Arambol, Goa
We were halfway down the beach when K. started coming up. Past Dreamcatcher, before that next big one with the unfortunate name – what was it? Cock’s Town? Sometimes the Indians miss the mark, and you have to admit, it’s pretty funny. It was New Year’s Eve in Goa, and we could do anything.
"There," yelled K, "that’s the Surf Club."
"Where?" Josh yelled back.
"There," and her point became a pirouette.
"I don’t see anything. Where the fuck is this place? In Mandrem?"
"Follow me!" said our pixie. The flashing lights glinted on her bindi. "Follow me, beautiful people!" She twirled again in her little black bikini and we all watched her, of course.
"I hope the music is good," said Stefan. "This is why we brought our own sound system in the van, the music has been so bad here." He had a stiff Austrian accent. Zis is vye..
"Yeah but those are just the restaurants. These Indian DJ’s don’t really understand."
"Fucking house."
"I hear it used to be better," I said.
K. spun around. "People, we are going to dance!" Her eyes flashed, dilated, and she spread her arms wide and threw her head back, her gorgeous black hair cascading over her bare shoulders. She pressed up against me and looked into my eyes, and I felt stupid for wanting her so badly. Everyone wanted her. "Peter," she said, "Peter. What’s wrong? Aren’t we going to have a great time tonight?"
And boom. Not far away, people were shooting off cheap fireworks. A bright star exploded from the sand and flew at the crowd of screaming onlookers.
K. took my hands in hers and smiled.
I smiled back.
"Of course, K."
"Let’s gooo!" whined Ilyena from behind her dark sunglasses, and someone passed me the joint, and we walked onward.
We came upon three large sprigs of evergreen tied upright and decorated with lights. Around it were a group of Indians, some seated, the children on the sand in front. A jolly old man with grey hair and a huge pot belly was tying a fluorescent bulb to the top of a pole. He danced as he worked, wiggling his hips to the disco from a small stereo. It overlapped with the sound systems from a half dozen of the beach restaurants, but he didn’t mind, shuffling gaily at the center of his party. He wore a thin white t-shirt that said "Jesu Shanti" on it.
"What is this?"
"I think it’s an Indian Christmas tree!"
"Let’s stop here for a moment."
"I thought the Indians were Hindus," said Josh.
"This is Goa. It was colonized by the Portuguese. They’re Christians." That was me.
"Chai!" yelled the shaded Ilyena, and indeed there was an old woman walking through the crowd with a thermos bottle and a tray of small cups. She handed some out to a seated group of children, then came upon us, the solitary group of painted Westerners among the Indian families. Our skin shone ugly pale in the fluorescent light, barely concealed by the trendy beach clothes that the locals had reverse-engineered and sold back to us.
We waited. The Indian Santa continued hanging lights and dancing, grinning. A young girl in a pretty patterned dress came around and said, "sweets." That was all she could say in English, "sweets," as she offered us small orange-ish balls of salty-sweet crispy dough bits.
"These have a very strange taste," said Stefan.
"No thanks darling, I can’t eat right now," said K. to the girl.
I ate mine and thought of all of the new foods here, foods without names. Entire vegetables I could only describe by color, shape, and taste.
The adults had gathered the children in a circle and were calling out to them in a language we didn’t understand, maybe Hindi, maybe something local. The kids were alternatively touching their noses then lowering their hands. Indian Simon Says. Rajesh Says, Sunil Says. "There will be singing later," said the woman next to us. She had glasses and a pleased, motherly look. The children finished their game and another group took their place. Santa kept dancing, a big-bellied hip and shoulder shuffle with an enthusiastic grin. The life of the party, and not one iota of glitter.
"I’m coming up," said Josh.
"We can’t dance here," said Ilyena.
"This culture is so beautiful! Look at these gorgeous people!" And K. was off giggling with one of the young boys. You had to give her that, she could connect. "Excuse, me," she was saying, "when will the singing be?" The boy stared back sweetly, not comprehending the question from this strange white vixen. "Will the singing be soon? Will you sing?"
The boy gave her a leering head-wobble.
"Does that mean yes?"
"It doesn’t mean no."
"They do that just as a greeting though."
The boy was still staring.
"Let’s go," said Ilyena and her glasses.
"Where’s that chillum?"
"Here. But watch out for the cops. They stole Sammy’s money and fire staff last night."
