Honey: Selected Journals from the Years Away
Book II: At the Sweet Lake
13.8.16 to 15.8.16: Goa, India

 

I went to Panaji, then transferred to a bus with Old Goa printed in the window. The bus took us inland, west along the Mandovi River.

According to Lonely Planet, Old Goa was the former capital before operations moved to Panaji. It’d been founded by Muslims, then conquered by the Portuguese. They brought churches and trade, but also alcohol and syphilis. Soon it was rife with cholera, malaria, polluted water. They left it to rot. Now a wide street separated two green fields, each with a grand church at its center. The bus stopped and we got off.

On the right was the famous church: the Basilica of Bom Jesus. It was famous because it held the remains of St. Francis Xavier, the guy responsible for bringing Christianity to the East. It’s unclear if he brought the alcohol and syphilis too. People traveled from all over to worship at his feet and take selfies in his church. Inside, the procession led to a golden altar. In the center was an overweight St. Ignatius, looking up at the heavens. Beside the altar was Xavier’s tomb. He was on top in a glass case, so high up that you couldn’t see him. He’d been decomposing for 500 years. His box was surprisingly small. He must’ve been a short man. Even with no wiggle room he couldn’t have been taller than five feet.

I liked the other church more. Se Cathedral was the largest in Asia, made even larger by its emptiness. The ceiling was high, white, arched. Light poured in from a circular window above the door. It was silent, save for standing fans. You could sit and ponder a higher power, and if all this had been worth it.

A family entered with a guide. The mom said: “Look at the architecture!” The guide said: “Yes, quite incredible. You forget you’re in India!” I didn’t agree. He pointed to a giant wooden cross and said: “This cross is magical.” It was built by peasants, who noticed over the years that it appeared to be growing. They erected this church in its honor, but by the time construction was complete the cross had grown so large that they couldn’t fit it through the door. They ended up having to modify the whole building to get it inside.

I sat on the church steps and consulted Lonely Planet. I checked off the sites I’d visited. Sometimes it felt like I was collecting things, crossing stuff off a list. But that’s all tourism is, really. You go where people tell you to go, and tell yourself that it mattered.

