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Arumbol was and still is, a fishing village. The crude boats, with
one wing each, spend their days parked along the beach, with nets piled
around and then laid out in the evening for the morning excursion. However,
the village has rather suddenly I feel, adapted to tourists. Now the
road down to the beach is lined with shanty restaurants and shops selling
sirongs, chillums, bags, clothes, and most of all - internet. The number
of computers in town has quadrupled from 18 to 80 this season, and it
seems not many of the natives really know what they do, or how to work
them.
Most families in the village have built an extra room, for tourists
and maybe a privvy, while there are one or two more commercial residential
establishments which have a way of standing out, at least at the moment..
The village is starting to feel crowded in parts. There is no town planning,
one road, (the rest is pathways) and every where animals; Some cows,
plenty of chickens, and, delightfully, pigs, which are still responsible
for dealing with much of the sewage. Great wells containing murky looking
water dot the map, and in every corner are piles of plastic bottles.
There is no system of refuse collection here, let alone recycling. These
things don't happen in India because officials are expected to be corrupt.
All music has to stop at 10pm, unless big baksheesh is paid to the police.
Last night the jam went on too long and the restaurant owner was escorted
away. The day before that the police came and demolished the fronts
of the beach restaurants because of buiding regulations. By evening
the establishments were all open for business, but without their palmy
roof structures. Apparently it happens every year.
I think Arumbol is the must be the best place in Goa to meet people.
They seem more open here than in Anjuna. Singsongs just happen from
time to time, especially amongst the Israelis who tend to stick together
and talk noisily in Hebrew regardless of who is present. But the best
bit about Arumbol for me is that now, in my hour of leisure, all I do
is tinged with an aura of romance. The weather, the warm sea, the free
time, the new people, everything makes me feel like I'm living a new
chapter in my inevitable novel. And who needs fiction?
On my second day here I ventured up towards the Banyan tree, having
been told by Bjorn that it was an excellent place to hang out, about
20 minutes into the jungle behind the North beach. I was directed from
the beach to the more obscure of two narrow paths either side of the
river bed leading to it. This path narrowed and narrowed and petered
out, and then, with a struggle and a moment's panic, I came to a clearing.
It was evidently inhabited by some absentee traveller with a penchant
for solitude. There was a hammock over the brook, a mosquito net, a
dugout fireplace, and some other essential objects for living. Not knowing
which of the three emergent paths to take, and being quite contented
with the very spot, I reposed in the hammock with a frog in the fold
and waited for someone to come down the path and show me the way. Sure
enough, after a pleasant half hour, there was a rustle, and a European
girl emerged. "Help!" says I, "I'm lost". She was tall and graceful,
and barefoot, and clad only in a sari. A child of the forest. A Goldilocks.
Before leading me to the tree, she proposed a swim, stripped off, and
dipped herself in the pool, with me close behind her. Then once dry,
off we went deeper into the jungle, me in my new slip flops struggling
to keep pace with her naked-shod agility and fearlessness of snakes,
scorpions, lions and tigers and bears. The distinguishing characteristic
of a Banyan tree is its way of sending tendrils back down to the ground,
which then take root and become new trunks. Banyan trees therefore can
become very big, and I wonder if there is a theoretical maximum size.
This one, at its main trunk, had a clearing
with a mud floor, and sculpted fireplace with a rim. Eight People in
various states of consciousness sat around the clearing. Goldilocks
walked across and continued on her way. Nobody said anything to me.
I felt like I'd missed the party and everyone was too trashed to talk
this afternoon, so after hesitating I decided to continue exploring.
