Naked bodies and naked truths
We’ve barely settled in, and Rahul is already in swimming trunks, a leather belt around his waist to hold them. On the porch of his little beach shack, similar to ours and next to it, he rubs his round paunch and laughs, more amused than embarrassed. “You should have told me we were going to swim in Goa, I would have gone to the gym. Now I have to show my Ganapati belly.”
“What did you think we were going to do?” I ask.
“Walking on the beach, maybe. I never swam in the sea before.”
“Do you know how to swim?”
“Not really. I tried to take classes in Amsterdam but they made me get out of the pool because I was splashing everyone hahaha! Too much fuss for the Dutch. Where’s Sara? She will teach me.”
“Are you taking the belt?”
“Yes, otherwise the trunks will fall off! Come on, let’s go for a holy dip.”
Arambol is our first stop in Goa. On the side of the beach were most of the restaurants and lodgings stand, wooden or cement bungalows, some looking more solid than others, we chose two of the simpler ones. Tables and chairs are planted on the sand in front of the restaurants. The day’s menu is announced in English and often in Cyrillic and Hebrew characters. Most tourists stay hidden during the day and only appear at dusk, like mosquitoes. The beach is then invaded by a merry crowd surrounded by the bluish light of the twilight, young Europeans, or with a European look, who drink, dance, play drums and juggle with fire and lights that streak the darkness. An hour later they all dispersed, we don’t know where to. At night the beach is deserted.
It’s rare to see an Indian in the beach who is not part of the staff of one of the tourist facilities. Outraged by the price of the beach restaurants, Rahul asked one of them and we discovered a shack hidden in a back street, with only two tables. They serve rice, sautéed vegetables with spices and fish curry, and coconut pancakes for breakfast. Rahul has fixed habits, and the restaurant has become our canteen, there we eat three meals a day.
We spend three days coming in and out of the sea, walking along the beach. As soon as the warm, waveless water reaches his waist, Rahul lies down, splashing with his hands and feet. As he feels himself sinking, he slaps the water harder, faster, his eyes bulging. He splashes water all over the place, trying to stay afloat, until he gives up, exhausted, and lands his feet in the sand. He laughs a lot, then tries again, swallows water and laughs even harder. If he doesn’t leave Goa knowing how to swim, it’s not for lack of commitment.
Sara runs to join him. They both have short legs and are almost the same height. Sara’s skin barely seems to have been touched by the sun the whole year, even though she rushes to expose herself to it every time she has a chance, the long winters of Amsterdam could depress her. I won’t be the only one seeing her, her narrow waist, the hips shifting with her footsteps on the sand, something primal makes the eye focus on the contrast of shapes and volumes; it’s said to be shaped like a guitar, and it seems to invite to make music. It’s a projection, I know. Like the imagined guitar, the invitation is rarely there, intentional, but for those not used to it, the exposure of the body can be a form of violence, a transgression that seems to call for another. Peeping toms can be found everywhere, the worst is when they don’t even try to disguise the lecherous glances, as if they were granted by those who so freely expose themselves. And the assault is not always limited to looks. The beaches of Goa, full of foreigners, are an exception, Rahul was surprised that women walked freely in bikinis with little risk of being insulted or harassed. Elsewhere in India they would have been gang raped, he said with a grim laugh, and despite the laughter I know he’s right.
For Rahul, nudity is nothing new, he went to the beach in the Netherlands and saw the women who sell themselves in windows shops. We went together to one of those beaches washed by the North Sea. Never with Sadhna, I can’t image imagine her in a bathing suit and I can’t help but think that’s also why she didn’t come to Goa with us. For her, it would be stripping off almost everything. For us, beachwear is comfortable, natural, but we would find it strange if we were asked to uncover just a little more. At one point, tired of the bad weather in Amsterdam, Sara bought us an entrance to a spa. We almost gave up when we were told we had to go completely naked. We wrapped ourselves in the bathing robes as we walked from one pool to another, while the old Dutch (they were mostly old) walked happily with their flesh hanging, sprawled on the benches of the sauna or the Turkish bath, their pubes never as fair as their heads.
The long beach is bordered by palm trees. On the side of the restaurants it ends in a rocky hill with more bungalows hanging and stalls selling jewelry, clothes and cloths with bright colors and psychedelic patterns. The path through the hill leads to a small beach with a filthy lake, full of floating rubbish. The beach itself is clean, in the bathers’ area, but as soon as we go up to the bungalows, we see plastic containers, paper and glass scattered, wooden beams and construction materials among the weeds that grow in the sand. Some houses were abandoned before they were finished, others are under construction, and the ones completed display a soulless tropicality, entirely made for tourists. On the other side of the beach the sand stretches to infinity and a dune hides most of the buildings, more and more infrequent as we move away. Every few hundred meters there’s a shed serving refreshments and food, and nothing else. We stop to bathe in a deserted area. Sara is disappointed with the beach, I don’t want her to be discouraged and I try to convince her it’s not that bad.
“If you just look to this side with the palm trees and the sea, it’s beautiful.”
“Today I saw a dog taking a shit in the water!” she replies.
Mangy mutts are a ubiquitous sight in the cities of India, kicked around like rats. The beaches have even fewer places for them to hide. Outnumbered by the dogs are the cows, and at first Sara was delighted by the sight of a brown cow, leisurely lying on the sand, until she saw her drop a colossal turd by the sea.
“It’s not pretty” I say, “But think about the amount of fish that shit in the sea every day, and ours that end up there through the sewers, another turd makes no difference just because you see it coming out!” I can’t help but laugh as I make my point, and Sara can’t help but think that when she emerges from a dive she might have a floating turd beside her face.
“There must be better beaches,” she says. “We have to ask Rahul’s friend.”
Perpetual Motion is a serial novel. Go to the Table of Contents to read previous posts.