Behind Se Cathedral, down toward the river, was something called the Arch of Viceroy. It was a squat brick thing hanging over the street. On top was a statue of white woman standing over a prostrate Indian. It was troubling. Beyond that, at the river’s edge, was a ferry leaving for the opposing shore. I asked a man chewing paan: “What is that?” He said: Divar Island. The tree line stretched from east to west. I thought about boarding. I liked islands. But it was late, and my feet hurt, and a storm was coming. I left as the ferry did.

~~~

Monday morning: I wake up ready to pass out. Jackhammers are bursting into the room. I put on New Order and try to read. I don’t like New Order. I don’t like reading. I lay there feeling death.

Saturday night: I put on pants and go out. At 8PM I walk to Fort Aguada Rd. I wait for a bus to Calangute. From there I’ll catch one to Baga.

It was a busy night. Normally traffic was sparse, but tonight the street was clogged with motorists moving north. The bus came along. I was headed across the river to a restaurant called Go With The Flow that Lonely Planet was raving about. They’re always raving about Euro-Asian fusion places that are going to knock your socks off. My socks had yet to be knocked off.

On the bus was a group of young people. I heard them say: “Baga.” I thought I’d stick with them. We got off at Calangute and crossed the street. No bus came. It was unclear what we were supposed to do. I realized they were out-of-towners who knew even less than I did. One of their crew, a boy in square glasses, asked: “How far is it to Baga?” I said: 2km, a twenty-minute walk. “Is there a bus coming?” I didn’t know. “How much would a taxi be?” I said: Rs. 400, but probably cheaper for you since I’m white and get told crazy prices. The gang debated whether to walk or take a taxi. They seemed equally split and equally adamant. Square Glasses kept yelling: “Fuck, man, where are we going to get some LSD?”

They decided to walk. I decided to stay. An empty bus pulled up. I asked the driver about Baga. He said those buses weren’t running anymore. I was wishing I’d gone with the kids. They had a serious lead on me. It was already 9PM and I still needed dinner.

I walked, looking for someone nice to give me a lift. There was no such person. I spotted a guy with a motorbike hanging in the alley. We made eyes. He said: Want a ride? I said I did. At this rate I wouldn’t reach the restaurant until 10PM. He said: Rs. 200. I said: Rs. 100. We settled on Rs. 150. He said something was better than nothing. We pulled his bike out of the alley.

He said Go With The Flow was closed. I said to drive to Britto’s. The roads were busier than I’d ever seen. It made me anxious, the thought of Goa after the monsoon. I wouldn’t be able to handle it. The place would rise, get swallowed up. I’d get swallowed up with it.

The driver said to call him Happy. I asked if that was a nickname. He said yeah. He told me his real name, but I forgot it. He was recently married, with a one-year-old daughter, living at home. He circled inland, past fields smoking in fluorescent light. He asked if I liked spicy food. I said sure. He said we’d go away from the coast sometime and get the good stuff.

We arrived at Britto’s. I gave him Rs. 200 because I liked him so much. He gave me his number and said to call whenever, day or night. He’d be up anyway because of the baby. It made me feel good, even if he didn’t mean it. He was out there somewhere, just a phone call away.

I went inside. It was packed. The tables were full of diners and dishes and candles. At the front was a guy taking names, surrounded by a mob. There were so many people around him that even if there was a table open he wouldn’t know. I searched for my waiter. I tried making eyes, but he wouldn’t look. When he passed I tried patting him on the back, but he didn’t take the bait. I guess everyone was pretending like they knew him. I found a scrawny kid and told him I was just one. He called to my waiter, who led me to a table where they’d been storing spare menus.

I had a newspaper. On the front page Trump and Hilary were screaming at each other. I ordered fish curry rice and a large Kingfisher. At the table beside me was a man having his photo taken with a raw fish. He held it up by the tail and smiled. Then he brandished it at his kid, who screamed and cried. My food came with fried fish again. I didn’t know what to think. Maybe it was included with fish curry rice. Maybe they remembered me and still felt bad. It was 10PM. I thought I’d walk along the shore to Tito’s Lane. The beach entrance was cordoned off. They let me through the kitchen and onto the shore.

People were standing around. The sky was clear. The moon was full. It illuminated the beach in ways I’d never imagined. You could see more of it now than in the daytime. There was the uncapturable expanse. It conjured nostalgia while still present. Couples peppered the shore. They huddled together. Some made out. They assumed darkness. I lit a beedi. This was what it was all about, really. It was the culmination of the thing. You date, you do the family shit. Then for one fleeting weekend you get to neck on the sand before the system overtakes you. This is why families send their kids here. They allow a few days of young quick love before the engine of restrained society roars to life.

