“I’ll be totally fine. What’s three more weeks out of my entire life?” I said, my throat unexpectedly closing up. What was the matter with me? I alone had made the choice to come to yoga school. Wasn’t I the one who’d wanted less partying and more exploration? Wasn’t I the one who’d preferred learning to relaxation?
The chiming of the bells serendipitously filled the awkward silence. Vowing to toughen up, I quickly hugged Jen and Amanda good-bye. Then I solemnly walked away with the valid-sounding excuse that I didn’t want to be marked late for afternoon lecture. The truth was, I just couldn’t stand there and watch them walk away first.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Amanda
GOA, INDIA
NOVEMBER
My legs were burning and my bladder nearly bursting by the time I’d sprinted through the streets of Trivandrum and bounded up the steps of the train station. Just knowing that I’d failed to procure a single piece of toilet tissue, napkin, or paper of any kind only amplified the fear that I might actually wet my pants before making it to a bathroom. Jen and I had used up our emergency stash of scratchy one-ply back at the ashram, and in our haste to say good-bye to Holly, we’d forgotten to replenish the coffers.
Pushing through the mob of Indian travelers clustered in groups on the platform, I found my way back to the hard wooden bench where I’d left Jen babysitting our packs minutes earlier. She was gone—and so were the bags. Scanning the length of the station (even at five feet four, I could still see over most heads here), I tried to stay calm. She had to be here somewhere. She wouldn’t have gotten on the train to Goa without me—right?
Climbing onto the bench to get a better look (a move that drew serious stares from the people shuffling past), I heard the unmistakable ring of Jen’s voice coming through a grate high above my head, on the far side of the wall. Hopping down, I found the door marked LADIES WAITING LOUNGE and pushed my way through.
Within the claustrophobic, ammonia-scented room, a dozen Indian women and their children were chattering and making animated gestures at the spectacle taking place in the adjoining bathroom. Inside, a plump Indian lady spilling out of her blue sari was guiding—or rather strong-arming—a bewildered-looking white girl into a tiny bathroom stall. Jen protested as the woman shoved a hose-and-nozzle contraption into her right hand. The sprayer was similar to the kind attached to most kitchen sinks, but this one was built into the wall near a squat toilet and was clearly meant to wash something other than dishes.
“Amanda! You’re back!” Jen looked visibly relieved as she spotted me. “Pass me the TP before I get a demonstration on how to use this thing.”
I was just confessing that I’d failed at my one and only shopping objective when the woman wrapped her hand around Jen’s and squeezed the nozzle, forcing a stream of water out of the hose and against the tiled wall behind her. Jen jumped, and the spectators in the bathroom giggled at her reaction.
I might have laughed too, except that I had more urgent matters to attend to. Dashing into the stall next to Jen’s, I slammed the door and assumed the all-too-familiar position: feet astride the basin, pants gripped firmly in hand (so as not to drag on the floor), legs locked in a seated position. Not the most relaxing way to go, but better now than in a rocking, cockroach-infested train car.
“So, I’m gathering that we don’t have any toilet paper?” Jen called from her side of the wall. She paused and asked quietly, “Are you gonna use that sprayer thing?”
I considered the hose to my right and the alternative. I picked up the sprayer and held it out in front of me. Was there any chance in hell this process could be sanitary? Did it matter at this point?
“I will if you will!” I called back, screwing my eyes shut as I shot myself with a stream of water. Oh! Huh. It was lukewarm. Kind of…refreshing, actually. I squeezed the sprayer a couple more times for good measure, then shook my lower half like a puppy drying off after running through a sprinkler.
When Jen and I met outside our respective stalls, we giggled like little kids who’d just learned to use the big-girl bathrooms. The seats of our thin cotton yoga pants were both soaked with water.
“This why you must wear sari,” said the woman, motioning to her electric blue outfit and then our backsides. “Make dry more fast.”
Jen thanked her for the advice. We snatched up our packs and bolted for the train just before it could chug out of the station without us.
