Twilight 2. Indian Impressions
Twilight 2. Indian impressions.
I don't know about you, dear readers, but I have constant difficulties with the prologue. Well, like, how to start another story. It is impossible without a preface, right off the bat. The reader will think that the graphomaniacs, they say, have completely loosened their belts and shamelessly filled the boundless expanses of the Internet with their mediocre scribbles, that it would be nice to establish some kind of police, or something, to track and, to the fullest extent, punish presumptuous hacks.
That's right, they flooded, and something like this needs to be established! Even Kazma Prutkov called: "If you can not write, do not write! ". Or maybe not Prutkov, but some other of the greats. Well, yes, that's not the point... I can not write, but anyway, no, no, but I'll scribble a couple of pages.
I all this to the fact that the right start is a paramount task. And with this, just constant difficulties.
Therefore, being a graphomaniac, I have to invent something every time to interest the reader, so as not to spit and continue reading.
And this time, I can't think of any tricky lure. Ah, let it be, I write it as it is. . .
Well, with God's help (I have already begun this) and with hard work, the mandatory program has been completed. Never before has rest been so tiring.
In Delhi, the India Gate and the Presidential Palace were examined, the Lotus Temple and the Qutuba Minaret were appreciated. Here is just one sadness: since childhood, I dreamed of seeing and hugging an iron pillar in the complex of the Kutub minaret (my grandmother told me about it in childhood). Failed. That is, of course, it was possible to see, but to hug... It is supposed to hug him while standing with his back to him and wrap his arms around him from behind. But the insidious Indian authorities considered that there were a lot of people who wanted to hug, and one pillar would still be erased to the bone - again, the possibility of a terrorist attack, well, they fenced it with bars, and even put a policeman with a baton on guard. It's a shame.
Let's go further, and further, according to the mandatory program, - the city of Jaipur. And there is the wonderful Amber Fort, the Palace of the Winds (Hawa Mahal), the City Palace and many other interesting things.
Then Agra. On the way - all sorts of sights, of which the steepest is the Chand Baori step well. Brain explosion! Describing this is stupid and ridiculous. Must see. At least a photo in Google.
Well, Agra, this is, of course, the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort.
And in every city there were beautiful Indian girls. So beautiful that even my wife allowed me to take pictures with them.
It should be noted that in all these visits, my wife and I ourselves were harassed by obsessive Indians in order to capture on the phone or camera. In the group, besides us, there are four more couples, and there are plenty of other whites, and only take pictures with us. Maybe we're better than the rest? The wife is understandable - she is beautiful. What about me? Well, maybe not a freak. . . Where is the mirror? No - freak.
This whole journey took 6 days. It's still a marathon, but it's interesting. Only one thing, throughout the entire distance, allowed not to fall down from a breakdown and reach a victorious finish - the thought of Goa. We knew, with a friend of my harsh and not very days, that palm trees, azure sand and gentle waves of the Indian Ocean were waiting for us at the finish line.
In a word, I repeat, the mandatory program has been completed. Everything was visited in good faith in the unbearable heat, souvenirs were bought, impressions were recorded on a memory card.
Now - back to Delhi, on the plane and, here it is, Goa.
The colonial-style hotel is booked. Palm trees are waiting. . .
The season has just begun. There are few people. In general, the impressions are the most favorable. The hotel is small, cozy, very green and practically on the beach.
More than half of the rooms are free, so I was surprised by the inclination of the staff to suck in a slop room. They have two types of rooms by footage (bigger and smaller). But it's far from the 42 sq. m. declared for BOOKING. The largest, I think, +/- 25 sq. m. Raised, with his wife, a scandal, threatened to complain about BOOKING, instantly moved to a larger room in a cottage, the closest to the beach. Regardless of the footage, the interior of the rooms is the same. In addition to the air conditioner, there is a ceiling fan in the hallway, room and bathroom, for some reason. There are no other excesses. But comfortable and ergonomic. On cable TV, only Indian channels, but it's even funny... It would be funny if this same TV worked. For two days in a row, the TV did not show at all, and the rest of the time, with enviable constancy, it turned off for several hours every day. The receptionist blamed the provider for everything. . .