Where, after all had Goldilocks been going if not to this The holy Banyan
Tree? The path continued down the hill and headed back accross the river
bed. That was the way I should have come - so where else? The river
was the tiniest trickle at this time of year, but the size and intensity
of boulders that marked its path revealed this to be a very powerful
river when it rains. I decided to walk upstream, hopping and jumping
between these great lumps of pocked volcanic rock. You can imagine my
delight when I came accross another deserted clearing, this time in
the river bed itself. The floor was flat, the fire in its ringed hollow
was smouldering, as was a joss stick, propped up in the deep grey powdery
ash. Now I know you're waiting patiently for three bowls of porridge
to enter story, but I'll tell you now they won't, having been dispensed
with earlier in the day. But be not disappointed: this is supposed to
be a true story after all. There was a shrine here I noticed with various
idols and pictures, decorated with trinkets and flowers, and again the
signs of this being an inhabited place. I sat down to absorb my surroundings
and to see what next. Next an indian guy came from further upstream
and greeted me before continuing on his way. Telling myself I'd just
have a little look, I left my sandals and everything and clambered higher
upstream, and sure enough, two minutes later there was Goldilocks sitting
at yet another settlement, with about three others, who seemed intent
on landscaping the clearing with a pickaxe and buckets of mud. "Can
I help?" said I. "First sit, then help" said the leader. I sat.Then
I helped. 
Then I thought it must be time for a nice cup of tea before I had
to leave at dusk, and said so. Making tea in the jungle turned out to
be a more complicated affair than I anticipated. The herbs had to be
cut the fire stoked and the water boiled, then it stews and is strained.
It was over an hour before it was ready, and a couple of others had
arrived with big hugs and little introductions. Then a joint was passed
around and there was a little conversation. Most of the people here
seemed like frequent visitors. I didn't make much effort since I thought
it better to observe at this stage, but despite a certain lack of attention
I felt welcome enough. Food was proposed, and the girls set to chopping
and others to their tasks. The leader introduced himself to me as Rohan,
and picked up his guitar and started to strum it absently. Then, without
a word of warning, started singing in Hindi and the others joined in,
including me, when I was prompted: "Govinda Gopa Naraya No, Gopa Govinda
Naraya No" I made some nice harmonies and baselines, and Rohan complemented
me afterwards. But I needed to know what religious affiliation these
people were, into the rites of which cult I was intruding (for I am
not nor will ever again be a cultist), so I spent the next three songs
formulating this uncynical question: "Where do these songs come from,
Rohan?" "They're Bhajans, Indian songs based on the names of God" "Why
are you praising God using Indian names" "God has many names - its all
the same god" He went on to sing something in Hebrew, perhaps to prove
his point. "So is it Hinduism you are practising?" But he was evasive.
After a few such songs, two dreadlocked and half-naked Americans emerged
from the darkness with a torch, and were offered food with the rest
of us. A chillum is a straight pipe, smoked with a rag at one end acting
as a filter. Its a very effective way of delivering a wide column of
thick smoke unhindered from source to lungs, and is the preferred and
diehard way of smoking in this part of the world. As the chillum was
passed round the circle, both the donor and the recipient, say "boum
boum!", and some in the circle made a gesture of respect with the pipe
before smoking, perhaps uttering "Boom Shiva", or shouting "Boum Shanka"
to the stars before inhaling. Eventually it was time to be escorted
back to civilisation to remove my contact lenses, and the Boums
in the dark got thankfully feinter as the leaving party rounded the
valley corner out of yelling distance.
Once out of Rohan's presence, i was able to discern
a little more. Rohan is a dutch archtiect he lives there with Goldilocks
his woman, and the Indian guy who is a dropout from the next village
and the Nepali, a traveller. Lots of people in Arumbol sing Bhajans
on their guitars, mixed in with British rock, usually, but Bhajans are
popular because they have limited words, and are appropriate to the
Indian setting I suppose. "Boum" means "Praise to the Lord" Shanka is
Shiva. Convinced that I had stumbled on cultish activity, I returned
to learn more, only to have my suspicions confirmed. Rohan has property
in Greece which he wants to develop and inhabit before the end of this
era. He talked about gathering the right people, but I found the people
closest to him to be the most insular, And though I had a thousand things
to ask / tell them, they just weren't receptive to me, so I didn't waste
my energy. Much as I like the idea of living in the jungle, I'm more
likely to do it alone than with them.