But I was biased. And I needed a beer. I stopped at a shack. People danced in the surf. I could feel it. I wanted to keep feeling it until I lost it. I knew I’d walk forever into that infinity.

Tito’s Lane was in chaos. You’d think it was New Year’s Eve. Traffic sat at a standstill. Drunken patrons weaved between bumpers. Everything was neon light. I worked my way up to Cape Town, nodded at the doorman, greeted Ajit the Manager, ordered a beer. The populace was sparse. Four white guys in soccer jerseys watched a game on the screen. Beside them were three cute girls. One of them kept looking my way. I figured after a few more beers I could approach. I asked the bartenders: Do you guys drink on the job? They said: No way. I said: Come on, it’s me. They said: Okay, yeah, sometimes.

I went to the bathroom and stared down at the ladybug stickers. Two of the soccer guys entered. One of them was saying: “My knob is gonna be shriveled from that cunt.” He saw me and said: “Sorry if that word offends you.” I said it was fine by me. He asked if I was here with anyone. I said no. He invited me to join them. I said sure.

They were Brits. Three of them were traveling together. The fourth they met at the hotel. His name was Kieran. He had a goatee like a villain in a cartoon. He’d stopped off in Goa before a two-week job in Chennai. My bathroom pal was a baby-faced kid who looked like Zac Efron. Beside him was a guy with a shaved head and a mustache that twirled up at the ends. He looked like Charles Bronson without muscles. I didn’t catch either of their names. It was too late to ask. Their third was a blonde guy named Tom. He called for another round of Rum and Cokes.

They were excitable. Alcohol flowed freely, as did time. Efron was in sales. Bronson was a school librarian. He said his dream was to write children’s book: something for teens, but at a lower reading level. That way older kids could get excited about literature without feeling dumb. I thought it was a remarkably altruistic goal for someone who looked like Charles Bronson. Tom said what he truly wanted was to become an actor. He was considering a move to LA. I said a lot of production companies were outsourcing to Vancouver, so it might be worth going there. I said this like I knew what I was talking about.

We were getting supremely fucked up. Tom kept ordering Rum and Cokes. I lost track of drinks. It was not ideal. We were loud and boisterous and excitable. I’d ruined my chances with the cute girls based on our behavior. Efron said they’d done opium in Rajasthan. They’d eaten it. I didn’t know that was how opium worked. I thought you had to smoke it or put it up your butt. I texted Caitano. He said he’d be there soon – his restaurant was busy. Efron and I talked about swimming; then we talked about trains. I went to the bathroom. When I returned there was a new guy at the table. He had a beard and slicked-back hair. He was obviously a grown man. The boys were trying to buy cocaine from him. I said I was in. It was Rs. 8000 for two baggies. There was a sudden flurry to settle our tab and purchase drugs. Bronson went with the bearded man to some back alley, which is where you have to go to conduct that sort of business. Carol entered. I went to her. I shook her hand. But then Efron was pulling me from the bar and into the night. I called behind me, vaguely, that I was coming back.

They were staying at a hotel called the Traveller’s Inn. We climbed the stairs, alternately yelling and shushing each other. Their room was a dank space of dim light. Bronson immediately went for the bathroom and sat on the toilet. “He’s got IBS,” Efron said. Tom got a notebook and slapped it on the bed. Out came the two baggies.

I didn’t know shit about cocaine. I’d never done it nor seen it done. I only knew movies, where people did massive lines surrounded by white piles. This was a much smaller amount. I said: “That’s it?” Kieran poured the powder onto the notebook and took out a credit card. It was clear that he was the most knowledgeable and determined when it came to cocaine. He cut it into five lines – lines that seemed far too small. So here I am, having never done this before, already thinking to myself: Well that certainly isn’t enough cocaine for me. Kieran rolls up a hundred-rupee note and does a line. Then Tom does a line, and Efron does a line, and I do a line. Bronson stumbles out of the bathroom and does a line. Kieran cuts it again and we do more lines. There’s this aftertaste that sits in your throat, like chemical syrup. I’m swallowing. There’s one line left. We play a game called Fives for it – a game I don’t understand, but I win and get to choose who the line goes to. I choose Bronson, because he went in the scary alley to buy the stuff in the first place. He says: “Thank you, kind sir,” and bends down to do the line, and I’m rubbing his shaved scalp as he does.