We took off, heading down the beach to the lights. Slowly the Babel of the restaurant stereos faded and was replaced by a single mammoth thumping from the Surf Club’s speakers. They had a good sound system, you had to give them that. Huge floodlights illuminated the beach and the ocean, drawing the crowd like moths. A runway had been set up, for dancers or performers or god knows what. Repetitive trance spilled over the crowd at the gates.
"There’s a cover!" said Stefan.
K. frowned. "I thought it was going to be free." Her pout was tremendous.
Behind the wire fence an announcer was barking over the PA. "Just 100 rupees, come inside for the best party in Goa. Fire dancers, strong drinks, and non-stop music all night!" It was a masculine European voice, imported talent to attracted the locals. He sounded like a carnie. "And now, all the way from Israel, put your hands together for Eli!"
A young man in a Rasta cap came out and lit his fire staff, waiting for the breakdown and that first heavy downbeat to throw off his excess fuel in a huge ball of flame. Then be began for real, spinning fluidly, fast, with contact rolls and lots of beautiful one-handed work.
"Hey, it’s Eli," I said. "He’d been talking about trying to get a gig."
"Aw, he’s better when he’s just doing it for fun," said K.
It was true. It was also true that the place was crowded with drunk British, German, Australian, French, and American tourists, even a few Indians. The crackdown had pushed the parties aboveground where the police could charge for licenses, and they now cost money and sold only alcohol. But we went in anyway, having secured our own supplies earlier. And suddenly my eyes began to vibrate and the world stalled.
The music slowed, seemed to gather itself as if waiting. Everything was heavy with potential.
And then.
It dropped.
That four-on-the-floor trance kicked, and my body was moving before I could realize it. Waves of energy coursed up and down my limbs to the music, and suddenly, the party was real.
The DJ was a voodoo genius. Everyone was moving, and my god, they could dance. I’d never seen so many people moving so well to the same song. Not just my friends, but everyone. The Drunk Brits were stomping with heartfelt lust, the Israelis – ahh the Israelis – they were bending like they were raised on it, and even the few confused Indians, they knew, they could feel it. Music is like that, it connects. When it’s truly right, it’s a living thing of awe. It’s liquid love from the speaker stacks.
I caught K’s eye for just a second and her bindi flashed something secret and wonderful at me. I didn’t need to tell her because she knew. I knew she knew, and that the same waves upon waves were coursing through her own limbs. God she could move. God she was beautiful. She was the goddess of our cult. I didn’t believe in any of that Shiva shit but hey, we were in India, and if that’s the way they wanted to open themselves to the infinite, well I could love them for that, and K., she could dance it. K. Kali, Krishna, our goddess that I’d always and still loved, but tonight, finally, it didn’t matter if she loved me back.
"Have some gum," yelled K.
I told her I didn’t need anything at all.
"Yes you do, lovely. Chew this. You’ll thank me tomorrow."
And suddenly I knew she loved me too.
This. Yes. This is what I’d been looking for. We were all here, weren’t we? All these different countries, different races, all feeling this. Damn. And I felt a pang for all the people who would never know, who were too closed and hurt to understand. To understand that we were all, that we could be all— Yes. This was what the world needed, and we were living it.
"This is good," said Josh and I suddenly remembered what a talented man he was. "Da," agreed my mirrorshaded friend, and Ilyena was my friend, this crazy little Russian girl, and why hadn’t I yet spent the time to really get to know her? And Stefan too, Stefan off in his own world, dancing in precise Teutonic steps with eyes closed. I wished I could know what he was feeling, but I never will, and that’s beautiful too, isn’t it?
Dawn was not pretty.
The beach was covered in bottles, suddenly looking as shoddy and as littered as the rest of India.
The drunk Brits had passed out on the sand.
The music had degenerated to R&B.
We wandered back in a serotonin-deficient daze. Only Ilyena wasn’t squinting at the sun.
I sat in one of the wicker chairs outside our hut. K. lay in the hammock and we listened to the ocean.
"You know what would really be nice right now?"
"What, K.?"
"Fresh pomegranate juice."
"Hang on, I’ll see if Manush is up."
He was, and shortly we heard the sound of a blender. In a moment, he returned with a glass of deep red fluid. He smiled as he held it out before her K., brilliant white teeth in a dark mustached face, serotonin levels normal.
"Thank you so much, Manush," she beamed at him.
She pulled a 100 rupee note out from where it had been wedged against a perfect breast.
Manush smiled wider.
"Good party?" he asked in his thick English.
"We opened a conduit to the Divine," she confirmed, and settled back into her hammock. "I love this country."
And once more, I was ready to believe her.
