Goan, Goan, Gone!

(this is a late post about our last day in goa,which i wrote but didn't get the chance to type up and post)

Goa has been great so far, and we've come to the conclusion that off-season Goa is more up our alley anyway. Where season-Goa is huge crowds, big spending, non-stop parties, and hoards of foreign tourists, off-season Goa is where Indian families come to relax and cool off in the ocean before monsoon time. In that spirit, we decided to spend the day lounging on the beach, people-watching, and making our best attempt at being inconspicuously American.

That didn't really work. As soon as our umbrella was pitched, we were attacked by junk-hawkers, of all sorts: a few 12-year-old kids, old ladies, teenaged boys, all selling miscellaneous junk like beaded necklaces, henna tattoos, paper fans. As I politely denied the products they were pushing each of the peddlers would kind of coyly walk away and say "okay maybe later?" and of course, to this i'd say "okay, later" thinking it was an empty promise just for laughs, on both sides of the conversation.

The 12-year olds, a boy and girl, were the first to return. "You said later" the girl said, who was all smiles and really pleased with the trick she had pulled. "Oh, well later again!" I said, and this kind of back-and-forth play went on for a few minutes until they left to bug some other people.

Next came a woman of about 30. "You said later!" I wasn't about to play the same later-game I'd played with the kids, so I said "really I don't want anything" and then she asked where we were from, and eventually she just sat down under our umbrella with us and we talked for about a half hour. She knew nearly a dozen languages (both Asian and European)--most of which she had picked up entirely from chatting with tourists during peak season. This, despite the fact that she said she doesn't know how to write in any. I asked her what business was like here and she said generally good, but that the past few days hadn't been so good since it was almost the monsoon and not even Indian tourists were coming anymore. She said that during monsoon season, she goes back to Karnataka, the southern state where she is from, with her family of five. During the peak season, she owns a shop instead of selling jewelry on the beach, and her two girls are very good at school and her son is "very naughty."

During this conversation we were met by other folks we'd said "later" to: an 80-yr old woman from Rajasthan who makes & sells peanut butter during the season, a man selling flutes who said he had to leave his native Mysore because there are "too many flute-man" there. Each of them had a basically similar story: selling things on the beach is what they do towards the end of the season, that business was bad right now because the monsoon would be coming soon, and that they'd rather sit and chat than try and sell things to people who don't want to buy. It was really a good time, and interesting to hear everyone's stories.

As the sun started to set, everyone started to leave. Instead of "later" they each said "tomorrow, okay?"

"Tomorrow, sure."

"Remember my face okay?"

"Of course."

The monsoon came that night, and the next day we decided that we would also leave Goa.