Moreover, the light also disappeared. . . Well, yes, it's not surprising to understand the logic of the administration: why did you come here? Watch TV? March to the beach!
Well, one more thing, before moving on to praise - breakfasts. Poor assortment of vegetable starters, crappy coffee and Yapi juice. All this was bashfully called "Continental Breakfast" on the hotel's website.
Continentally, therefore, on the first day of breakfast, we went to the hotel manager to complain. Politely, so, I say, refuse, they say, we want breakfests, they do not satisfy us. We are accustomed to meat, well, or, at worst, to scrambled eggs. You, Akhmetka, give us back the money, and we, for overpaying for crappy breakfasts, will be chic in street cafes with lobsters.
Yulit Akhmetka, refuses: - We sell services as a complex, there are no rooms without breakfests. Well then, I will not report to BOOKING. But thanks for the signal. We'll take action, we'll fix it. In the meantime - he called another Akhmetka - here, they say, for you, a personal waiter. If you need something, well, there, cheese, sausages, or scrambled eggs, it’s that you whisper in his ear, and he will decorate it quietly. Please do not worry about anything and strain Akhmetka, if anything. That was decided, but the rudeness, my wife and I, held in our hearts in order to pour it out later in the reviews.
And now the promised barrel of honey. The manager went out of his way to paint all the cottages white for the season. Turned out nice, comfortable. Vibrant flora grows near each cottage, its own clearing with sculptures in the national style and a table and chairs for relaxing on the outside. Next to our house, a hillock rises with umbrellas, with seating. On this place, people gather to meet the sunset (it says so on the sign).
Both pools, although small, are neat and clean. But this, I think, is for the time being, for the time being... Until the Russians come in large numbers. After all, only our people are able to sow chaos and destruction around them where it is, in principle, impossible! Tell me, what kind of Englishwoman, or Frenchwoman, will it come to his stupid European Union head to jump into the pool with a bomb? Yes, and shout at the same time: "For the Motherland. For Stalin. " Don't live! And ours, having taken the local rum on his chest, can’t do that... , for example, irrigate bushes, break palm trees...
However, not every frail, cholesterol-free European is capable of performing a high-quality bomb. After all, here the mass is needed! And our peasants are pot-bellied, the bomb comes out just right!
Well, yes, I praise the hotel. . . I got distracted. So, all palm trees are decorated with light garlands. Glow. And in general, lighting at night is sufficient, but not excessive.
The security deserves special respect. A platoon at the entrance to the hotel (all brave, mustachioed) and then every 15 meters along Akhmetka the guard, and near the san-set hill - as many as three kshatriyas. In short, there are so many guards that they don't care about a company of Kashmiri terrorists. All in the uniform of the Guards, with shoulder straps, chevrons, aiguillettes. Bamboo sticks are armed and determined. The sticks are not statutory, they are all different. Probably, each of them broke his arm.
Every time they meet, and this is 15 times a day, the security guards ask: "How are you? " -, and they themselves answer: "Karasho".
The beach is not a hotel. Municipal. Very clean and well maintained. "Bug" is called. Two jeeps are constantly scurrying back and forth along the beach (one-eyed red and full-eyed white). If Akhmetki see some kind of garbage, or a cow's cake, now you can get off the jeep, into a bag, this is obscenity, and into the body. And on the way they look to see if anyone is drowning.
However, the beach has its own lifeguard Akhmetka. I won’t save him at all: you just go into the water, and he’s the same as here, and, well, blow the whistle! Like, red flag. Like, waves. Like, I'm worried about you, the bourgeoisie. Go, better, in shek, eat pineapples and chew grouse.
Sheki are cafes on the beaches, covered with palm branches for entourage. The menu there is surprisingly large, but more expensive than in street cafes. Shek staff rush about along their stretch of the beach, catch tourists, invite them to come in.
And each shek contains a number of sun loungers with umbrellas and towels for customers. It's free. But, if you are not a client, anyway, they will not drive you away.
What? Did I say "like a black woman"? No, that's not possible. It is impossible to call blacks with Negroes. Not politically correct. You need black. Again garbage comes out: "black as black... ". Then, maybe "black as an Afro-Indian" or "African-African"? Nonsense! In short, things should be called by their proper names: a black woman means a black woman!
