see you

This blogging business ain't easy, I tell you.

I just got off an airplane yesterday, where I existed in limbo for fifteen hours of a threatening headache, prior to which I'd already travelled by plane, a bus, and a taxi, after a teary morning meltdown and Carnival paint smeared on my arm, forehead, and left boob a la Tony; as if I don't smear enough things on that boob by myself.

Dinha's crew on my last day. Joe couldn't even fire me.

And today, I have to write a post. Thursdays can be so demanding, though I imagine much of my international audience is now reading this on Friday. But I promised you a weekly post. I think it might be the biggest commitment I've ever made, actually. It's been a joyous, terrifying, wonderfully strange journey, but I really wouldn't have it any other way; though my obsession with consistent timely posting often leaves my friends looking confused at my dedication to something that pays nothing. Welcome to being a writer.

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So, let me prop my jet-lagged eyes open because the show must go on...


Leaving India was hard. I feel so loved and happy in Benaulim, I'm tempted to cut my losses, accept Tony's marriage proposal(s), and go native. But nearing the Newark airport, Springsteen's American buttocks album seemed like a fitting way to welcome myself back. And I really did start feeling happy to have been "born in the USA." Writing "American" under nationality on the customs form and stepping to the end of the line for citizens, I felt a growing giddy sense of identity. I'm no staunch patriot, but the familiarity feels good, reminds me who I am and will continue to be no matter what part of the world I traverse. Home is home, and I love being an American. It's nice to be reminded once in a while.

Then I passed a couple taxi drivers looking to negotiate fares in the Jersey airport and wondered if I had actually brought India home with me. Sandy jeans and colorfully packaged teas are reminders scattered across the wood floor of my old bedroom. I'm trying to reclaim sleep I've missed for several weeks while steady rain patters on the rooftop. Listening to one of Pascal's favorite Indian mystic CDs, I feel happy and quiet. Experience has a way of organizing itself in memories over time. The next thing can wait.

Farewell flower petals left outside my door.

And the flying carpet? I don't think any explanation, even if there was one, could rival whatever you can imagine.


Now back to sleep. Sweet dreams.


OneArmGirl      

handicapped

When asked what I was going to “do” in India, the answer I settled on was: “I don’t know.” And that was nearly the truth, though completely insufficient and irresponsible for most American ears. For just reason, I suppose; imagine asking the first settlers what they were going to do in the New World, if they replied, “Oh, I dunno, guess we’ll see when we get there.” Though I’m fairly certain starving to death and introducing smallpox wasn’t on the agenda.

Truth is, I had some idea of what I might do, but I had no concrete goals. Last time I came to India, I only wanted a great cup of chai, and that I accomplished exceptionally well. I’ve had some time to mull it over, however...and so, my current ‘to do’ list for India is, in no particular order,

1. Ride an elephant

2. Drive a scooter

3. Visit an orphanage for handicapped children

The first is cliché, I know, but I would argue that everyone should live a good cliché, now and again. It’s good for digestion. The second seems doable (according to Mikey Man, who claims to drive routinely one-handed on the scooter, I can only assume, because he's been here so long, driving in India now bores him). The third just seems the sort of humanitarian thing you do in India. And I am happy to say, I accomplished it this past weekend.

I met a nice couple at Dinha’s who knew of an orphanage for handicapped children, which incidentally, is also when I decided it would be my third goal to visit such a place. So Friday last, friend Cameron and I set off for Chorao Island. Yes, the orphans live on an island which, I suggested to Cameron, could be to keep them from escaping. I saw Annie, ok.

The drive took about an hour, or maybe two; I’m not certain because I was in the process of acquiring a heat stroke on the back of the scooter. We stopped for a $6 tank of gas, then onto the highway at 40mph, Cameron wearing a required helmet as the driver, me wearing nothing because it’s not a problem if the passenger falls off the back and gets run over by 30 motorbikes from behind. In India, you stop asking why.

We stopped in the capital city of Panjim, rumored to be the location of a fancy bookstore. After asking 20 people along the road for directions(allow for authorial exaggeration), and walking several blocks [it was just like the Amazing Race...before editing; wonderful, glorious editing], we found it. Cameron was a kid in a candy store as soon as we entered; it’s too bad there’s not much allowance for baggage on a scooter.

New books in tow, we were off to the orphans, who mostly turned out not to be orphans at all, but boys who just needed another place to live. And though several had minor cognitive handicaps, they were not without ability (even exceptional artistic skill). None seemed particularly in need of inspiration, and I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed no one was missing arms or legs.