We arrived in Goa on the morning of Thanksgiving Day, a holiday that seemed incongruous to me now. We were eight thousand miles and ten time zones away from home. Normally during the holiday season, I’d be at my aunt’s place in Peekskill, New York, helping my family devour a twenty-pound bird and two dozen accompanying side dishes before passing out with the group in front of a football game or the perennial James Bond marathon on Spike TV. Now, as Jen and I bumped along in a rickshaw from the train station to the coast, it was the scent of sandalwood and eucalyptus, not roasting turkey and pumpkin pie, that wafted past our faces on salty gusts of air.
“Hey, did you know that Western hippies used Goa as a hideout back in the sixties?” asked Jen, glancing up from Lonely Planet: Southern India. “To make enough cash to hang around, they sold off their guitars and jeans and stuff, which is how the big flea market in Anjuna got started. Could we check it out on Wednesday?”
“Hmm, let me consult my schedule,” I said, scrolling through an imaginary calendar. “I’m pretty busy…but wait. I just had some last-minute cancellations, so I’m totally free from right now till, oh, next June. Shall I pencil you in?”
Jen pretended to slug me with the guidebook.
“Hey, watch it. You washed that thing after the cockroach train, right?” I said, shifting around to avoid it. “No more squashed bug parts?”
“Of course. I scrubbed it down with bleach,” Jen said, grinning as she taunted me. “Here, why don’t you get a closer look?”
As she wiggled the book dangerously close to my face, I felt relieved rather than grossed out. Finally, Jen and I were starting to act like the dorks we’d been in college. Back then, we could utterly amuse ourselves just by racing carts through the aisles of a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart or by dressing up as a premelt-down Britney Spears (circa “Slave 4 U”) and acting out her latest music videos. I guess I’d taken it for granted that our crazy alter egos—Schmanders and Jen-Ba—would rear their heads on this trip, that just the act of leaving New York would reset the tenor of our whole friendship. We used to be silly and wacky. We’d always said that if we’d met as little kids in the sandbox instead of on the first day of college, we would have conquered the playground together. How odd, then, now that we’d decided to conquer the great big real world together, we’d been at odds over the very grown-up issue of work.
Leaving the ashram, I was relieved not to be returning to pitches and e-mails. On some level, I’d always understood and even respected where Jen had been coming from about writing on the road. What better time would there be to put our pencils down and experience the world with no distractions? But it wasn’t until I’d missed the auditions with the girls at Pathfinder, and remembered the cut of disappointment when an adult let you down, that I really understood the lesson that Jen had been trying to teach me. Working constantly wasn’t just driving a wedge between the two of us, it was keeping me from totally immersing myself in the places I was visiting and forging connections with the people I met. What if I returned home just to realize that while I’d been busy becoming a travel writer, I’d actually missed the point of traveling?
When I’d first told Jen I was taking time off from working, I’d imagined that it would be tough to break myself of the compulsion. But once I’d committed to powering down the laptop, going dark was far easier than I’d ever dreamed. It was only after we arrived at Shraddha that I realized my flaw in timing: just as I’d given myself permission to become a free spirit like Holly, I’d entered the one situation where total discipline was required. Now, on the ro
ad again, I found myself chomping at the bit, ready to live totally in the present without worrying about my past or my future.
According to the long line of pleasure seekers who’d visited before us, there’s no better place to experience the non-spiritual side of India than Goa. While Goa is technically the name of the country’s smallest state, most backpackers use the word to refer to the series of choose-your-own-adventure beach villages strung along the coastline. Each town has its own series of quirks and eccentricities, and offers a specific vice to match the vibe.
Judging by the scenery rolling outside the window of our rickshaw, Jen and I had just entered Summer of Love territory—or the Indian approximation of it. Squat bamboo buildings lining the dusty streets were washed in psychedelic pastels; women hawked broomstick skirts, patchouli incense, and wooden prayer beads from behind rickety tables; tree-house cafés beckoned passersby with chalkboard advertisements for everything from garlic naan to falafel wraps to barbecue chicken pizza.
