GOA
For the last few days I have been staying in a little beach hut in Agonda, Goa - bed, mosquito net, bathroom and shower with on demand hot water, Internet (spotty)- in short, all the comforts one could ask for, particularly in the middle of nowhere. I did not bring the laptop, so I won't include photos this time. Written each morning, the following are random thoughts and observations...
The ocean is a blue I have never seen - an indigo/teal, tinged with a lighter green closer to the shore. I'm facing West, so the early morning light is making its way from behind me. Still soft, becoming more brilliant, lighting up the yellow sand, it promises a tropical day ahead. Aside from countless little booths selling clothes, jewelry, leather, instruments, incense, perfume, boat trips, etc there is little to see without renting a scooter. Being here is enough.
Pariah dogs patrol the beach, barking at some criteria, chasing each other, a nuisance. Some attach to various guests, following them, resting in their shade.
The horizon is hazy, a color slightly lighter than the ocean, the water line a darker seam along the edge of the sky. No shells, no seabirds. So calm it looks like a painting. Fingers of land probe the distance on both sides of this beach, creating a half bowl. They are green and brown, not jungle, not palm trees, but cascading in layers, color fading into space. A fishing boat is suspended, barely nodding. The raucous voice of a dusty black crow- primordial, as though the world has just begun.The wind has come again. Non existent this morning, now a heady presence that channels sea, cooking, smoke, incense. My awareness is on gentle overload. Tourist talk, a language I can't hear or understand, strangely soothing, like classical music in the background.
Now mid day the ocean is a bright teal blue, white capped, less compelling in its restlessness. A clear cirrused sky has given over to light blue, a fuzzy baby blanket. Midges congregate and swirl in a beam of sun breaking through foliage. Coconut palms, hibiscus, bird of paradise and scraggly pine vie for space and nourishment in the sand. The sky is now waves breaking upside down. Birds industriously haul material for building or repair. Two French girls cavort on their little porch with iPhones, their generous bodies covered in long dresses, bare feet, curly hair somewhat tamed in buns. Their enthusiasm is infectious.
The Arabian Sea. Stretched between this subcontinent and Africa, it reaches up into Oman, the Persian Gulf. Calm and clear, very salty, I can see the bottom in a depth over my head. The sand is clean and filled with ridges and the occasional trough that I bounce in and out of, swaying in the gentle waves. A pleasantly cool temperature at first, the water turns silky and warm once I acclimate. Clumsy and tottering on land, I become a less awkward sea creature. The rise and fall makes me keenly aware of the physical, a place I can live in for the moment.
At the south end of this little bowled beach there are big boulders, in and out of the water, craggy with barnacles and slippery with sand from human feet. Monolithic, they form a little crescent that harbors a set of outriggers, brightly painted with names.
There is a thin muscular woman, older than me, with long gloriously curly hair. She stands in the meager surf, dancing a strange ritual, complete with ablutions that don't include getting her hair wet. She completes her activities, climbs aboard a large flat topped rock, stretches out.
An older man, perhaps European, builds a space each late afternoon, chopsticks for boundaries, then creates a mandala in the hard sand. I passed him yesterday, putting on the finishing touches. When I wander by later, a wave has taken half of his design. He obviously is performing some kind of devotion, reverent in his sincerity. He doesn't want his picture taken, and I find this out after I have already photographed him, bent over, perfecting one edge of the mandala. The quiet snick of the shutter is drowned in the noisy surf, and he hadn't noticed me. The guilt of ignoring my ethics attacks me for a second, and I am in, yet again, some kind of moral quandary. I should have asked first.
A boat far from shore floats on a path of blinding silver light. It is so black, so inundated, that it's structure dissolves, a mirage under the perfect sun. It glides out of the onslaught, regains a familiar form. I watched a man pulling out a cast net. He trundles it up on the sand and shakes free the meager amount of little fish he managed to snare. They flop about weakly, he nudges one back into the general pile. I am mildly disgusted at such a poor showing. If the net were bursting, perhaps it would have been a worthy sacrifice, but it seems a waste; maybe one meal for one person....but then, what do I know? I hope he is feeding them to his kids for breakfast. I raise the camera, then lose enthusiasm. I realize I am being judgmental, and move on.
Another perfect morning. The ocean is flat, a slightly darker shade than the sky. The headlands, misty, smoky, stretch out, and disappear. The horizon is a magical line, beckoning with promise and mystery. It has always been so. An embodiment of countless dreams, it has an unusual power, playing upon the imagination and hope of mankind, and has, since conscious thought, created a lust for conquest of the unknown. We stare, seeking solace, regain our equilibrium, kindle passions dormant, waiting for the spark that frees us from fear. Stable and unchanging, it tips us over the edge of ourselves, drawing from us reserves of as yet unregistered courage, to explore, change, grow, recognize.
I sleep deeply, heavy in my body, which flies away in dreams. I am inhabited.
