Silk Roads: China, The Middle East, and The New World

Hallo all! It's a warm and balmy morning here in Benaulim Village, where I have patiently waited through many offers of taxi...(no)...massage...(well, ok tomorrow when my sunburns feeling better)...taxi..(again, no)...donut?...(sure!)...fresh sugar cane juice...(not after the donut, but thank you) to have the opportunity to be sitting here right now writing to you. Ben has taken the bus to Margao, the largest town near here, to attempt to empty the pictures from his camera onto the computer back at home..(a very long and involved process which has many of the kind people who offer to help us scratching their heads and wondering why bring such a complicated piece of equipment to a side of the world where a CD drive and DSL modem aren't assumed as part of a computer package deal that arrives in a black and white cow print box on your doorstep). Besides, cows don't look like that here . Anyhow, that over with, I'm here with my feet resting on the cool tile floor, unable to make a > journey to Margao due to the enormous blisters on my feet! The day before yesterday, after marvelling at a hazy structure perched on the side of the hillside on a peninsula quite a bit to the north of where we live, for quite a few days, we decided to see it from a closer perspective. According to our mapbook, it is the fort of Vasco de Gama, and the obscuring haze lends it a very "mirage of an oasis on the horizon" appearance. Well I, always up for a challenge, propose that we rent a bicycle and bike up the beach, explore and then return. But Ben, having listened to my complaints about the possible broadening expanse of my buttocks..(what happened to my international diet plan? I was supposed to be sick enough to drop 20 pounds in a week! Baahh..) suggested that we walk. Excellent. So after a lovely breakfast of a pot of milk tea, porridge with honey, and toast with scrambled eggs (we really do live like kings) and warnings of 'oh no, too far...how far?...2 maybe 3 > hours...Oh that's nothing' we set off. I know I seem to have painted a grim picture, but it's not so bad at all, really. I mean

We're walking along a beautiful beach in paradise...it can't be that bad. [and] after a kilometer or two, the beach shacks end and in their stead the fisherman's village rises on the hill behind the beach, baskets and baskets of all things shimmery and slimy line the shade on the lee side of the wooden boats that we earlier watched these fellows roll up onto the beach by aid of well rounded logs placed beneath their hulls. The common area between the huts was paved with fish that had been laid out to dry, the whole hill glinting as if paved with silver, and the beach was littered with a variety of things that had been unintentionally hauled in along with the fish. Plastic water bottles mainly. There's an overabundance of these, especially in the areas plagued by tourists. Supposedly a recycling center exists somewhere close by, but with no public trash > pickup and definately none for recycling, the bushlines on the hills are covered with them. If a bottle bill was truly needed anywhere, here would be the place. A bottle deposit of a mere rupee would virtually clean the beaches and hillsides of the greatest percentage of their trash, since in a few minutes time a person could pick up 40 or 50 bottles. Begging would be less profitable than recycling and a whole new generation of children would be raised learning this ecofriendly skill instead of the frustration and demeanment handed down to them by parents who beg. But I digress, there really doesn't seem to be as much begging here as before, maybe as my skin browns, I'm flagged less and less as a sucker. Anyhow, so the walk along the beach. So Besides the plastic bottles were a great variety of shells, some inhabited and some not, and flip flops. The inhabited shells we threw back into the sea, along with a pufferfish that was at least mostly dead. The flipflops remained and > we continued our journey.

A short ways after the fishing village the buzz of activity on the beach ceased and we were quite alone. The most incredible feeling. I'm used to sharing my beach with many people and quite a few hotels, but here there were woods backing the beach and just a few sets of footprints already laid down before ours. Wandering back under the cover of shade we were further surprised to see that nowhere in our sight was anything other than trees and grassy hills. The coconut trees here hung heavy with fruit and large bushes of some fragrant, sage-like plant with small pink blossoms, mixed euphorically with the salt of the sea and the headiness of the pines! That someplace like this exists, and with no parking lot leading up to it with painted sign that states "SCENIC VISTA". Delightful. On the beach here we decided to rest and swim before continuing north with the full force of the sun at our backs.

Now with Benaulim far behind us and the fort before us a > little more clear, (we could make out what appeared to be very arabesque looking minarets and towers) my feet began to hurt. (some combination of the sand, the water and the heat was doing a number on my heels) The sun is now lower in the sky and the various shades of pink spreading across Ben's exposed skin is the primary topic of conversation as we have both now silently decided that there's no way we can get to the fort and then back home today but neither of us are willing to turn back without having reached our goal.

We ask a passing group of boys how far to the fort? Fort?? Oh, the cement plant? 2 km. Cement plant? Ahhh, those lovely minarettes now morph themselves into smokestacks and the globes topped with golden spires to perhaps water holding tanks. The Fairy Godmother's spell is broken and my Chaco slippers are too tight on my aching feet. Oh well, it's still been an adventure. They also inform us that the beach ends slightly past the Plant. Lovely.

Well > maybe we can make it to the next town before dark. This end of the beach, ignoring the factory, is truly magical. Thick groves of coconuts crowd down toward the water and private homes fronted by freshly whitewashed places for prayer peek out shyly from the shade.

While we've seen quite a few churches here in Goa, worship seems a more private thing. Some homes have a cross mounted on a pedestal with a bench in front of it, some have an elaborate gazebo like structure, open to the surrounding call of birds and neighbors, with a cross at the front hung with fresh garlands of marigold and jasmine, maybe a picture or statue of Jesus and Mary, and niches in the walls for candles. It seems that Catholicism and Hinduism sit well here in India, side by side. The many Catholic saints and their holidays, and the care given to their places of residence seem to have found a balance with the pantheon of Hindu gods and the caretaking of their temples. The feeling that gods and saints are > omnipresent here is refreshing, everywhere is a cathedral.

The beach ended with the crashing of the evening tide onto the reddish volcanic rock (when quarried this is called 'cherries') jutting out into the sea. Flanks of a thousand seagulls rest here, maybe pushed north by the more territorial crows which have gained purchase further south. We surprise two ladies appearing from the shade of the trees, who direct us to the 'road' behind them as the only way to Bogmalo, our new destination. The 'road' is actually a narrow trail, weaving among well cared for coconut trees and where when the direction of the path may seem a bit unclear, someone has painted arrows on nearby rocks and trees.

Here indeed is a sacred place. Our red feet fall silently on red earth with the light cutting golden ribbons from the sky above. No ancient church in Old Goa had the feel of God about it like this place did. Narrow logs lay over clear running irrigation channels and not once did we see anyone > on the path, only an old lady taking down her laundry in the distance, who waved curiously. Our path opened into the village of Irrocissim, where the kids at the village restaurant laughed good naturedly at our quest and directed us on. "1.5 km only" one said with the familiar side to side nod that means something somewhere between 'yes' and 'no', but not quite 'maybe'. Ok.

4.5 km later we find ourselves at secluded Bogmalo beach, protected on each side by a flanking of rocks, and much more of a well maintained local family beach than where we've been. After a quick shower at Sarita's Inn (rooms R650, after our sob story R500) we sit and watch the sun sink, blazing gloriously, behind the uninhabited island which rests just beyond the bay of this cove. Altogether a wonderful day that will be retold again and again in my long winded memory. Just as the marks of it on my feet (4 blisters on my left foot, and a blood blister the size of 3 quarters on my right heel) will remind > me for the next week or so! So if anyone has any suggestions for the care of big blisters, other than, > -don't pop them -don't walk -keep them moisturized > do share! >Until later then, I will be thinking of you, and hope that all is well. >Love, >Crystal

Verdict: The areas where dialogue is represented need to be gone over by the proof editors for format.