“Where are we meeting Sarah again?” Jen asked.
“Some place called Magdalena’s Guesthouse,” I said, double-checking a note scribbled in the margin of my journal. “She said she’d get there right after lunch.”
Sarah, one of the few friends from home we’d end up connecting with on the road, was a savvy, outgoing journalism student I’d advised during my final months at the magazine. She and I had met during her internship and stayed in touch even after she’d returned to school and I’d made my ungraceful departure from the job. Then a couple months after her graduation—just as Jen, Holly, and I were launching the second leg of our trip—Sarah had e-mailed to say that she’d accepted a position as an HIV educator for an NGO in Mumbai. Would we, by any chance, be heading to India during our travels? Once we realized that our paths would overlap, Sarah and I had immediately scheduled a reunion in a location we were both dying to check out: Goa.
When the driver dumped Jen, me, and our dusty yoga mats by the front entrance of Magdalena’s, I wasn’t sure we’d come to the right place. The cluster of unpainted concrete buildings was guarded unconvincingly by a pack of malnourished dogs. Clotheslines strung across the yard were straining under the weight of still-sopping laundry.
Crunching up the gravel driveway, I was relieved to turn a corner and spot Sarah sitting on a porch, sipping a Kingfisher beer alongside a pair of scruffy-looking guys.
“Oh my gooooooiiiiid!!” Sarah was almost a blur as she streaked across the yard and threw her arms around both of us. “You guys made it! I’m so glad that you’re here!”
“Merry Turkey Day, lady!” I said, grinning at her enthusiasm. I’d yet to experience Sarah on any other channel besides high-octane, super-unleaded outgoing.
“So, you’re gonna love our room,” she said, grabbing our daypacks and leading us back toward the porch where she’d been sitting. “I’m not really sure, but I think Norman Bates might have actually checked me into the room earlier.”
“Oh, jeez. That bad?” asked Jen.
“Well, we’ve got one exposed bulb, a few gross mattresses, and that’s about it. Oh, and I’m not sure if the door actually locks. But if you hate it, we can totally find somewhere else to stay, no problem.”
“Don’t take off yet,” said one of the guys, a lanky British backpacker in board shorts. He braced his tanned feet against the railing. “You won’t find a better deal on the beach.”
“Yeah, you can’t really argue with three quid a night,” added his buddy, a sandy-haired guy in a sweaty gray Quicksilver T-shirt. “Besides, you’ve got us right next door to look out for you, which I reckon sweetens the deal.”
Sarah shook her head and introduced us. “Amanda and Jen, this is Cliff and Stephen—our extremely modest new neighbors.”
Stephen, the guy in the gray shirt, held out a pair of beers as a welcome offering, and we ditched our bags in order to accept them. Within the first few sips, we learned that the guys were taking an extended vacation from their finance jobs in London. They both had a full six weeks off—with pay.
“Really? Why did you choose to stay here then?” I blurted without thinking.
Cliff didn’t take offense and said that they preferred über-cheap hostels to pricey upscale accommodations. “How could we bump into cool travelers like you girls if we’re stuffed away in some swank hotel suite?”
If I’d had any doubt about whether I’d choose a four-star room over a dilapidated, potentially rodent-infested guesthouse, one look inside our bathroom settled the debate. We were just contemplating who’d brave the mildewed shower first when Stephen knocked to let us know that he and Cliff were headed to the beach. Any interest in joining? The three of us were sporting more than twenty-four hours’ worth of travel grime, and, considering the alternative, a dunk in the surf seemed an ideal way to come clean.
Vagator Beach bore little resemblance to the ones we’d visited in Rio, sugary strips that doubled as catwalks for Brazil’s most beautiful bodies. Here the scene was anything but showy. Stands of shaggy palms hemmed a fat, croissant-shaped slice of burnished sand. Arcs of colorful beach umbrellas shaded lounge chairs in front of thatch-roofed cafés. Waiters delivered slender glasses filled with mango lassis and rum punches to tourists. It was a pretty idyllic scene, except for one thing: smack in the middle of everything, a group of fat sun worshipers had beached their large brown bodies across a prime section of the sand, utterly indifferent to the people maneuvering around them.