The thing about cocaine is that it makes life feel important and quick. I’m royally fucked up now. Bronson goes for a cigarette on the balcony. I join him. I’m saying that I cook and we’re designing an extravagant plan in which I make pasta for them – but Efron is gluten free, so I say I’ll make rice and vegetables. I’m standing in the doorframe rolling my wrists, telling him there’s literally no need to worry about such things. Then we’re all on the bed and Kieran is on his back, flailing his limbs like an upside-down turtle, saying: “I fucking love cocaine.” I never liked that Kieran. Efron pulls out his penis, and it’s uncircumcised, and I suppose if we weren’t so fucked up I’d have realized I was staring at Efron’s uncircumcised penis. It’s decided that I shouldn’t be wearing pants; and so I’m forced down as these four pull them off me, replaced in favor of cloth shorts. I take my iPhone, iPod, phone, wallet, beedis. It feels like I’m carrying water balloons in the pockets. Bronson ties my keys to the drawstring and latches my belt around my waist. I can assume this is a very bad look. Efron says it’s bad, but Tom says it’s great. It’s agreed that Tom is the fashion guy. I stop everything and say, sternly: “We need to either get back to the club or open that other baggie of cocaine.” My hands flap with logistics. We hurtle out like wild beasts.

Back at the club Ajit had pulled in two girls he thought were sexy. They were American nurses working in Abu Dhabi. I interviewed them. Then I was taken aside by a guy named Ankit who said remembered me from the meeting with Llewellyn. He did event planning and thought he could use me. He showed me some photos from last weekend. I said it looked fun. I told him to call. No one ever calls. Caitano arrived. He’d been at Mambo’s with David. I was bummed he hadn’t called. No one ever calls. I could feel my teeth. They had nerve endings. Something shot through me when I bit down. We were in the club, dancing; then we were upstairs, ordering Rum and Cokes. An Irish couple had joined. Bronson was telling me about a girl, some girl now gone, about how when they were together they couldn’t be apart, but that was all over now. Efron and the Irish couple were discussing European stuff that I didn’t understand.

The club closed down. It was 4:00AM. The remnants poured onto the street. Caitano said we could go to his restaurant if we got a taxi. He’d take the Irish girl on his bike. Looking back, this was probably why we didn’t go. We were wasted, but Caitano’s arrangement still sounded suspect. Efron was going to the room. I told him to fetch my pants. I turned, and there was Carol standing in the delirium. I crawled to her. I asked if she might want to get dinner sometime. She said alright. I was searching for my phone in my water balloon pockets, shrugging, saying if she didn’t want to go we didn’t have to; and then I had the phone and it was falling, and the battery popped out and slid down the road. We watched it go. I said: Look, that was embarrassing, but what am I to do? She said it was embarrassing. She waited for me to put the pieces back together and gave me her number.

Caitano tugged at my arm. He said these guys weren’t coming. It was time to go. I didn’t have my pants. But the prospect of walking home at this hour was unfathomable. And I still felt, in some innocuous part of my heart, that there was Caitano and I, and everyone else. More than anything, though, I was no longer in control of autonomous time. It’d slipped away. Now there was this. We drove off into the night, the crowd screaming: “Where are you going? Come back!” They sounded terrified, insulted, lost. They may not have been real.

We glided south. Caitano seemed mad. He was pissed that there’d been no movement on getting to his place, even though he’d offered fifty-rupee beers. He said I should’ve come out the night before. He’d been with beautiful Danish girls. I said I didn’t think girls were interested in me. He said they were, and I had the look, and there was something about me that they wanted. “You’re special,” he kept saying, exasperated. I believed him then, but I didn’t in the morning.

He took a right at the Pizza Hut. “This is my place,” he said, gesturing to a patio buried in foliage. “Café Chillax.” He turned around and got back on Fort Aguada Rd.

We drove in silence. I’d never seen him this angry. I told him I’d gotten Carol’s number. “Forget about Carol!” he yelled. There were other girls, loads of them, and they were coming, on their way, and he’d take me, and we’d get in for free. We went back to silence. He dropped me at my lane. I told him to call. He said he would. Then he was gone.

I sat on the curb in my shorts. I was incredibly drunk. It was 5:00AM. I stumbled through the sand, tripping over myself, knocking against trees. I made it home, undressed, collapsed in bed. I didn’t sleep. Night turned to day. I called out for Carol, or Happy, or whoever would come.