Meanwhile, I was having trouble remembering my name, and spent most of the afternoon on the couch, inhaling water and wondering if I might faint. Busy drawing freehand cartoon replications and decorating hand-shaped construction paper greeting cards, they had little time for interest in my small appendage. Once in a while, I caught a shy smile, and a glance of what I’m sure was pity, cast in the direction of the invalid foreigner in their living room.

We were treated to a wonderful meal of curry and homegrown rice, and to the company of big-hearted people in a home full of hospitality. And thankfully, after some reviving coffee, I was able to get back on the scooter without assistance.

The drive home was darker and cooler and I contemplated inviting some orphans to come visit me next time.

OneArmGirl

the players

Note: within the first few days of my arrival in India, two people talked to me about Nick Vujicic and how inspirational he is...two people...in India. You can't see, but I'm shaking my fist in the general direction of Australia. At least I think it might be the direction of Australia. Hey, odds are 1 to 4. I love you, Nick.

One of the Vujcic fans was Little Gen's landlord, who asked what had happened to my arm, then responded, "You were born that way! Praise God!!" Perhaps my work here is done. But he seemed in the habit of praising God after nearly every sentence. Not a bad idea, especially here in India where one has much to be thankful for...the fan is working, praise God, the electricity is on, praise God, there's water in the toilet, praise God. With expectations plummeting, gratitude sky-rockets.

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A proper play is proceeded by a list of players, and since we've recently begun a new drama, I think an introduction of some characters (pun intended) is in order. Disclaimer: this is by no means a comprehensive list, and if you are reading this as one of said characters currently in play, please do not be offended if you find yourself absent...I just put names in a hat.

Tony is nearly the first person I met in India. Dubbed Tony Tony to differentiate from another citizen of the same name, he later "hired" me at Dinha's, thus accidentally writing much of my own role in the Benaulim dramedy. I'm not really sure what it is exactly that Tony does, or what he doesn't do, rather. He's a self-proclaimed Jack-of-All-Trades, by times driving a taxi, when he's not busy shuffling people to and fro from the hospital for various medical procedures. It is not uncommon to attempt booking an early morning swim with Tony in the sea, only for him to agree, then excuse himself with, "Oh no, I can't man, I haff ta take my cousin for an eye surr-jry," in a charming British accent acquired from years spent in the UK. 'Father Theresa' frequently shows up early mornings at Dinha's with someone's baby in tow. That is, when the leper colony can spare him.


On average, I spend most of my time with Joe [center]. This happens accidentally because, aside from Pascal, he is the longest-standing faithful employee at Dinha's. Unless it's the Wednesday after Tuesday night at Pedro's, when he's been known not to show up at work at all. He can't, of course, because he needs the sleep. I love India. I think Joe also took most of the photos in this post since he was 'volunteered' to be my personal photographer.

After my second day on the job this season, Joe fired me. So I took the rest of the day off as usual and returned the next. Turns out, it's legally very difficult to fire an unpaid employee. So now, every other day or so, one of us tries to fire the other, and I think Pascal is just grateful there's ever any one there to serve at all. When I allude to his job as the manager of this monkey train, he says, "I am not the boss. I don't tell anyone what to do." I may have found the only existing successful establishment without management. Where is Neitzsche now?

Mikey Man [lower right above], previously mentioned elsewhere in this blog, belongs entirely to Goa scenes in my story, though he's actually some strange mutation of Los Angeles and Maine. But you know how I feel about mutations, and Mikey is one of the best. He's one of the few foreigners with an actual job, restoring and coloring film, architecture, and my life (sorry, Mikey, had to do it). When we're feeling lost and alone and just in the mood for a good burger, we Americans cling together. Mikey may also be the only person of non-British origin I've met who rivals the command of wit found in that isle. Wordplay is his martial art, sentences bending unwittingly to his will; without my coffee, I haven't a fighting chance. Yet, a kinder person is hard to find, and a wit with heart, an endangered species.


You might expect a character only appearing in several scenes excepted from this list, but Laughing Jean is of such exceptional note, she is here included. Only in Benaulim for a short holiday, she did not fail to make an impression with her late night appearances at Pedro's beach shack. On the dance floor, she was Grandma Dancing Queen; carnival lighted glasses on, she was un-bested at the shake, the twist, and several moves of which I'm not sure of the origin, but bear a striking resemblance to cossack choreography. And then there's the laugh, oh the laugh...suddenly sitting straight-backed, she "bah, ha ha ha haas" like a sitcom laugh-track machine gun.


