There's a restaurant in Goa called The German Bakery, and it's typical of the western-Indian hybrid food which is so popular in this tourist town. It's not as extreme as some restaurants, which boast that they offer Chinese/ Israeli/ Thai/ Indian/ American/ Italian food (most of it mediocre) but you'll still find Pad Thai with your Dal, and both Cappuccino and Masala Chai. Not surprisingly, the German Bakery is almost exclusively populated by Western tourists, and judging by the burnt-out hippie look (the crusty hippies here are often German, interestingly enough) most of them are long-term Goan tourists. So I was a little surprised the other day when a table of Indians sat down next to us. One of them ordered his Cappuccino with Indian-accented English, but it quickly became apparent that the rest of the table consisted of Indian Americans, who you don't see often around here. They seemed vaguely annoyed with the place and kept asking a lot of questions in clipped tones, looking vaguely ridiculously in their goofy shorts and polo shirts (men and women both).
I didn't overhear this part, but my friend later related to me that they asked for Splenda and other artificial sweeteners for their coffee, and seemed incensed when none was forthcoming. The request was ridiculous of course -- they might as well have been inquiring about gym memberships in Mogadishu, artificial sweeteners to my knowledge simply don't exist in India, or at least not in Goa. So, today we met the Ugly American, which is not at all surprising except for the crucial irony that they were in fact Indian Americans in India acting the belligerent tourists.
The experience illustrated in an unexpected way the often uneasy marriage between east and west here, which invariably affects all Westerners regardless of how Indian-fied they try to become. I heard some Ashtangis talking about Auroraville, a small town near Chennai which was apparently founded as a sort of utopia by westerners as a respite from the western world. However, the Ashtangis told us how the beaches there are strictly segregated so the western women can walk around in bikinis or topless without being openly ogled by Indian men, a common phenomenon at Goan beaches. As westerners, we often feel we should be able to pick and choose what aspects of Indian culture we rub up against. I saw this in a former yoga instructor of mine, who completely fell in love with India while she practiced yoga in an affluent neighborhood in a city in south India. One night when we were returning home from dinner, our rikshaw driver stopped in a poorer neighborhood while he went off to find gas somewhere. She became intensely agitated, even angry, when she realized how destitute the neighborhood was -- and it wasn't even that bad by Indian standards -- wanting nothing more than to return to her little Indian island before the light and space of India really put the zap on her head (ten bucks to whomever gets that reference-- no googling permitted).
Meanwhile, I feel like I'm assimilating a bit better. At the very least, I've started to take on that monotone lack-of-affect demeanor that typifies so many of the yogis around here, especially the long-term ones, a condition brought on by an excess of yoga and heat and the total absence of stress. Driving a scooter through Goa has also become more entertaining than terrifying, and I'm now semi-pro at negotiating the cavalcade of ancient buses, cows, dogs, workers with goods balanced precariously on their heads, as well as other scooters and motorcycles, that can pop up out of nowhere like a nightmarish driver's ed video in which you have to slow down and speed up and loop around and veer wildly to the left to avoid buses that hog two-thirds of the tiny roads and avoid slamming over the speed bumps (called rumblers) that spring up randomly and are particularly treacherous at night because there's almost no artificial lighting on the streets.
I'm still practicing nearly every day, although I've moved to a different yoga studio where I take Mysore classes every morning. It's an infinitely more relaxed place, with no real sense of hierarchy, and in fact on my second day there, the instructor suggested I do second series -- which consists mostly of backbends-- in order to give my wounded hamstring a break. This is near heresy in Ashtanga circles, where you're generally not supposed to approach second unless you've mastered primary, and as a result I required some coaxing before I followed her suggestion.
Between second and an expert Thai Massage I received later that day, my hamstring seems to be healing much more quickly than I anticipated. For those of you unfamiliar with Thai Massage, in my limited experience, the Northern style consists of engaging pressure points (not unlike Shiatsu, but not quite as subtle) in combination with a series of vigorous stretches in which the massage therapist uses their entire body to push and pull you in various ways, including a hamstring stretch in which she positioned herself at my feet and pulled my leg toward with her hands while pressing down on my hamstring with her foot, which was one of those moments in which a seemingly gentle pressure produced a sensation that crossed over into pain pretty quickly. But it was the good pain when you know tension in the muscles is being released. Highly recommended, especially since it lasted two hours and costs me about 25 bucks, gotta love India prices (although the massage therapist was not Indian but British). I've got a Shiatsu massage scheduled for Monday and then it's off to Pune on Tuesday. Tonight it's the Saturday night market in nearby Arpora. Gonna check out a beach in North Goa tomorrow called Arambol that's supposed to be beautiful. All in all, a mellow weekend.
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