The Goan Paradies

When external agents such as wind and water remove soil and rock from the surface of the earth we call it erosion. There are different types, splash, gully, sheet…. Geography explains this for us.  But what geography fails to recognize, are the new kinds of erosion that are getting added to the list, erosion of the culture and values of a place, of course not geographically but through a much more tedious process -  the  growing ignorance of the human mind.

That ignorance was hogging the limelight when I visited home this one more time. As I took in the salty fragrance of the sea shore and felt the comforting breeze from the swaying palm brush against my face, I knew I was home. But then I made my first mistake – to open my eyes. The sight that greeted me pushed away that feeling of being home away into oblivion. Its place was taken by horror as I painfully watched the glittering sands losing its sheen as the piling mount of Bacardi bottles hid their rendezvous with the sun and screwed my face to the ghutka flavours that now adorned the squeaky clean streets. Yes, erosion was in its best form in the tiny state of Goa.

However short this trip was, I meant to travel. Reacquaint myself with the beaches I grew up along and explore what I could of the coast line – All that was my childhood and all that so many across the country create a hullabaloo about.  This was the second mistake I made.

Was it Miramar and Colva or Chowpatti that I visited? It was hard to make them out anymore. Covered with people all over, if there were no feet, the space was covered with litter. From the corner of my eye I could see the locals shying away from the crowds and enjoying a quiet moment along the outskirts of one beach, but at others they were driven away completely.

Russian menu boards are a common sight
(www.goan-net.com)

Tourists dared the savaging high tide waters, turning a deaf ear to the warning calls from the lifeguards. After much fun, dipping around, the sight changed over to the public toilets. Clad in towels and accessorized with beer bottles, there were people everywhere, trying to wash of the sands from their bodies but ignoring the filth they created all around. But what stood out the most, to etch more horror on to my mind was watching a five year old inch into the deep waters completely unaware of the dangers that lay ahead. After all, he was but a child… born to ignorant parents who just looked on. It took five desperate warnings from the guard to make the father lift his lazy behind and make his son return. Five calls where there should have been none. Waters, be they Goan or any other, need to be respected and feared. As much as they soothe and calm the soul, they can turn the fury on and swallow you down. A simple fact usually ignored. Lady luck had been sitting right next to those parents, only if they knew enough to appreciate her presence. That day the water looked angry and not as serene and friendly as I remembered it to be. Was it the growing disrespect that had come its way that made it so? I can only imagine but truly never know. I looked away, that was all I could do.

Then I committed the third and probably the worst mistake of all. I decided to discover the Anjuna Flee Flea market. As we crossed Saligao and headed towards Anjuna, it felt like entering a different world. The Goa I had always known seemed to be left behind, and the Goa I saw emerge was nothing but new to me. More than locals, I came across foreigners on the roads, in the cars next to us and all around. No they weren’t tourists, not anymore. We had slipped into that role. As we drove around in those areas, we came across shacks which the Goan beaches are known for. But these were different, on the boards outside each shack the menu was written in English, and Russian. Yes, you read me right. If only it had stopped there.

Anjuna Flea Market
(www.siliconindia.com)

We finally reached the flea market, the anticipation which had tapered down, suddenly shot up. I had heard about the origin of the market from my uncles and aunts, the bazaar that took place when home bound foreign tourists would sell the stuff they couldn't take along for the lack of space or money. With that image in mind, I entered the hustle and bustle. The market was huge and the stalls countless. I strained my eyes but found it hard to find any tourist selling their wares, instead there were tribal’s from “they-only-know-where” to be seen all around. Slightly dampened but nevertheless eager we waded through the shops only to experience what it must feel like to be an outcast in life. It was not just us; anybody with a slightly brown skin was ignored. However politely we spoke to the hawkers, we were ignored. If any of us were privileged enough to receive their attention it was to be glared at or be cursed. Most domestic tourists seemed unmindful of the treatment meted out to them but then they were too busy enjoying their new found “freedom”. Only the white skin was welcome with greetings written as well as spoken in Russian. It was a shocking experience, watching the tribal's speak fluent Russian and accented English as they sold tiny figurines worth no more than Rs 300 for thousands of rupees. No wonder we were not wanted. There were a few locals who managed a few stalls, all giving us helpless looks when asked about what was going on. To cut a long story short, we were the strangers and heavily outnumbered.

Subdued but angry I returned home to the news of illegal encroachments on beaches by hotels and illegal purchases of land by celebrities. Real estate honchos gaining back door entry to build their “villas with a serene and majestic view” without any consideration for the landscape that provided the serenity or hotel chains illegally claiming land and beaches within no development zones - It wasn't a particularly bright day.

Erosion it was, of a beautiful place known for its squeaky clean beaches and abundance of nature. Erosion it was, of the the respect it ought to be given and of the culture inherent to the place. Erosion it was, of its soul and mere existence.

Random incidents these; but all adding up to a rather worrying future – one that is being created not only by ignorant tourists but also by greedy politicians and illegal immigrants. There is a lot being said and beaten around on this topic, but while the debates and discussions exhale the frustrations built within, Goa continues to be smothered. While we spare a few moments here and there to wonder over the ifs and buts, the condition of the state deteriorates, hoping for relief but losing the race.

My vacation was finally over and I headed back to Bangalore with heaviness in my heart and a wave of homesickness washing me over. Nauseated by all that I had seen, I now worried about what would await me the next time I went home. How fast would its identity fade away? Would I transform into a stranger in my own home?

I left Goa, knowing I would be missing a lot more than just my family while I was away.