For the last few days I have been staying in a little beach hut in Agonda, Goa - bed, mosquito net, bathroom and shower with on demand hot water, Internet (spotty)- in short, all the comforts one could ask for, particularly in the middle of nowhere. I did not bring the laptop, so I won't include photos this time. Written each morning, the following are random thoughts and observations...
The ocean is a blue I have never seen - an indigo/teal, tinged with a lighter green closer to the shore. I'm facing West, so the early morning light is making its way from behind me. Still soft, becoming more brilliant, lighting up the yellow sand, it promises a tropical day ahead. Aside from countless little booths selling clothes, jewelry, leather, instruments, incense, perfume, boat trips, etc there is little to see without renting a scooter. Being here is enough.
Pariah dogs patrol the beach, barking at some criteria, chasing each other, a nuisance. Some attach to various guests, following them, resting in their shade.
The horizon is hazy, a color slightly lighter than the ocean, the water line a darker seam along the edge of the sky. No shells, no seabirds. So calm it looks like a painting. Fingers of land probe the distance on both sides of this beach, creating a half bowl. They are green and brown, not jungle, not palm trees, but cascading in layers, color fading into space. A fishing boat is suspended, barely nodding. The raucous voice of a dusty black crow- primordial, as though the world has just begun.The wind has come again. Non existent this morning, now a heady presence that channels sea, cooking, smoke, incense. My awareness is on gentle overload. Tourist talk, a language I can't hear or understand, strangely soothing, like classical music in the background.
Now mid day the ocean is a bright teal blue, white capped, less compelling in its restlessness. A clear cirrused sky has given over to light blue, a fuzzy baby blanket. Midges congregate and swirl in a beam of sun breaking through foliage. Coconut palms, hibiscus, bird of paradise and scraggly pine vie for space and nourishment in the sand. The sky is now waves breaking upside down. Birds industriously haul material for building or repair. Two French girls cavort on their little porch with iPhones, their generous bodies covered in long dresses, bare feet, curly hair somewhat tamed in buns. Their enthusiasm is infectious.
The Arabian Sea. Stretched between this subcontinent and Africa, it reaches up into Oman, the Persian Gulf. Calm and clear, very salty, I can see the bottom in a depth over my head. The sand is clean and filled with ridges and the occasional trough that I bounce in and out of, swaying in the gentle waves. A pleasantly cool temperature at first, the water turns silky and warm once I acclimate. Clumsy and tottering on land, I become a less awkward sea creature. The rise and fall makes me keenly aware of the physical, a place I can live in for the moment.
At the south end of this little bowled beach there are big boulders, in and out of the water, craggy with barnacles and slippery with sand from human feet. Monolithic, they form a little crescent that harbors a set of outriggers, brightly painted with names.
There is a thin muscular woman, older than me, with long gloriously curly hair. She stands in the meager surf, dancing a strange ritual, complete with ablutions that don't include getting her hair wet. She completes her activities, climbs aboard a large flat topped rock, stretches out.
An older man, perhaps European, builds a space each late afternoon, chopsticks for boundaries, then creates a mandala in the hard sand. I passed him yesterday, putting on the finishing touches. When I wander by later, a wave has taken half of his design. He obviously is performing some kind of devotion, reverent in his sincerity. He doesn't want his picture taken, and I find this out after I have already photographed him, bent over, perfecting one edge of the mandala. The quiet snick of the shutter is drowned in the noisy surf, and he hadn't noticed me. The guilt of ignoring my ethics attacks me for a second, and I am in, yet again, some kind of moral quandary. I should have asked first.
A boat far from shore floats on a path of blinding silver light. It is so black, so inundated, that it's structure dissolves, a mirage under the perfect sun. It glides out of the onslaught, regains a familiar form. I watched a man pulling out a cast net. He trundles it up on the sand and shakes free the meager amount of little fish he managed to snare. They flop about weakly, he nudges one back into the general pile. I am mildly disgusted at such a poor showing. If the net were bursting, perhaps it would have been a worthy sacrifice, but it seems a waste; maybe one meal for one person....but then, what do I know? I hope he is feeding them to his kids for breakfast. I raise the camera, then lose enthusiasm. I realize I am being judgmental, and move on.
Another perfect morning. The ocean is flat, a slightly darker shade than the sky. The headlands, misty, smoky, stretch out, and disappear. The horizon is a magical line, beckoning with promise and mystery. It has always been so. An embodiment of countless dreams, it has an unusual power, playing upon the imagination and hope of mankind, and has, since conscious thought, created a lust for conquest of the unknown. We stare, seeking solace, regain our equilibrium, kindle passions dormant, waiting for the spark that frees us from fear. Stable and unchanging, it tips us over the edge of ourselves, drawing from us reserves of as yet unregistered courage, to explore, change, grow, recognize.
I sleep deeply, heavy in my body, which flies away in dreams. I am inhabited.
Fantastic write up... Keep going
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