The Indian women demurely play in the surf holding hands in a long line in their colorful salwar kameez, careful not to get wet above the calf. Young Indian men drape their arms around each other or holds hands (something you see quite often here), and try to figure out how to break into the line of girls. The other Indian men strip down to their knickers and jump in the waters. The lobster-hued Europeans wear far too small of speedos and bikinis and look on from their towels like fleshy shellfish who have lost their shells.
The Americans are the young spiritual sort, looking deep in their dreadlocks and headwraps. When the sun starts to set, they scurry out onto the sand to sit in om position, legs crossed, and meditate. It's a bit odd. All these people coming to India to be spiritual and doing it in the very least Indian place I've seen, a beach resort filled with flabby Australian women and be-speedoed French men.
We stop at a German bakery along the boardwalk, frankly relieved for a break from authentic India, and anything with "masala," "dosa," or "biryani" in the title. I order a pineapple boat, because it's less than 3 dollars, so how could I not get a fresh pineapple boat on a beach in India? It's warmed up with a scoop of ice cream on top.
Then we climb up to the lighthouse. From the top of it, you see a white mosque with elegant teardrop towers in the distance. We take many pictures, and they share their photography knowledge with me. Because I'm with people whose cameras that look, with their long zooms, more like machine guns than cameras, we just look serious and impressive, like National Geographic photographers, not tourists. I'm sure.
As the sun sets and the Americans meditate, the Indians line up on the rocks, watching the salmon sky with their arms around one another. Rats scurry down among the rocks, hoping the distracted spectators will drop their fried banana snacks.
On the drive home, we try to take pictures in the dark and the others' pictures look like masterpieces and mine look like your 3-year-old's work. A women riding a motorcycle in a blue scarf flutters all the way home in front of us.