Why Would You Ever Go to India?

I find this is the most common question I get asked when people find out about my travels, and will add that it is only for India specifically that I get asked this question.  I generally get a very casual “Oh you’ve been to x? Cool.” dismissive/disinterested response for every other country I’ve been to.

And yet, when India is mentioned, I get a particularly vocal exclamation of surprise mixed with sprinkles of genuine confusion and intrigue.

I think the problem is that most (*cough white middle class) North Americans (*cough myself included before extensive reading) have just one picture that comes to mind when they think of India.  They only imagine it as a scorching hot shit hole that consists of solely dusty, garbage heaped, faeces lined streets that are filled with billions of starving, dirty people sauntering about, begging for money.  Just a lot of general dirt, shit, poverty, suffering, and heat in their minds.  Also rape.  Lots of rape.  North Americans know all about the rape that happens in India (*cough thanks media bias)

This “rape-thing” is probably the reason for the round-eyed look of horror I get when I inform them that I also went to India alone.  As a woman (*gasp).  For months.

So, whenever I hear the exaggerated surprise at my travels, I feel the pressing need to get up on my “white-girl-who’s-seen-the-world-differently-and-has-strong-opinions-about-it soapbox” and aggressively defend the country.  “It isn’t what you think – you’d be really surprised!  It’s actually so amazing and exotic and beautiful!!” I will proclaim.  (If any of you have ever been to India, you will know that this is a gross over-simplification and that it is only half true.  But you generally only get about 3 second of interest when talking with anyone about your travels so it’s become my classic “go to”.)

After my (rarely successful) attempts to persuade them of these facts, I am often the recipient of an under the breath “well you must have really wanted to go there”.

Honestly, I wish that were true.  I wish I had a beautifully motivating story about how I had dreamed of going to India since I was a small child, and then I had finally got the opportunity to go as an “adult” and it was a dream realized.  Or perhaps that I faced a bunch of challenges and then went off to India to find myself, and then I did find myself, and then I came back a complete person and that everything since then has been exclusively sunshine and rainbows.  (If any of you know me, you will know this is a gross over-simplification and that it is only half true).

I kind of wanted to go, but mostly out of curiosity.  And because I have this bizarre habit of “seeing what I can handle”.

In fact, the only reason the country was on my radar was because my dad had travelled there back in the 70’s, and I had a couple of friends with family there who spoke fondly of it.  However, the main reasons I ended up going were as follows: 1) I was already going to Nepal (which is conveniently and cheaply located right next-door), 2) I had a few extra months to kill before returning to work, 3) I originally had a man travelling with me and I wanted to capitalize on his presence by exploring the places I wouldn’t feel comfortable traveling alone, 4) I refused to accept the fact that I couldn’t go to the places I wanted to go as a woman alone once said man had left me in Nepal, and 5) I am somewhat impulsive and very stubborn (if not immediately obvious from points 1-4).

All of that being said, why I went to India was for the somewhat trivial reasons listed above.  But, after having gone, I would answer the question of “Why Would You Ever Go to India” very differently:

You would go to India because you want to know what life is like on the other side of the world, and you want to witness first hand how the majority of people on this earth truly live.  You would go because you want to see ancient temples rise up between newly constructed buildings, and you want to see extreme poverty juxtaposed with extreme wealth.  You would want to go to feel the overwhelming energy of cities that are bustling with the activities of billions of people.  You would go because you want to challenge your ideas of normalcy, and break the monotony of the consumer-driven, cookie-cutter, sheltered and bland Western life.  You would go to India because you want to understand just how colourful, flavourful, exotic, exhilarating, beautiful, agonizing, uncomfortable, ugly, and utterly raw life can be.  You would want to go to India because it will be at once the absolute best and absolute worst experience of your life.

I hope that throughout this blog I can showcase both the folly and the magnificence of this beautiful country.  I hope that it will inspire you to go, but mostly, I hope it will answer that question once and for all for anyone who is curious.

I Went for a Vacation in India and Found Myself Alone in “Little Russia” | Morjim, Goa – Part 1

I find that people often tend to underestimate themselves and their abilities.  I, on the other hand, am not one of these people.  In fact, I tend to have the opposite problem.  Why am I telling you this?  Well, my decision to go to Goa was the direct result of overestimating my ability to handle eating a salad in Delhi.  Let me explain:

In a nutshell, my desire for fresh vegetables was higher than my fear of foreign parasites at that point in my travels – I had been in Nepal and Northern India for three months, so I thought I would have developed at least some gut tolerance to the local bacteria by then.  I was horribly wrong.