Under each lounger, the dog nests. She gets tired of lying in the shade - she goes to the sea, skimps, and again under the sunbed. Here it is, real relaxation! Just something to worry about: lazily taste what the tourist treats, dig a hole deeper under the sunbed, and drive the cows... One such male, from under my sunbed, got into the habit of licking my leg. She took a liking to him. Probably contains a lot of dog vitamins. Well, yes, I’m not used to it, there is a place to have such a male at home... I was filled with envy for dogs, that’s why I write about them for so long. Well, they, sons of bitches, do not understand that they live in paradise. In Goa, everything is ready and no one drives. And here we have darkness, and pestilence, and smoothness, and gnashing of teeth. . .
I would go to the Goan dogs myself, but they won't take me! Right there they have samsara, karma, reincarnation. . . Well, what kind of enlightenment, the current dog, in a past life had to achieve, so that you, bypassing nirvana, were immediately enrolled in Goa!
And to us, for our jambs... Well, yes, okay, in a past life you should have thought!
However, there is another caste of untouchables, in a good sense "untouchables". Cows. That's right, with a capital letter: Cows! From the first day in this wonderful country, I was tormented by thoughts... yes, yes, sometimes thoughts visit me... Infrequently, but healthy. So, I wondered: how do these cows go everywhere, and no one touches them, cars don’t crush, they don’t even kick them out of restaurants.
Imagine, dear reader, the situation: we are sitting, therefore, with my wife in a restaurant, we don’t touch anyone, we eat lobster. Everything is romantic, the candle is burning, live music is playing (Akhmetka performs Indian hits live), and here, on you, a cow! Parked at the table. Stands, asks for nothing, doesn't even look at us.
After a minute or two, my wife and I begin to feel some anxiety, discomfort. But only we, and the waiters and the live performer, go about their business, they don’t blow in the mustache, the situation is regular. And we, with cows, even in a state of steak, do not get along very well, we prefer pork, and here is a whole cow. Live like a musician.
I call the waiter, hinting that this animal, although sacred, is somewhat, uh, not in harmony with our cool digestive processes.
-What-what?
-Nothing! Drive out, I say, the cow! - After scratching the top of his head, Akhmetka takes a naan cake from our table, which we paid for (80 rupees per serving), and beckons an animal from the establishment with it.
That's right, a lyrical digression. So, it torments me, therefore, the thought, how is it that no one grazes cows, does not worry that they will get lost, and in general, where are their owners looking? But there are none, the owners! They are ownerless! They themselves stray into herds, they themselves breed, and they themselves die of old age.
And while they are alive, these cows obey the Goan daily routine. From morning until 6:15 p. m. , they wander around the city, eating garbage. Sunset starts at 18.15 and the whole herd of cows goes to the beach. And there, by that time, the tide is out, people and dogs frolic, take pictures, and pray for the sunset.
On the first day, out of ignorance, I wanted to push a cow passing close by. The Hindu, who was standing nearby, how he will shush me, how he will make big eyes, how he will wave his arms!
-To touch them: no, no! They are impudent and aggressive, bulls especially. They can lift on the horns. The locals bypass them.
From sunset until morning, on the beach, revelry and ignition are being repaired. The people, of all ages and nationalities, sip, smoke, sniff and, in general, behave extremely reprehensibly. He bawls songs, dances, beats drums (I also bought an Indian folk drum for myself... ).
Here is a Frenchman in rastaman dreadlocks and a rainbow-colored beret (what-it-is-called), imitating the accent of Jamaican reggers, cries out: "May people, camona! Life is beuteful becos it is is a wandafula. " And, immediately, in good English, the immortal "I Shot The Sheriff" is drawn in. The people sing and dance. There is a persistent smell of marijuana in the air.
