Know Your Goans
Dangerous over-generalization? Why not? There are roughly three camps in Goa you will find rocketing past you on motorbikes, clogging the restaurants and beaches, and stumbling homeward on the road-side, wildly inebriated.
Firstly, you got your hippies who washed ashore Back in the Day and never left. They might be a bit older, a bit grizzled, their skin cured and tanned to a terrific beef-jerky like consistency. They might wear orange fisherman pants with a yellow kurta covered in om symbols; they have, in a word, "gone native."
Next, you got your crusties, basically the extras from the Babylon rave scene in Matrix Reloaded. (Remember, in the future we will all listen to techno.) Distinguishing characteristics include fierce black dreads down to the ass, which I imagine to be an incredible comfort in 30-degree weather (that’s Celsius), as well as tattoos and piercings. Crusties tend to be garbed in torn, tattered and multi-layered clothes constructed from the surplus uniforms of all the world’s armies. The more utility pockets, the better.
Finally, you have your tourists. You can spot them fairly easily ‘cause they just look so fucking lost and out-of-place and sunburned wherever they are.
Where do we fall in these categories? I don't know, though the scooter rides and incessant heat have put paid to my Bowie-circa-Ziggy fringe-and-earflaps hairstyle --- riding the scooter is like driving into a molten hairdryer, which leaves my hair shall we say quite Kramer-esque. Thank god I am married, and Tara is forced to both do my bidding and find me attractive, or I would have a lot of time on my hands for meditation.
It is so goddamn hot, though, that I find myself eyeing loose, billowy, white India-style shirts and fisherman pants every time we go out because they look so comfortable, though both Tara and I have a standing policy not to buy any clothes we can't and won't wear anywhere else in the world.
Note: I resisted, strongly, the urge to use the title "Goan Crazy!" for this entry.