Миша Чинков - Кауч

– “You want breakfast, dinner? Two hundred rupees”

– “You want to go to a cave? Let’s organize an excursion, seven thousand rupees. You don’t have so much money? And how much do you have?”

– “Local slums are must see, only in a local excursion, they’ll show you how our people live”.

A dozen guys are hanging out in the apartment. They all need a thing or two from me.

– [an old man]: Buy me cigarettes, will you?

– [Me]: No way.

– [the old man, smirking]: Listen to me – I said: buy me cigarettes!

I give money to the youngest of those jackals. Half an hour later he comes back with the cigarettes, but no change. Eventually, the old man gets the change from the young jackal as he sees the real price on the pack. A complete shakedown at the every corner.

I spend the night curling up on a small bench near the front door while other inhabitants of the moral brothel sleep on the floor. I wonder if they charge me for taking the bench?

First thing in the morning, I rush outside and engage searching of a new host. I send an SOS message to a random guy in coach. He calls me straight away.

– [Natan, a new host]: Are you ok there?

– [Me]: I guess, they let me be, but I’ll really need a new couch tomorrow.

– [Natan]: Sure, come by.

– [Me]: Thanks, Natan, you’re a real friend.

Although the host’s name is Mohammed, I think I would name him Douchebag.

[Me]: Natan, I lost my phone in Borivali. I’m in police department now”.

It all happened at the final Borivali station, which leads to the natural park with ancient caves. One of the local “wizards” snitches my phone out of my backpack rear pocket. Cops suggest I stop bothering them and go back to Russia. Having no connection, I make my way to Natan thanks to a cheap tablet left in my backpack and occasional Wi-Fi hotspots.

Meeting with Natan and his neighbor Prakash makes me completely forget about my phone and plunge into the festive Diwali atmosphere. Lots of dazzling lights are hanging everywhere. Lots of street food load my stomach. We move from one stall to another; the guys treat me with all sorts of spices and sweets. Natan and Prakash work in Bollywood – they organize extras. They look like western hipsters: barbershop beards, Balenciaga clothes. They like cricket and their friends. Basically, they live a normal millennial life – “yuppie” – I would say.

So many thousands of kilometers between us, so many cultural and language barriers, so much different in our lives. Still, we treat each other like bros. We speak as if we're not strangers but friends with traditional Friday get-togethers.

Next morning, I make a video with congratulations to their friends. I do it in Hindi, repeating every sound they pronounce.

I think that turned out like a typical Slav story: where cops are jerks, have faith in your bros.

“Hello, how are you? I have a good apartment. I live alone at the moment. I’m looking forward to having a great time together :) Good luck!”

My host’s name in Pune is Chiraq, but he’s concealing himself under “Enoch” on the Internet because he’s afraid of jokes about Iraq. He’s working in his father’s construction business and lives in a new building double. The guy hospitably lets me sleep on his bed while he takes the floor. Another “wow” from me.

In the morning, I see my next train to Bangalore canceled. My travel route is collapsing like a card house. I look at the map of India in Google Maps with confusion and realize only a single night bus separates me from paradise Goa beaches. Having arrived to the station while listening to Indian school students talking to each other, I buy a ticket to Goa for the evening. Enough of urbanistic India chaos for me – no mote attention at every step, time to relax.

Chiraq adjusts to my plans fairly quickly. We pick up stuff at home and ride to the center on a scooter. After dinner, we ascend the city park hill and see a chapel. The chapel undergoes some sort of religious ritual with a furious bell chime.

– [Chiraq]: Goa is a great place. What if I join you for a day, so we hang out together at your host's? Pick up some girls, smoke some weed.

– [Me]: Sounds great, but I doubt he’d like someone to decide for him what to do with his house.

– [Chiraq]: Well, that’s unfortunate. It was nice to meet you, brother.

– [Me]: Me too.

In short, Pune is a boring place unless you have a comrade like Chiraq.

My new Goa host's name is Cross. We agreed to meet in front of Siolim Church. He seems to be a religious person.

Cross is from Nigeria. He moved to Goa two years ago. He looks like 50 Cent: the face, the smile, the way he laughs, the muscles, the cross on the neck, the gangster appearance. He lives with his girlfriend from South of India and shares the house with another couple from Nigeria as well. They introduce me to an old, dirty, worn-down mattress in the living room, but outside the window it’s all still and quiet, no noisy cities or constant attention.

– [Me]: What do you do?

– [Cross, smiling]: I sell shoes.

– [Me]: [ Pretending to believe ]

That’s how my day in Goa looks. In the morning, Cross gives me a ride to the closest beach on the coastline – he doesn’t allow me to use scooters, as he’s concerned about my safety. His girlfriend had her leg plastered a month ago because of a car crash, not to mention my young oaf lack of driving skills. Having arrived to the coastline, I take a walk along the line with occasional breaks on swimming in the sea. By dawn, I come to Arambol – the busiest place of the coastline – where I’m meeting Cross.

Cross spends the evening sitting with his friends at the table and selling “Christian substances” to tourists. Every Arambol resident knows where to look for him and what for. Nigerians are holding equal distance along the beach with hands in their pockets.

In Goa, I enjoy my lonely shiny days in India without India. In the evening, I meet interesting characters who come to Goa for downshifting and yoga courses. Generally, they all come from Northern and Western Europe being tired from trivial boring life with how-to instructions. Among the first-world crowds seeking spiritual experience, you can also notice a warm-loving Muscovites 11 11 An inhabitant or native of Moscow .

In Goa, I met Lesha and Lena from the “Chygoo” story. India shocked them so bad, as if they knew about India even less than I did. Puzzled by the complexity of Delhi, Lesha and Lena headed north to Rishikesh, where you can buy tour packages with yoga and self-awareness. Having got disappointed with the local spirituality, they departed to Goa for a winter much less chilly than in Petersburg. Comparison of their experience in South-Eastern Asia and here does India, no good favor. They are freaked out by the unsanitary conditions, chaos and the way locals bother white people.

My last night in Goa. Arambol, café. I’m hurrying Cross as I need to pack my clothes and be on time in the Airport. On the way home we stop at some guesthouse where Cross had some friend, or client, or both. Cross gets nervous and interrogates local dwellers.

Little by little he summons a dozen of angry Hindus. It seems that they’re going to beat the shit out of us. On my right an old wrinkled man is shaking a stick. After ten minutes of verbal confrontation, we break through the living line with a ram attack and embrace freedom.

Twenty minutes afterwards, we come by a guy named Jimmy in a place looking like a jungle. Covered by an empty darkness, Cross divides the pill into two parts in order to sell Jimmy the right dosage. I don't know what to do: whether to look over for the cops or just keep silence. Most likely, the second. I stop thinking about some cops nailing us and putting me into Indian jail. All I want is to get on the fucking plane on time.