Helmut is a man of few words. If I were really German and not merely wannabe, I imagine he and wife Annalee would be my grandparents. Influential in the beginnings of Dinha's, they arrive without fail in the wee morning hours for fruit salad and black coffee, two. Then it's Egg Day or Cheese Day, depending on...what, I'm not sure...but if they were to show up one morning and order a Spanish omelette, I'd expect The End of Days just around the corner. Though he's rarely eating alone at any of the three meals he has at Dinha's, I never fail to catch his observant eye, shamelessly interested in what's happening outside the circular table. One minute behind the eyes would be worth at least 50,000 rupees, I'm sure. When I asked to take their picture, Annalee declined, but Helmut said, "Take a picture? Yes, why not?" in a gruff, yet startling playfulness. I nearly dropped my camera.

Marcelle and Michael, my favorite local hippies and long-time visiting Goa ex-pats, create the bohemian Swiss and German triad with me on the third floor at Savio's Guesthouse. Though, actually, in their company, I hardly qualify on any of those points. Sometimes I imagine what happened in their lives before this, and other times, we just have a smoke and watch what comes and goes from the balcony.


Roxy, most permanent resident at Dinha's, takes the rays.

OneArmGirl

dinha's difference

In the southwest of India is a place called Goa, and on the coast is a town called Benaulim, and close to the intersection of two main streets is a restaurant called Dinha’s. If my world in India were the earth, Dinha’s would be the sun. 

Two years ago, when I first taxied into town, Dinha’s was the first place we stopped, even before we’d unpacked. A week or so later, I was having coffee on a busy morning when Tony handed me a bill to deliver. Thus began my volunteer waiting career in India.

People come to India for many reasons: to seek spiritual enlightenment, to bathe in the Ganges, to put off inevitable job-seeking after college, backpack across Asia, and the like. Fewer, I would imagine, find fulfillment in restaurant food service. But since I’d come with only the goal of having a good cup of chai, I had some spare dream space, and I had, coincidentally, always wanted to be a waitress. I’d never tried because I had nightmares of one-arm incompetence, dropping trays of dishes, and pouring drinks indiscriminately into guests’ laps.

When Pascal [pictured in previous post] called me in the States to ask when I was coming back, I asked if he would give me a job. He reminds me of this yesterday morning, somewhere near the middle of breakfast rush when I can’t remember if the eggs were to be scrambled or fried, and I forgot to tell someone there’s no toast because the power is out again.

On a sign outside, nearly covered by tree leaves, is written “Dinha’s Restaurant with a Difference.” And it is. There’s no other restaurant in the village or on the beach like Dinha’s. With limited seating, patrons are “encouraged” to sit together, creating a cross exchange of cultures from nearly every continent. The menu has normal Indian curries and rice, but is also speckled with delicacies like banana fritters with rum and prawn coconut soup served in half a coconut shell.

And I’m pretty sure there’s not another restaurant in town with a one-armed western girl working without pay. There’s always an adjustment period when people look up in surprise as I appear at their table, asking in amused incredulity, “Oh, are you working here now?,” in an Irish or German or French accent. Sometimes takes a minute for them to realize I’m not a street urchin. Favorite moment: when a westerner tried to give me his order in broken Hindi. I think I may have ruined his cross-cultural experience.

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Though I’ve been to India twice, I haven’t seen much of it. I already found what I didn’t know I was looking for, and I’m amazingly content to sit put. Two years ago, we took a glorious open-air train ride to Humpi, a favorite for spiritually seeking westerners; but somewhere around the elephant that gave out trunk blessings for two rupees outside the temple, I found myself wondering what was happening back at Dinha’s.


And I missed Pascal. Slender and quiet, he is the best restauranteer I’ve witnessed, but if you tell him that, he says, “I don’t know,” and tries to change the subject. But it was his smile that I noticed first. It’s big and toothy, but like the rest of him, quiet, like he’s more amused by his own secret thoughts.

Pascal is fast and proficient in the dining room, easily handling all eight tables alone. And he's always calm, never apparently rushed, setting a tea cup down without a tinkle or a slosh. If engaged, he’ll stop to chat as if he’s got nowhere to be, turning one sandaled foot out, empty tray casually held in the opposite hand; but otherwise he’ll come and go, your food seeming to appear on its own.

The structure is shabby, the sound system broken, the kitchen enough to make a health inspector cry, and the two colors of salt and pepper shakers not indicative of their contents. One must shake them and say a prayer for the desired seasoning.

But there is something intangible, a magic that keeps you for hours, swaddled in contentment. If you don't pull yourself away, you'll spend the whole day.

And this is why, I believe, people keep coming back. That, or the only fresh pressed coffee in town.

At your service,

OneArmGirl