I fell violently ill, vomited my guts out, and was a fevery weak mess – this made my original plan of hopping on a train and attempting to make my way to Amritsar totally unfeasible.  I had no intention of freezing my butt off any longer (yes, Northern India has a winter and it was freakin’ cold in Delhi) and I had zero desire to be on a train in my current condition.  All I wanted was to be warm, settled down, and to be able to eat white-person food again.

Sidebar – Where and what is “Goa”?

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Goa, it is India’s smallest state (not a city!) located in India’s South Western Region, and its Western Coast is completely lined by the stunning Arabian Sea (thanks wiki: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goa).  It is strongly influenced by Portuguese culture, and known to white tourists for its raging nightlife and yoga retreats.

I remembered hearing about Goa, but in my mind it was just this overly-touristy place where it was somehow always night time with just terrible club music blaring at all times.  I pictured a lot of bleach-blonde, overly-tan, rail-thin girls in poofy pants along with their man-buned, long bearded, tribal tattooed counter parts “opening their minds” and getting waay too messed up on booze/drugs every night.  Needless to say, I had zero interest in any of this.  However, I did know if it was a “touristy” place then I could find some white person food, some creature comforts, and some safe-feeling beach time while I recovered from my illness.

I read my lonely planet guide, checked out a few reviews on Trip advisor, and found a cheap hotel in Morjim (which I read was a quieter town in Goa).  When I google searched “Delhi to Goa”, I found an 8:30 am 2 hr 25 min flight there for the following morning, thought “fuck it”, and booked everything on the spot.  I was taking a vacation, of sorts, and I would be on the beach the next day!!

This didn’t happen.  I touched down at the Goa International Airport around 9:30 pm since my flight was delayed all day because Delhi was “foggy” (which is actually hilarious given that Delhi is one of the (if not the) most polluted cities in the world, so it’s literally always “foggy”).  When I stepped off the airplane I was completely distraught since I had 1) lost my beach day, 2) been unable to stomach any solid food, and mainly 3) been put in the situation where I had to take a taxi alone at night (which I feel apprehensive about literally anywhere in the world thanks to my unfortunate luck of having been born a woman).

As I grabbed my bags I was desperately eyeing up the crowd to see if anyone looked approachable enough to become my beach buddy/best friend or, at the very least, split a cab with me.  There was no one.  However, there was a pre-paid taxi booth at the airport, which is one of the greatest comforts as a tourist.  Just having the mild assurance that that you might not get ripped off, robbed, and/or raped really goes a long way.

When I first stepped out of the airport to get to my taxi I was blown away by how immediately “dewy” my skin became.  It was 35 degrees at night and it felt like I had just walked in to a jungle enclosure or a tropical flower exhibit at the zoo.  As we drove away from the airport I couldn’t believe how dark it was.  There were no street lights and not many other cars on the road (which was a huge contrast to the general crowdedness that I had gotten used to in Delhi).  The highway soon gave way to a windy, narrow, and bumpy little road that felt like it wasn’t even paved.  I couldn’t see anything, but I sensed that there were large trees surrounding me by listening to the slightly muffled chirps and hums of the large insects outside.  In spite of not being sure of any of the finer details of my surroundings, it was blatantly obvious that we were 1) driving through a jungle, and 2) that we were somewhere very remote.  This did lead me in to a small “I’m driving in to the middle of the jungle alone at night IN INDIA and no one knows where I am and what if my hotel isn’t open and what if I get kidnapped and what the heck am I doing and oh god oh god oh god how was I so stupid to think I could travel alone” panic spiral.  Fortunately, we arrived at my hotel before my full “fight or flight” response could kick in.

I could barely see the hotel from the road, but when I stepped out of the taxi I could see a locked gate with a large garden behind it.  In the compound there was a large white tent full of old metal chairs, plastic tables with cheep white table covers, and a small empty stage with a projector showing music videos for the shitty club music that was blaring from numerous speakers.  There was an old couple and two or three disgruntled looking men sitting at separate tables drinking “fancy tropical looking drinks” from curly straws clearly hating every second of their lives.  It had the same sad, desperate, empty atmosphere as any bar near closing time.  Next to the “all the fun” was a group of local men joking around while manning an outdoor grill/kitchen area.  I walked towards them and got ready to play yet another round of my classic travelling-solo-in-a-foreign-country game of “figuring out who the fuck actually works here”.

