IN GOA

My brother standing in the Indian Ocean.

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"All the usual, the people in Iran that you don't know have once again asked me to say hello", I redundantly informed them as much of the nine months of catching up got repeated as we took an equally long journey from Goa's airport to our seaside villa we hired in a lively part of town. My mother and brother had timed the flight with ours and their ensuing stories would compete with my tales of Iran and my sister's of India. The journey through Goa to the villa was illustrated with palm trees and narrow terracotta soiled roads would occasionally be blocked by heavy traffic and the occasional elephant being rather a different scene scene from Mumbai, lush and tricky.

As the family rested from their long journey I took to the moonlit sea shore and followed the far off sound of life pulsing in the distant. I followed the louder sounds, struggling with the soft sand as music from the passing beach huts blended into one another, "you want a drink sir?", they asked one by one and even on one occasion; "yes, yes my friend, you want some ecstasy". I reached the thick of it where nationals were leaping around to their fusion beats before I decided to head back. While returning I found that most of the huts had closed for the evening with tourists wrapped up asleep on the brollied sunbeds. I'd reached an open space and aroused a pack of dogs where the bark of one triggered many more as they set after me. I carried on slowly, not looking back, nor making a move to arouse them further, "OK doggies, I'm leaving", I nervously said as I felt every centimetre of distance between us. Just as they let off, fireworks exploded close by, setting the dogs off once again. With the increasing darkness I'd gotten lost, over stepping my noted marker, Jack's Shack, "Is it raining out there", asked my brother when I did eventually arrive back; I looked in the mirror to which I was dripping with, no doubt, nervous sweat.

In daylight things were very different, the sunbeds still had occupants but they were far from wrapped up. I did as one is suppose to do and tucked into a book and lay still for a few hours only breaking for the occasional swim in the warm water as the sun set upon the ocean. Sadegh Hadayat's Blind Owl described his mother's Indian background as beach traders interrupted offering massages, trinkets, nuts and even Christmas carols.

We took to a popular night club in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere to celebrate both my sister's birthday and the coming of Christmas. The local preference of trance music intoxicated the punters beyond the free bar where the staff juggled bottles if only to compete with the flame swallowers on the lower level. I made up for the nine months, intoxicating myself enough to not be conscious of my mother shuffling to the beat and then her chatting with the twitching guy that was coincidentally from our home town.

"you're killing me!", they would gasp as I made offers on the limited rubbish they sold

Christmas happened, or so I was told. The following day we set of to the market for some harsh haggling. I thought I'd gotten the knack for it until I got treble-teamed by three young female traders, "you're killing me!", they would gasp as I made offers on the limited rubbish they sold. With each piece of crap I bought to fend them off they would pass that item to the next dragging me to their nearby stall. They were curious as the Iranian money they caught glimpse of; I explained who the picture on it was of – "how much is it worth?" they asked, to which my answer led them to reject it even as a gift.

I caught up with the family later and sat in a large beach hut where my sister was found in the linked internet cafe downloading her excel 'finance' spreadsheets, updating it then uploading it again. My mother had joined her there; checking on the Boxing Day football results as I sat with my brother observing the drop-outs skinning up as the sun came down. With the smell of weed, joss sticks, spilled beer on the tables and varying international dishes passing before us, both my brother and I turned to one another and agreed that we really didn't fit in. It was interesting sitting there observing what nice weather, nice scenes and relative currency strength brings. Among the culture of intoxication that has become associated with Goa I sat there breathing it all in; we were all breathing a freedom of sorts, and although mine may have been comparably modest, it was just as intoxicating.

FUNDAMENTAL ISTS

Playing Risk with my Christianist family, I'm the red player.


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"Watch out for those Christian Fundamentalists on the flight!", popped up the warning message on my screen hour before I was to embark on my winter break to Dubai. "Don't worry, I can spot them a mile off" I tapped, "they're the ones with the pink clean-shaven faces, muttering lines from the Bible", I japed – quietly concerned at the potential damage the corner of a bible could do.

My break from Iran has coincided with a short break from adding words here. Although nothing seems to have changed since I last wrote about my political exercise, I've noticed many changes outside of these borders – one less important change being an arbitrary alteration in a calendar. More interestingly though the British government have decided to abandoned the use of the the term 'War On Terror', yet more interesting still I've noticed a near universal adoption of the term 'Islamist' from the media corporations. This term I've rarely heard before yet by some remarkable coincidence the sources I click through seemed to have employed the usage near simultaneously. I spent my Christmas day spotting Islamists and was surprised to even find a couple in the car radio – in some way I guess they are destroying our way of life.

'Islamic Fundamentalist' without the fundamental part I gathered, meaning maybe all muslims are fundamental or a new art movement is sweeping the world. As I am currently a citizen in an Islamic Republic I guess they also mean me, and as the country I've arrived from will soon have Islam as the dominant religion I guess they also mean a certain majority of their future selves.

7-new members of an average age of around 3-years had enlisted before my eyes

Another change was noticed in my absence, for the first time a Quo'ran was used to swear-in a Democratist – a successfully imbedded Islamists maybe? I'd managed to embed myself also, I'd evaded the racial profiling as I walked down the alter on Christmas day joining the Christianist side of my family for what turned out to be a torturous couple of hours. Their leader seemed a little unstable, imbibed I assumed from what I'd witnessed during the recruitment procedure they called "Christening". 7-new members of an average age of around 3-years had enlisted before my eyes, surely they know not what they are doing I pondered in concern.

My prior concern for the damage one might afflict from the corner of a book, I guess, is shared by few, yet for varying reasons an increasing amount of us seem more concerned with other parts of these books altogether. Although I've browsed through a few of them I'm not too happy about an imminent suffix that is sure to misrepresent me.