Further behind the beach is a crowded street with shops, restaurants, discos. From each establishment, the duty officer Akhmetka waves his hand, "Come in" - he says. Seeing our Slavic faces, he switches to the great and mighty: "How are you, brother? "
Every now and then, a local passes by on a scooter, and in a loud voice, without hiding, offers: "marijuana-hashish-cocaine-ecstasy. " And we do not need, we would have local Roma. But it's too late, they sell booze until 9.00. The taxi driver is called to help. Takes out for 275 rupees (at fixed times it costs 175 for 0.75l. ). Fine. Not a big overpayment. In other states, the same rum costs 760 rupees. Only in Goa the government has set such a price for suffering tourists. By the way, this very local rum is worth mentioning separately. It's called Old Monk. Very worthy drink! It is in no way inferior to the best rums in the world, and the price is cheap. And the fortress is proper - 43 °. Quite a booze, in short. Recommended.
Locals who came to Goa to relax for a couple of days also do not shy away from swelling and playing tricks. At home, they are dignified Akhmetki, religious guys, they don’t smoke, they don’t drink. For a drinking and / or smoking Hindu is not respected in society and will not find a wife for himself. And here everything is possible, this is such a state. Even the Indian chicks, who graduated from school last week, took off their saris, put on miniskirts and at the Bollywood Disco, they famously dance to Indian hits, and in the morning they can’t stand on their feet from drinking.
Indian cuisine is a separate topic, it is diverse in its delights and deserves to be shaken by the hand. Good! Spicy, spicy and delicious. Of course, on the coast, she is a little adapted to European tourists, but in general she adheres to the canons. Dishes are mostly non-meat. Hindus are overwhelmingly vegetarian, but many tourist cafes serve any meat, even beef.
Of all the marine activities (well, there, snorkeling, diving, skateboarding, phishing, etc. ), zhrating is perhaps the most accessible and popular. And we indulged in this occupation selflessly. Not in the hotel restaurant, of course, with its "Continental breakfasts", but in numerous street restaurants.
European, and even Slavic weakness gives in to sharp Indian nishtyaks. Humiliatedly asks: "music spicy pliz. " This does not help much, because the Indians are sincerely convinced that grubs "not spicy" are insipid and tasteless and do not have the right to exist, therefore, they season them, but, in their opinion, moderately. Even this moderation has a detrimental effect on pampered white stomachs, and having tasted this, convulsively waves his hand in front of his mouth and demands some water to drink.
But we are not like that. My wife and I love the original recipe. -That's the kind of spiciness provided by the recipe, such, you Akhmetka, and cook!
And he, the bastard, cooks to gloat later: What, snot from the eyes? Tears from the nose? Bring some water?
-And fuck you! It's pah for us! They didn't eat like that! We are fire-eaters, you can't get us through this!
Annoyed Akhmetka scratches his turnips and wins back on other whites. He is no stranger to. . .
Of course, there are McDonald's in tourist places. But this is for the already quite weak, good-for-nothing Europeans. Yes, and McDonald's is strange: the brand, the clown - it's all there, but, instead of a beef cutlet, and a hamburger - an omelet! This is probably to be called "semi wedge" (semi-vegetarian). I could not inflict such an insult on my stomach, he would never forgive me for anything. Therefore, I ate exclusively Indian cuisine.
There are many Slavic-Europeans on the coast, no one is surprised, no one considers them. And a little further from the sea, even in large cities, they are new.
We went to the city of Mupasa (it’s not all about lying on the beach, but giving Sita compliments). There is a large market there, there are rags and spices and everything else is presented in a large assortment, and much cheaper than on the coast. Only a 15 km distance, but a completely different Goa. They didn’t take a taxi, it’s not interesting, but we went by bus. The same bus, where the windows are open, and others are not at all, where they ride on the roof during rush hours. Exotic! While we were driving, all the passengers took pictures with us. Everyone wanted to be imprinted with live whites, so that later they could collect likes on Facebook.
Even before the trip, they read reviews, where knowledgeable travelers report that from the plane's gangway until the last day, again to the gangway, the "smell of India" haunts the visitor. According to these most knowledgeable travelers, it is the smell of spices and urine.
Well, I don't know. . . No matter how much I smelled it, I didn't smell urine. And spices, yes! It's all over the place! Kari, but not the same curry as ours, but real, vigorous, and all kinds of "masalas" - this is the real smell of India! Now this smell lives in my kitchen cabinet. I’ll open it, and from there there are elephants, forts, monkeys, temples, the Taj Mahal and, a little naive, but very nice people, and, of course, cows, where without them...