Sidebar – the “figuring out who the fuck actually works here” game

Uniforms and nametags aren’t really a thing in places like guest-houses, bus stations, etc., in India.  There are also lots of people everywhere at all times.  That, combined with not speaking the local language made it really hard for me to figure out who was an actual employee and who was just someone “hanging out” around them.  Basically I would always have to look around for someone who appeared to be working, and then eventually find my way to where the owner/attendant/person who could help me was.  Needless to say, I got a lot of large-eyed “who the heck is this woman and what is she asking me” deer-in-the-headlight looks from the locals who weren’t workers.  It was exhausting.

I asked them an insecure sounding “Hello… I booked a room for the next little while here…?”.  The total beef-cake-hottie who was working the grill smiled at me, and then a man with an adorable round face, a mushroom cut, and kind looking eyes said “I have a key for you!  It’s Daanaa right?  Follow me”.  Him and one of the other random men “working” there grabbed my bags and I followed them apprehensively up two sets of stairs.  I experienced another panic spiral because I was so damn alone and so utterly helpless, but this stopped when he opened up the door to my room.

I looked at it completely shocked – it was HUGE.  It was about two stories tall, had two queen sized beds (which is total overkill for little ol’ “sleeps-in-the-fetal-position-at-the-very-edge-of-the-bed” me), a large locking dresser (super practical), and a large bathroom complete with a showerhead (yay!), western toilet (yay!), shitty little window, and a sink with a small mirror (yay!).  It also had a large balcony that overlooked the dark and gloomy feeling garden/restaurant/dance-floor/karaoke club area.  He apologized profusely for the beds not having been made yet, to which I replied “that is totally ok, I booked about 24 hours ago and am just happy to be here”.  It was true:  I was feeling unreasonably accomplished for just having made it to my destination alone, and so happy to have arrived safely.  He stared at me for a bit too long – not in a rapey way, but in a “what is this white girl doing here alone” way – and then left.  This was a look that I would become intimately familiar with for the remainder of my travels throughout Southern India.  I made my bed, got in to my pj’s, and promptly passed out from exhaustion.

The next day I woke up to the gentle sound of birds chirping, and the smell of humid jungle and ocean air filled my lungs.  When I opened my eyes I could see sun beams creeping through the cracks in the windows and shining brightly in to my room.  It was a balmy 38 degrees and I was lying in a puddle of my own sweat.  Classic Southern India.

I walked out on to my balcony to finally take a look outside in the sunlight.  The garden of the hotel was a lush green, and the road approaching it looked as though it had been hastily paved atop the dusty red earth surrounding it.  The streets were lined with palm trees and vibrant red and purple flowers.  There weren’t too many other buildings near the hotel other than some small, brightly coloured houses spaced out along the road.  There were also a few typical, flashy looking stands with richly coloured clothes hanging and piled up out front of them.  I could also see a small dilapidated building with no door that said “SUPER MARKET” right across the street from me.  Everything looked just a little mismatched, thrown together, and slightly worn.

What really surprised me was how few people there were outside walking around.  It was already 10:00 am and I only saw two locals wandering slowly down the road.  The location was refreshingly quiet, and it had a real sleepy and somewhat deserted feel to it.

While I was breathing everything in, my gaze wandered to the hot gardener who was pruning the trees below me.  He caught me staring at him and smiled this confident, knowing, crinkly smile back at me.  I decided to return to my room promptly and hide in embarrassment (overly-handsome beefcakes tend to frighten me).  It was time to get it together and go to the beach anyway.

I B-lined to the gates to avoid Hot Gardener (that’s his name now) from noticing me, but Smiley Man (that’s his name now – I didn’t take a journal while I was in Goa so I forget everyone’s names… please don’t judge me) stopped me and exclaimed “Wheerree are you going?!  We have continental breakfast!!”.  I didn’t have the heart to tell Smiley Man that I was having trouble keeping solid food down because of a Delhi salad incident, so I sat down.

I looked around at my fellow tourists and, I have to tell you, it was not a pretty sight.  There was a Russian woman with alarmingly bright red hair and her bleach-blonde, emaciated looking daughter sitting at the table next to me.  At the adjacent table there was a portly Russian man in a Hawaiian shirt, cargo pants, and a fisherman’s hat.  There were two or three other unimpressed looking Russian families all silently sitting at different tables.  So, if anyone was wondering where Russian’s go for holidays, apparently it’s Morjim – it’s pretty much their Puerto Vallarta.

I smiled at the bright red haired woman and she scowled at me.  I decided immediately that I hated everyone and that I would not be making friends with the tourists at my hotel.