“They’re actually considered sacred here,” whispered Sarah as we tiptoed past. “No one would even think of trying to kick them off.”
It was the happiest, most satisfied-looking herd of cows I’d ever seen.
As soon as we edged around the holy mooers, women carrying baskets heavy with fruit and girls laden with fabrics, garlands, and jewelry pressed into us, chattering urgent sales pitches as they moved and jingled.
“Please, miss, you very beautiful, but more beautiful with scarf! Or maybe you try bracelet? Or necklace? No have to buy now. Just try. Free to try.”
We didn’t say anything, but my heart lurched. Many of these girls were even younger than the ones at Pathfinder. What was the right thing to do here? Step around them, treat them as if they were invisible—or hand over a few rupees and create an incentive for the girls to keep selling?
“Aye, miss, maybe one-a these fine skirts for ya? Right good, they are.” I couldn’t help myself—I stopped in my tracks as I heard the line delivered in a perfect British Cockney accent. Turning around, I saw that it came from a spindly-limbed teenage girl. She held up an armload of tie-dyed fabric twisted into ropes. “Beautiful skirt for beautiful lady?”
I shook my head, but she didn’t break her stride and followed me across the beach. When the other women peeled away, off to find more pliable targets, she stuck around and followed our group to a café set up under a perky green-and-white awning. I wasn’t going to buy anything from her, but figured it couldn’t hurt to get her something to eat.
Rebecca, as she introduced herself, seemed thrilled to be the center of attention and chattered on about her life as one of Goa’s beach girls. She explained that since her parents had passed away a year earlier, she’d been selling trinkets and clothes on Vagator to support her little brother and sister, to raise enough money to feed them and send them to school. It was tough going out every day and asking people to buy things, but at least the holiday season was approaching: that meant more customers and more sales.
“Do you ever get harassed by the people on the beach?” Sarah asked. “Are you ever afraid to walk home after dark?”
“Sometimes. That’s why me and the other selling ladies, we team up and walk home together. One time a man tried to touch me, and I stood right up and told him to bugger off!” she shrieked, reenacting the scenario.
I wasn’t sure whether the story about her parents was true or not, but I definitely believed one thing: Rebecca was quite the little fighter. I hoped that her instincts would s
omehow keep her safe from the danger she faced daily by approaching random strangers on the beach. I could imagine how easy it would be for someone to snatch her up, carry her away. I wondered if anyone would go looking for a missing fifteen-year-old.
As she finished her food, I looked through my purse to see if I had enough change left to buy one of the bracelets she was selling, but she waved me off.
“If you don’t got the money today, no worries.”
“Will you be here tomorrow?” I asked, pressing a few rupees into her hand anyway.
“Sure, I’m gonna be here tomorrow, and tomorrow after that. You see me, and then you buy skirt, bracelet, whatever you like. Just remember me. Remember Rebecca.”
Our newly formed crew of five decided to celebrate our American, Indian (and British) Thanksgiving in the exact same spot we’d eaten lunch. Between rounds of tropical fruit cocktails and semideep conversations (discussions such as the need to enforce child labor laws in India and the ever-popular topic of the lack of mandatory vacation time in America), midday transitioned into languid afternoon. The five of us took turns cooling down by running into the surf, commandeering the trampoline that had been set up in front of the restaurant for little kids, and walking along the hard-packed sand to an old fort at the end of the beach. We started a game of volleyball, a sport I’ve always been terrible at, but today, the sweatier and sandier I got, the more liberated I felt (and better I played!). I couldn’t have chosen a better week to immerse myself into the world of the vagabond backpacker.
“Hey, Jen, I think you might have been right about something,” I confessed as we walked back to our table with Sarah and collapsed into the chairs. “This is definitely more fun than hanging out in some smelly old Internet café.”
The Lost Girls: Three Friends. Four Continents. One Unconventional Detour Around the World. Page 28