~~~

I awoke early. I could barely move. I was still drunk. There was no question. The world wasn’t spinning, but it was certainly shaking. I made coffee. I couldn’t drink it. I couldn’t do anything. I stayed in bed until noon. Then I made two PB&J sandwiches.

I decided not to tell anyone about the cocaine. It was the sort of thing you’d want to shout from the rooftops because of how insane it was. But that wouldn’t do any good.

The thing was, I had to get my pants. I wanted to leave them, but I couldn’t. First of all, they were my nice pair. Second of all, there was the principle of it. I had to face the Brits, if only because I never wanted to see them again. It was as if acknowledging them robbed me of my anonymity. I wanted them out of Goa as soon as possible. You couldn’t be a blank space when people knew you. This realization was harrowing. And because of it I had to get my pants.

I cycled to Baga. I couldn’t get over how ridiculous the situation was. When I arrived at the Traveller’s Inn they weren’t there. The owner didn’t know when they’d be back. I asked to leave a note. She handed me a journal. I was sweating so much that I soaked through the page.

Since I was already there, I walked to the beach. The sky was overcast, but everyone was out. Men splashed and threw sand. Other men were wrapped in towels, changing clothes. Other men were in the water, deep, even though the flag was up. At the end of the beach sat the river between Baga and Anjuna. People waded across, water rising to their waists. I turned back. The throng of tourists stretched from west to east. The expanse was gone. It was the same place. But it was no longer there.

As I headed back I saw a figure waving, running over. At first I didn’t recognize him. It was Efron. Coming behind were the other boys. We congregated in the sand. They asked where I’d gone last night. I said Caitano had driven me home. They’d been out until dawn. The bearded man had taken them to a shit bar. Bronson said he ended up being a twat. “He was acting like he didn’t understand us. I kept saying: ‘Mate, we speak the same language.’ He kept saying: ‘Okay, my friend.’” I had no idea what Bronson was talking about. Maybe the bearded man had felt the same way. I said: Yeah, he was a bit dodgy. They were going to crash at their hotel for a couple hours. I reminded them of my pants. They said I could come get them.

On our way we passed some guys kicking a soccer ball around. One of them misjudged and the ball sailed overhead, landing at our feet. Efron dribbled, balanced it on his ankle, then kicked it back. Soon the Brits joined, creating an improvised circle. They removed their shirts. They all had temporary tattoos of the Om symbol on their biceps. Tom kept calling for the ball, but no one passed to him.

I walked to the shore. I figured I’d wait it out. I had no interest in soccer. My only interest was in getting my pants and getting out of there. With each passing minute they knew me more. When the volley ended we moved along. Bronson said he had to take a shit. I assumed my pants were imminent. Another group stopped us for a scrimmage. Everyone seemed down. I couldn’t bear anymore. I was being held hostage over pants. I said I was going home for a nap. Tom said: You’ll be back later? I said: Yeah. He said: Great, you can get your pants then. A crowd gathered to watch. Kieran positioned the discarded shirts as goalposts. The game began. I knew I’d never see them again.

I trudged up the lane. Beside Cape Town was an alcove called Shawarma King. I ordered one and sat on the curb eating. I was trying to determine what the metaphor was here. Something about pants and soccer and maybe masculinity. I couldn’t figure it out. I sat in my lonesomeness. It was the good kind. Warm, familiar. The kind I’d been waiting for patiently.

Behind me was a spa/massage parlor. Calangute and Baga were littered with places like these. As far as I could tell they held nothing sinister. This one had a tank of swarming fish, the kind that ate dead skin. I went over and pointed at the tank. The attendant stuck her hand in. The fish flinched, then attacked, piling atop each other, gnawing at her. She looked indifferent. I said: Does it hurt? She said: “No teeth.” She motioned to try it. I shook my head. I was scared. A boy appeared, put his hand in, looked at me. His look said: It’s no big deal. When he pulled his hand out a fish came flying with. It landed on the concrete and flapped around. He scooped it up and tossed it back in. Then he took my hand and guided me to the water. It was a terrifying sensation. I moaned, but he held me still. When he thought I’d had enough he released me. I withdrew my hand. The fish went back to their daily routine. The boy and the woman smiled. I smiled too. I felt better. I said thanks.

On my way back I took a right at the Pizza Hut to see if Caitano was at his place. When I arrived there was an Indian man and an Asian lady with a skin condition standing outside. They said Caitano was out. Café Chillax looked abandoned. It was a cement patio covered with a tarp. Empty beer bottles sat on the singular table. The bar was a slab of unfinished wood. Behind was a door of chain-link fencing. I went through. On the other side were collapsed boxes, trash, and a mountain of bricks. It looked like the whole back half of the café had collapsed. I went outside. I stood beneath the shifting grey sky feeling confused and disturbed. I was wondering who exactly Caitano was, and why he’d sought to bring us here at 4:00AM. I was wondering about the truth, if there even was such a thing. But mostly I was wondering what this tiny man wanted from me, and why, in the bleak morning after, I still seemed to trust him.