairs and the sofa are broken, the seat cushion torn and creepy. The kitchen dirty and the pans so old that even I would buy new stuff. Luckily the bathroom and the bed are ok. But a week here in this hole? No thanks.
The same day we leave in search of a new place. Unfortunately, there are simply no rooms here where there would be room for anything else besides the bed. Everything is very cramped. The only flat we find is a large flat for 4-6 people, hence the price.
In the end, there are two rooms to choose from. Which one offers one foot more space? We can't decide, go out for dinner first, cancel our run-down home, and will decide tomorrow.
The next morning, the universe decided for us. One room is now rented.
The small town of Agonda consists of a two-kilometer-long road that runs parallel to the beach of the same length. The street is packed with jewelry, clothes, and spice shops as well as several restaurants and bars. As time goes by, we get to know people and cows.
Royal Enfield – The stylish way of getting around
For a thousand rupees (maybe $10) a day, you can rent one of these bikes, colloquially known as a Bullet. The rattling sounds great.
We drive inland, towards the south, because there are no police there. If you have the correct international driving license with the mark in the right place and the driver wears a helmet on his head, you normally have nothing to fear. Nevertheless, the heart beats every time the police are in sight (which is quite often), as it is as normal as there are stars in the sky for a tourist on a vehicle to be asked to pay up. We are lucky and get away without any harassment.
Inland there are several waterfalls and protected forests. But it has not rained for months. The waterfalls are just puddles and the forest is a dusty affair where all the animals have dug deep holes in the ground to hide from the heat.
So we just drive around. That's most pleasant anyway because of the wind. And the rattle of the engine is pretty awesome too.
Train to Kozhikode (Calicut)
We dare to take an Indian train! We think and book a ticket at the info office. Booking online only works, like so many things, with an Indian phone number, which we don't have. And which is also complicated to get. Indian bureaucracy proves to be rather exhausting.
Even buying something in a shop can lead to being asked to give your name, phone number, nationality, and so on.
This reminds me of the application for an Indian visa. We had to answer several pages full of questions. Including where our parents were born and which countries we have traveled to in the last ten years. We could hardly believe it. Who would want to read all that?
We imagine the train journey to be something like what we saw in movies. A mass of people all squeezing in and out of trains. And then pressed tightly together, sweating, the babies crying, traveling for nine hours like that through the dusty landscape. Anything but that is what awaits us.
There are completely normal conditions. We could also be on a train in Europe, were it not for the chai and biryani (rice dish) vendors. We have a six-seater compartment to ourselves.
A female traveler later tells us about her journey when she missed the connecting train and could only find room in the lower class. "We were not sardine to sardine, we were more like rubbery jellies intertwined."
What we learn is that if you cross the state in a taxi, there is an extra cost. You should aim for the station in the same state if it is not much further away. Booking your seat is a must, the earlier the better. Trains are booked up very quickly in India. We also chose direct trains, as they are often delayed and we didn't want to miss any connections.
Ramadan in the Village by the River
Room in the Mud House in Kayak Club, that's what the title promises on Airbnb. We plan to spend a week there, but only book a few days because the price seems a bit high. It turns out that the guys charge about a quarter of that when paid in cash.
The old house, renovated by the young Muslim gang of friends, belongs to Azim's grandfather. It stands somewhat elevated by the wide, warm (35 degrees) river, surrounded by coconut, banana, rubber trees, and other curious plants. Despite the considerable height of the banks, a few years ago the whole terrain and neighboring villages were flooded several meters high. The monsoon usually lasts from June until late September.
The troop of about 10 boys of almost the same age tinkers daily full of energy on decorations, new paths, and information boards.
We are in a mainly Muslim community. Ramadan begins in a few days and a dinner (iftar) with 60 people unknown to each other will take place here.
Azim finds two foreigners prominent enough for the iftar welcome video:
In Ramadan, one does not eat or drink while the sun is in the sky. So Azim and his friends are often low on energy during the day, they go out to eat at sunset, and at 10 o'clock in the evening, they are bursting with vitality.
That's when Azim with a cheeky smile on his face asks us to come with him to town for a spicy drink that makes your eyes and ears water (at least that's how he gestures). Sounds exciting. Of course, we go along. He still has a few rickety motorbikes standing around. "I'll take that one, the brakes don't work anymore," he winks at us. And we're racing off into the city.
As expected, I am the only woman far and wide. In the last few days, I have hardly seen any girls. It is absolutely a man's world. But I don't feel strange, because we are greeted happily by the young Indians crowding the bar and, of course, photographed. Masala soda is available here. You could think it was a beer bar at Oktoberfest. Only during Ramadan do these counters spring up to serve the hot, salty, sour drinks.
We have arrived in the less touristy and for us more interesting India. Today is Iftar at the Kayak Club. Every evening this month, as a result of all the social networks, people who don't know each other meet in one place to have dinner together. All day they cooked here at Club Riveka, brewed drinks from grapes and watermelons, and put the finishing decorative touches on the place.
Iftar
Breaking the fast is called iftar in Arabic. It is the evening meal taken by Muslims during Ramadan. Here in Kerala at least, iftar gatherings take place where people come together through social media, such as the widely used Instagram, and have a festive dinner together.
We spend the remaining days at the Riveka Club with fishing, henna, motorbike excursions, and kayak trips.
Time for Henna
The art of henna already impressed me at the wedding. How quickly and evenly the women applied the herbal concoction on the skin. I found henna cones in Agonda. So I tried it myself. Not so easy, you need a steady hand and the right pressure on the tube. Besides, not all dyes are the same. In Europe, artificially produced henna colors are forbidden because they are toxic. 100% henna is harmless, but it takes several hours for it to take effect.
Last stop: Kochi
We spend the last few days of India in a nice flat in Kochi. Enough space and not just a room that is mainly a bed is a must for us if we want to stay somewhere longer. The city is pleasant, with a small touristic center. With its cannons and buildings, it reminds us of a colonial city like Cartagena in Colombia.
At the Kathakali Cultural Center in Fort Kochi, there are several events every day, from martial arts and traditional dances to classical Indian music. So we head there one evening. We are the only guests. It is an improvisation of centuries-old South Indian music. A woman sings songs in rapid pitch changes, one musician plays the tablas, another mridangam.
Konnakol is the name of an old South Indian, extremely fast chant. I wonder if the singing tonight is a similar style. It is reminiscent of it, at least at times.
The music puts us into a state of trance. Soon I am only ears, absorbing the electrical charge of the sound waves until the vibration is felt throughout the body. An absolutely energetic full-body massage.
Our flight to Thailand is just around the corner. If we hadn't had to book it before arriving in India, we would have stayed here for a long time. We ask the djinn if we should just try to hide somewhere so we can stay. He answers:
Mhh... yes then, when we think about it: We do not. We don't hide in India. Because we can come back. ☺☺☺
Have you read the previous post about the wedding in Mumbai?
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