Mangoes and Gurus in Goa

by Page Lotze (South Africa)

I didn't expect to find India

“One more time,” Julio encouraged, though it was about the tenth time he was saying it, and I had a feeling he would keep saying it, each time I fell. “Balance is about the strength in your heart, not in your legs. You can learn to control your body with time, but it’s your mind that you have to master first,” he said, his sheepish smile widening from behind his black mop of hair. I still wonder if he’d realised the life-altering significance of his words. I wobbled my way back onto the slackline for the eleventh time, which he had stretched taut between two palm trees. He held his hand out to me with both expectance and nonchalance, as if to say, “Take it or leave it, it’s your choice.” I had arrived in Anjuna, Goa the evening before on a rusty rickshaw owned by a man called Habib, whose moustached three-toothed smile was the only response he could give to my poor attempt(s) at conversation. It was within minutes of hauling my backpack onto the old metal-frame hostel bed that I was swept up in an excited group of travellers and herded to a nearby hill to watch the sunset. I remember thinking how flirtatious the sun was; it kissed the clouds until they blushed pink and danced decadently in the warm waves of the beach below. I was grateful that it lingered before melting into the ocean’s horizon. I understood in that moment why so many people speak of Goa with both fervour and wistfulness. It is a paradise for both the mischievous and the mystical. This was where I met Julio. We didn’t share the details of the lives we’d lived, instead, we spoke about the joys of eating with your hands and walking barefoot – two things we had both come to love about India. I was intrigued by this small man; whose presence was tall and substantial. We spoke until the stars began to prick the sky, and the sunset troupe gathered us in their playful chaos. I soon found my arms around Julio’s waist as we rode in a boisterous procession of scooters and noisy chatter, an experience I would have many more times during my months there. We ambushed one of Goa’s many local markets, our pockets full of loose change, and we devoured oily Rotis and fragrant Dhal like we had never eaten before, licking our fingers in rhapsody. Our collective energy was matched only by the bright colours of the fabrics that adorned the walls of the make-shift stalls. Jokes were peppered with French, Italian, Indian, Peruvian and German accents and our laughter was as thick as the tropical air. We drove home underneath canopies of palm trees, full-bellied and dusty, trundling through a cavalcade of cows and trademark Indian traffic. Before collapsing in a bliss-induced coma that evening, Julio promised to teach me how to slackline – one of his many talents. We practised beneath the shade of fruit trees and I quickly realised my impression of the sun had been wrong, she was not flirtatious, she was relentless. Julio moved across the line with the strength and agility of a gymnast. When he jumped off and gestured to me, I laughed and decided my ego would have to stay behind for this. “Breathe,” he said, as my arms flailed and I lost my balance again. A soft thud. Not me this time, but a yellow mango, its flesh ripped from the fall. Sweet goo oozed from its wound. Julio’s brown eyes lit up, “HAH! Look at what all your hard work has earned!” He grabbed the mango and thrust it to the sky with both hands, “Thank you!” he shouted emphatically and peeled back the skin with the delight of a young child. “Come!” he beckoned, with already sticky fingers. It melted like butter in my mouth and slipped down my throat like honey. “I think I’m in love,” I said, mouth full. “Food always tastes better when shared,” grinned Julio, noticing my obvious rapture. He picked some mango pulp from his teeth and let out a loud squeal. “Everything is better when shared,” I agreed.