love in the time of mefloquine

Between the malaria medicine, various antibiotics, the hot hot beach, poor women with wet babies, Kingfishers, lentils and overnight trains, I am generally sort of confused. Goa is beautiful, even though we seem to have washed up in the part known as a have-been rave community. This involves endless Asian and European teenagers with (no joke) alien fanny packs, tacky tattoos, and plenty of belly button piercings. This beach would be idyllic without the shady drug dealers and Indian men trying to clean your ears. Still, I have never seen a beach so warm and pretty, with weird lizards and hundreds of little crabs and tiny fish darting between rocks. Last night I sat outside the guesthouse, on our "front porch" and read The Namesake - the weather and air was perfect, and I pretty much ignored the noises from the pack of feral dogs roaming the dark dirt paths.

Inida: always approaching paradise, but never quite reaching it. Like the Myth of Sisyphus.

Tommorrow: South Goa, and look into self actualization.