Family Matters

Last year Pat and I stayed in huts on the beach, going to sleep and waking up to the sound of waves and the occasional cow lumbering in front of the porch.  This year we're at the house Kate and Ben rented (see benkateandmax'syearoff.blogspot.com )  last year and are finding out what it means to be living cheek-by-jowl and ass-over-teacup next to an extended Indian family.

There's a narrow passageway between the back of the house and the blue tarp that marks their territory.  The house actually belongs to our landlords Sandeep and Sonam who live in it with their two children Omkar and Muni (pronounced "Moonie" not like the SF public transport agency) during the monsoon season.  During "the season" (now) they live in a  makeshift hut right behind us.  Next to the hut in a regular house live Sandeep's parents and his adopted brother  Sandesh, and next to that house are Sandeep's sister, her husband and three soon-to-be-four kids.  Behind the tarp is a veranda of sorts, covered by thatch, which serves as a living room for everyone who isn't watching a giant TV inside.  They're very friendly, and last year the kids got used to running in and out of the house to play with Pat's grandson Max (and his toys).  Sonam drops by to borrow milk or store something in our/her fridge and occasionally can't resist dipping into the cashews we save for pre-prandial occasions.  Sandeep parks himself in the open kitchen window and chats incomprehensibly, then just pops right in if something occurs to him to do inside.

We're now telling the kids that we're having grown-up time on the veranda in front of the house, or as we flash by from the shower draped in a towel that this isn't a good time for a visit.  They're getting the message.  Unfortunately we can't do the same with their parents.

Then there's the noise factor.  My bedroom is at the back of the house, closest to the family.  Every morning I wake to the sound of someone hawking and spitting as the water runs from the faucet in their courtyard.  Sometimes Sandeep rides off on his motorcycle at the crack of dawn---or seven, which is pretty much the same.  Roosters crow from 4:30 AM onward.  Dogs bark.  Pigs snort.  Cats whine.  Crows--lots and lots of crows--caw.  The bread man honks his clown horn as he rides by on his bike down the highway.  Then the whole family wakes up and takes turns washing at the faucet.  Pat took a great snap the other day of a piece of rope holding the tarp together that also serves as a toothbrush holder.  

Recently a little girl named Diti, the middle child of Sandeep's sister,  has apparently been having some personal problems which she copes with by crying at the top of her lungs in the morning and the evening. Screaming ensues, and running back and forth down the narrow passageway.  I held hope that she was running away from home for a few foggy seconds this morning.

Yesterday Pat heard a great crash in the kitchen and came in to find an entire cow bashing around and breaking our precious beer mugs which function as two of our four glasses.  She called for Sonam in a panic and the two of them tried to herd the cow outside but not before it glared arrogantly right at them and pissed all over the kitchen floor.  She was almost late for yoga with the mopping and sweeping up glass that ensued.

I brought a great international plug with me to recharge all my stuff that now regularly disappears into Sandeep's hut to recharge their new computer, a 2008 Dell laptop.  Sonam won it at a raffle at a community meeting to discuss the future of Agonda Beach.   Because it's American of course it needs my beloved plug and usually just as my devices tell me to recharge I have only 15% power left.

On the other hand, Sandeep always changes the gigantic water bottle and unclogs the toilet when our heathen habit of using toilet paper backs it up.  Sonam does the laundry and mops the floors, they disposed of the rat carcass that the mama/kitty cats left us on the veranda, and generally act like the building supers.  Give and take is the watchword.

Fauna

We are back in Agonda Beach, Goa--this year staying in the pink and orange house instead of the beach huts.    The house is a minute's walk from the beach, up through a neighborhood of Indian houses.  We're in the last house on the dirt path, on the river which flows into the ocean.

There are some new neighbors this year, besides us.  My favorite is the mongoose couple who sprint across the terrace a couple of times a day--always in the one direction. I don't know when they sprint back.  maybe at night.  Once you realize they're not extremely furry rats, they become very cute.  My dad used to read us Rikki Tikki Tavi, tales by Kipling (I think) about a brave and resourceful mongoose who kept a family's home safe from Naga, the deadly cobra who  lurked in corners and made its presence known by some incredibly creepy and insinuating  hissing and sliding around.  Scared the living daylights out of me as a kid.  So I'm grateful to feel safe from any heretofore unknown cobras in the area.

The most annoying residents are the mosquitoes who  mark the sunset with their insistent whizzing and whining. I'm continuing my love/hate relationship with mosquito netting--when it comes untucked from the mattress corners and drapes itself over my skin I hate it.  when I can see flying critters outside it, I'm happy it's there.

A week or so ago there were between five and seven English visitors staying at the beach per  Pat's excellent travel agent skills, and many nights we had dinner on the veranda under the Diwalit light, liberally protected by insect repellent and gin from flying critters.  On several occasions, dinners were punctuated by loud encounters between the neighbor's dog Jambo and a local pig--the dog barking furiously and the pig clearly holding its ground with some fearful snuffling and grunting.  We laughed about the dog and pig show, and some people idly wondered what would happen if there were more than one dog.

the other night we found out.  At least three dogs barked furiously at the pig, clearly trying to attack and rip it to shreds.  However, the pig gave as good as he got, and even better, as the dogs eventually faded away in the opposite direction, and the pig stood alone in the thicket, grunting heavily, but master of its personal universe.

Of course there are chickens galore, and roosters who crow all day and all night.  All eggs are free range, it appears.  Cats have increased exponentially, and are underfoot and in and out of the house until we started closing the doors on them.  One mama/kitty combo found our outdoor chair cushions just the place to snuggle for the night until Pat started turning the cushions over and draping them from the top of the chairs, leaving no soft indentations for the cats to lie in. They are cute but clearly flea-infested and no one needs more itchy bites.

Our compost bucket is spread on the ground outside by our landlords to feed the holy cows which is generous and ecologically sound except that the cows then wander through the narrow passageway between our dwellings and have been known to deposit large cow patties right in our doorway--once right in a pair of flipflops.  No problem though--our landlady sprinkled a little sand on the cowflop and picked it up like a piece of black dough to put on the flowers she's growing.  When the bucket is not emptied soon enough for them, they've nosed open the kitchen door and stepped inside the kitchen.  Talk about a sense of entitlement.

And our fellow mammals, the bats, hang in a huge tree visible from our porch  all day, then rise from their somnolence at twilight to squeak their way toward food.  We wonder where they go, because it would be pretty spooky to have a battalion of bats drop by for breakfast.