While I pondered my impending lonely beach stay in “Little Russia”, Smiley Man brought me my breakfast, which I was relieved to find out was simple toast and jam.  I pulled out my book while I ate to try to appear less awkward than I was, and then Hot Gardener sat down next to me.  My heart still feels like it’s in a vice even just writing this again – this man’s attractiveness apparently spans distance and time.  He sat there next to me all beautiful and charming, and spoke to me with an adorable accent while I struggled to eat and keep my toast down.  I secretly hoped he didn’t have as much of a grasp of the English language as he seemed to because I was really fumbling to find my words.  I was also sweating profusely throughout this encounter.  It was really effing hot there.

Anyway, I left breakfast feeling like the awkward white person that I am, and walked over to the beach to finally get some alone time.  I was really excited to just soak up the sun and not have to make any more forced conversation with strangers.  I couldn’t wait just relax, recover, and ponder a few things.

I followed the sandy trail behind my hotel through the palms and found that my “short cut” went right through someone’s restaurant to get to the beach.  So, after five whole minutes of escaping my awkward breakfast conversation, I found myself again making forced small-talk with the restaurant owner.  He was super friendly (which was a general trend of pretty much every person I met in India) but I just wanted to get to the beach and was too darn “polite” to end the conversation (stupid Canadianisms!).  After floundering through another hour of conversation, I finally said my “see you later!” and walked towards the beach.

I wove my way through the dozens of rows of beach chairs that supported the large, amorphous, oiled up bodies of the fat Russian tourists, and managed to find myself a somewhat secluded spot on the beach.  I set down my well-worn travel towel, and let out a huge sigh of relief.

I plunged my feet deeply in to the hot sand to enjoy the sensation of it brushing against my skin.  I scooped up a handful of the sand and let it sift away gently through my fingers.  I took in deep breaths of the humid ocean air.  I looked around at the small, wooden shops that lined the beach, and looked down further at all the small restaurants with beach chairs set out in front of them.  I gazed in to the deep blue Arabian sea, and listened to the waves crash melodically against the shores.  I smelt the saltiness of the air and enjoyed the feeling of the hot sun against my skin.  I was in heaven.  Hot, sweaty, sandy heaven.

And then the women came.

In most beach-side/tourist heavy locations in developing countries there are always people walking around, trying to sell you things on the beach.  In Goa women will walk along the beach offering massages, pedicures, manicures, and a lot of other random junk that nobody needs.  As much as I hate when people approach me and try to sell me things, I understand that this is how they make their living and that is absolutely fine.  However, this woman opened up her conversation with me with “Oh my god, where are your friends?!  Why are you alone?!  What is wrong?!”.

How am I supposed to answer that?

“Well you see, Miss, I had a friend that I was travelling with originally, but he left me in Nepal because I wouldn’t sleep with him.”  Or “Well you see, Miss, I’m just super abrasive and nobody likes me”.

But anyway, I politely explained to her that I enjoyed the freedom of travelling alone, I really enjoyed just reading books, and that I didn’t need to buy anything from her because I was perfectly happy as I was.  She didn’t buy it.  She looked at my feet and gasped: “Oh but look, your nail-polish is chipping and your feet are so rough!!”.

Again, how am I supposed to take that?

“Well you see, Miss, I’ve been travelling for quite a few months now and even though I’m not particularly concerned with trying to attract anyone right now I would really appreciate you not reminding me of how hideous I am at the moment”.

I ended up telling her that I had brought my own nail polish with me since I really enjoy painting my nails, and didn’t need her help.   To that she exclaimed “You are so polite!” and sat down next to me.  Again, I found myself fumbling through forced conversation.  Once the conversation died we sat there awkwardly in silence.  After about twenty minutes she asked me again if I wanted a massage, I said “NO!”, and she finally left.  I then spent about fifteen minutes feeling extremely guilty because somehow I felt like I was too rude to her.

I finally opened up my book again and began to read, and the women kept coming.  I got somewhat used to it, but when the local men started taking pictures of me as they walked by that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  It became all too apparent that reading my book alone on the beach was not going to be an activity I could enjoy here.

I got up, shoved my book and towel back in my bag, and began walking briskly along the beach.  I walked just fast enough that the women didn’t bother to try to sell me things, and just fast enough that all the stares and photographs being taken of me didn’t bother me as much.  I found the perfect pace to feel safe and be alone with my thoughts.

“Well”, I thought to myself, “It looks like you’ve landed yourself in Little Russia and you aren’t going to get the quiet beach time you were hoping for.  What’s next?”