Main church in Panjim

Margaret Miller, a colleague of Stephanie’s from Vancouver had learned that her friend Janice Harper had been invited to the 5th Annual Goa’s International Literary and Arts Festival to present her  most  recent anthology “Emails from India”, a  collection of  letter written by women, including Margaret,  who had travelled to India recently. Her presentation was scheduled for the 7th of December 7km outside of Panjim in Northern Goa. Here is the account of our first real night out in India.

We arrived in Panjim by local bus from the beach town Arambol and checked into the Pousada Inn run by a very blunt woman named Sabrina. “I have one room for 800 rupees!” She said it firmly enough that we knew negotiating was out of the question and were happy enough that it was clean.

After spending an hour treading the cobble stone alleys of the Portuguese influenced town and admiring the brightly coloured clay houses that brought me back to days of walking through the Bo Kapp District of Capetown, we found the bus that would take us past the International Centre where the festival was being held.

Men quickly squeezed through the rear door of the bus while women opted for the front door, closer to the “ladies only” bus seats. By the time Stephanie and I boarded, the seats had filled so we took position in the middle of the isle. We both noticed how packed the crowd on either side of us was; however a comfortable half foot was left vacant on either side of us. While we appreciated the space, we felt somewhat guilty of the evident white privileged, or unmarried white female super powers, as one Indian put it, being bestowed upon us. It was quite possible that we had just not adjusted to the climate and really smelled, but we would like to think it was the former.

The ride to the centre took approximately 20 minutes. Stephanie commented on the undeniable skill of the fare collector keeping track of who had already paid, who had just boarded, how long they had been on for and where they wished to disembark. Skills like that could get someone pretty far at home. Like all fare collectors on the buses we had taken travelling, he made sure to catch our eye as we approached our stop so we knew to get off.

We arrived at the International Centre a few minutes before Janice’s panel discussion began. The panel included three female writers discussing writing as a second career and all their books seemed to focus on female characters that traveled, which suited Steph and I just fine.

Panel on writing as a second career. Janis is second from right.

After the presentation we waited outside the room for Janice to finish chatting with other delegates. We made quick introductions with her, but Janice clearly had things to do and talks to take in so she suggested that we stick around and attend the remaining sessions and join her at that evening’s closing dinner. Over the following few hours we attended panel discussions with Norman Rockwell’s granddaughter, British foreign correspondents stationed in Katmandu and a few other Indian writers.

After the panels we went to find out how to get a ticket to dinner. Each time we expressed interest to an event organizer, they looked at us with uncertainty and made it very clear we would have to pay 500 rupees ($10 Canadian Dollars) since we were not delegates. They seemed to think this might be beyond our budget, which was fair enough since most meals in Mumbai only cost about 100-200 rupees, but we happily handed the money over much to their surprise. With our 2 free drink tickets in hand we headed to the bar and I noticed  they had Indian wine, something that I had never  tried before. I asked for a glass of the white, expecting something quite horrid, however I was shocked by how “not bad” it was. I turned to Steph and said, “It’s kinda like a lighter version of a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, but with less herbaciousness and more Asian pear.” The Indian woman next to us looked up at me and said, “That is without a doubt the nicest thing anyone has said about Sula wine.”  Once the novelty of having wine in India had worn off, the Sula tasted not much better than battery acid and I was half tempted to find the woman again and retract my earlier statement. Luckily, later that night a gentleman at my table compiled a list of good Indian wines for us to try during our trip.

From the bar we spotted Janice sitting at a table with the British foreign correspondents. We took a stab at a conversation with them however the band was far too loud and my contribution to the conversation was saying “what?” while leaning in inappropriately close to hear the man sitting just inches from me. To avoid having to ask anyone to repeat themselves  for  the 20th time,  I stood up to take some photos.

I wasn’t out of my seat for more than a minute when a man pushed an empty chair next to mine in which his wife sat and he settled into my spot. I was half tempted to explain that I was in fact sitting there, but decided that it might not be the best course of action since neither Steph nor I belonged mingling amongst these people in the first place. The seat next to Janice freed up so I quickly took it, however Stephanie was now stuck on her own on the other end of the table. The man sitting between us asked if she would like to switch, which would bring her over to myself and Janice. When she said yes it was him who thanked her with great relief and we both realized that he  was not doing her a favour, but trying to position himself closer to the people who stole my seat and better yet, un-wedge himself from conversation purgatory between the two girls who kept saying “what?”.

Sreenivasan Jain stealing Marieke’s seat.

The man sitting to Janice’s left leaned towards me and whispered, “you just gave your seat up to Sreenivasan Jain, one of the most famous media stars in India”. Looking down the table at the man occupying my former seat I realize everyone around him was hanging on to his every word and seem to be basking in whatever philosophies he was spouting. I realized that asking him to give my seat back would have been like telling Peter Mansbridge to fuck off and tell his stories elsewhere. The same man who has identified the chair thief then pointed at a man sitting near Rockwell’s granddaughter in a royal blue traditional Indian outfit and a mustache-worthy of a some good Movember donations and said “he’s India’s most famous  fashion designer. You girls are mingling with some of  India’s finest tonight.”

A young server interrupted us to say it was it was now an open bar. I panicked since I had not yet used my other drink voucher. Stephanie reminded me that open bar means all the booze will be free from that point forward and we don’t need the tickets anymore. I felt like an idiot until I overheard one of the foreign correspondents erupt with the same amount of alarm waving his unused ticket at the waiter. From this point on our glasses were never empty and Stephanie and I found it much easier to talk to people.

The music stopped for a bit and a young  Singaporean poet got up to the mic and began to read spoken verse off his iPhone. I was particularly entertained by one of his poem detailing how taking a girl to KFC for the first time and watching the fat drip from her chin as she eats signifies that your relationship has reached a new magical level. Dating must really be something in Malaysia.

The band started up again, this time switching to a more Latin sound that encourages delegates both young and old to get up and dance. Stephanie and I left the bar area to check out the buffet, but were stopped by a photographer for the newspaper who introduced himself as Sanket and asked if he could take our photo. We found out that he hosts couch surfers in Panjim. Since Stephanie also hosts couch surfers they had a lot to talk about, so I decided not to let the open bar go to waste and requested a gin and tonic since they were now out of white wine.  They had gin but no tonic. I figured at this point of the night they were probably out of most things so I shrugged and told them to make me whatever they wanted. They gave me a look that said “really?” and before I knew it a chair was pulled up in front of  the bar and I was pushed down into it, someone lit a drink of clear liquid on fire, my head  was tilted back and flames and all were poured down my throat as 3 or 4 people cheer and took photos. Stephanie, who was standing 10 feet away was oblivious to the entire thing.

Congo line- elites know how to dance! Photo credit to Sanket Chavan

At 10:30 the last taxi taking people back to Panjim was on its way to get us. We said our goodbyes to our new friends, but we were stopped by a server who wanted to get a picture with us. Then the one who took the picture wanted to get a picture with us, somehow there was a never ending stream of people who wanted a picture with the two Canadians. This would not be the last time we would be held hostage by a mob with cameras, however we found it rather ironic that we were without a doubt the least important people there.