In Arumbol I feel I've got something to learn. I have realised that
I can impress English people with my cleverness, but am much more inclined
to listen to other nationalities because they say things I haven't heard
before, or at least, haven't heard much before. Take for example, the
twenty-two year old Rami:
In the small hours I made friends with an Israeli
for the length of his joint. "I guess you are looking for a serious
woman because you want deep love, something special, yes?" I nodded.
Isn't everyone looking for that though? Could he be laughing at me?
"Try this before you go to bed every night, make a picture in your mind
of this woman, see her, talk to her, and watch her, and she will come
to you and you will be ready. It happened to me in Puna . . ." I decided
he was probably wise and very cool, but saw very little of him after
that. He tried to invite me once or twice to go to a party or somewhere,
but we were both unreliable enough to ensure drifting it
never happened.
Another came and sat at my table after DJing in a bar on the beach,
and started talking about how he had a bollocked the local chief of
police the other day, and how he was no longer wanted in Arumbol. He
went on to explain the details and fascinating causes of the bollocking,
how he pays for massive clean up operations after his parties, in addition
to police bribes for late music. They had come to silence him on this
occaion because he hadn't paid baksheesh, but in front of the whole
village (and now infront of Bjorn and I and another drink British expat
who was evidently mystified as to why he suddenly had no share of the
attention, not to mention jealous), he had repeated in abusive language
how, not so long ago, the police had taken four days to remove the corpse
of a lad who broke his neck falling out of the Banyan tree. How the
guy who reported it got angry at their lack of response so they sent
him for psychaitric tests - but they showed up 5 minutes after the 10
O'Clock deadline when their baksheesh was at stake. This Norwegian man
expanded on his own story. He was an outlaw in 20 countries, had escaped
from numerous prisons, discovered the hallucenogenic DMT, learned no
Fear, was admitted to the Psychedelic research council, Found himself,
married a young Thai girl, and now had a seven year son in boarding
school while he played raves round South Asia. Cool story or what! Around
this point, when I was considering becoming his DMT disciple, the conversation
had to end as the drunkard had finally got bored and started to drivel
about himself, which no-one wanted to hear, so our locutor was fairly
rude to him, but not unfair, and excused himself.
Bjorn and I spent a few late hours with an intense Austrian girl, who
was concerned with sharing spiritual energy from her own infinite well.
It seemed to be her mission to show love and respect to all people,
and by Jingo she did, with listening ears and great smiley stares. She
says you don't have to try for anything. What you need will come your
way, and the people that need you will come your way too. This is not
a question of fate though, its a question of being sensitive enough
to be open to things as they are appropriate. Whatever she liked was
'Full Power'! However she like many others
here is a persistant doper, which may well influence her passive attitude.
An English Nadia told me how concerned she used
to be for the world, how she used to do all she could to help, until
one day a little switch flicked in her mind, and she realised she was
burning herself out. Now her compassion is no less, she says, but she
doesn't have to try so hard. She concentrates more on being a happy
being in South East Asia. She explained to me why that's ok and we don't
have to worry about poor people, but I can't remember it. It can't have
been a deeply enough satisfying answer - at least not for a pathologically
guilt ridden existentialist.
And I'm concentrating more on being a happy being too. I walk on the
beach, loll about in the warm shallows with sand in my pants and waves
breaking over me, eat papaya with my penknife, read my book, occaisionally
I even find a moment to sit still! In company or alone, its all ok,
and the days are passing sensuously and interestingly. The essence of
all these Eastern ideas seems to be that there is a source of energy
and wisdom inside the person, and that by certain mental and physical
practices, it can be made available to your life. This is in contrast
to the monotheistic religions which concentrate on obeisance to the
Almighty Creator King. Today's question for me is which mental or physical
means is likely to work best for me, and then how am I ever going to
establish some regular daily practice?
Matthew
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