Did I speak too soon? My first day in Goa was fairly eventful by anyone’s standards. I woke up and properly explored my little cottage and surrounding gardens. Once dressed I made my way down to the local restaurant, Jo Banana’s and hired a taxi-bike to take me to the shop to purchase food, wine and phone credit.
The phone has not been activated yet and I have doubts that it will be, as I don’t have a permanent address in Mumbai where the SIM is registered. It’s all very tedious and complicated, but since the bombings in Mumbai in 2008 they have really clamped down on security, so you have to provide a permanent address which I obviously don’t have so you have to use a hotel and hope they will accept it. There is a lot of passport checking and copying and form filling-outing and waiting in line to be done none of which seems to have worked.
Food shopping was much more successful. Brown bread, cheese, salad, fruit and a lovely bottle of red wine. Just what the doctor ordered. Once back at the house I met the cleaner who was giving the house a once over, it being shut up since the monsoon. I washed up some cutlery, crockery and other utensils and set about making a tomato sauce for pasta (that I have been craving for days).
I lazed around, read, organised myself a bit and then went out in search of the internet. As I have not taken the plunge into hiring my own bike just yet I chose to walk along the shore, walking in the waves. The sea is not turquoise but it is clear as anything and fairly warm and inviting.
I was accosted by two teenage girls who demanded that I buy some of their wares, which I refused. Their next demand was for me to buy them a drink each at the bar. Amused by such barefaced cheek I also declined this tempting proposal, upon which I was informed that I was a bad person – but not to worry I have made my peace with that already.
I did find a wifi place but the connection was useless so giving up, I did what is apparently unthinkable in Goa – I walked. They were shocked that I would walk, convinced that I should hire a bike-taxi.
The nearest bar to me, Curlies, is in the book. Described as “the best-hidden place for an evening drink” and within staggering distance to my home I felt that this is where I would meet some lovely people to spend an evening with. Looking forward to my first alcoholic drink in India I marched down the dirt track lane, accompanied by a few dogs and my wind-up torch.
Ensconced on a table, with a really, really bad book (donation from the Seattle Chick) and a comparatively expensive and revolting glass of white wine I surveyed the other patrons looking for potentials. Groups of boys and couples aplenty but no other single girls. I waited, listening to the thready trance music and watching the women cooking on the beach. I was perfectly relaxed.
I met Jan at the best place to meet people i.e. the loo. We had a quick chat about how gross they were, obviously, and she went back to join her party of friends. But I wasn’t letting her get away that easily and spied them sitting together and went and asked if I could join in.
There were two couples, Jan and her boyfriend were English and the other were Northern European (him) and Indian (her) and Mark the ubiquitous Aussie. They were really friendly and we chatted and laughed for about an hour before they decided to go off for dinner and invited me to join them, which I did. I had to ride pillion on Mark’s moped. I have now three such rides under my belt but am not convinced that I like it. The roads are so full of potholes, there are no street lights and as my ability to trust the driver (any driver) is non-existent, I am nervous just getting on the thing. However, Mark assured me that he knew the roads really well and only drove really slowly to miss the aforementioned potholes. He was true to his word and did drive really well. We arrived safely at the restaurant; the only thing that didn’t make the journey was the book, which flew off as we’d turned a corner.
The evening was passing nicely and I was having a good time. They were really friendly and invited me to join them the following day on the beach etc and told me the good places to go, all of them having been here two or three months. Mark is very eccentric, loud and in a typical traveller vein started getting all right-on and deep, talking about quantum physics, aliens, the beginning of creation and other guff. He offered to read my palms and I let him.
Much to my amusement, the generalisations abounded. The same stuff they always tell you: you have lost someone close to you, there is more to you than meets the eye etc. but when he told me that it was important to me to follow the crowd and always try to fit in, which he could tell, apparently, from the gap between my baby finger and ring finger on my right hand, I felt I had to set him straight. I asked him if he thought that the fact I was travelling alone might be an indication of the opposite. He was very confused and told me that it was the first time in five years that, and as long as I wasn’t lying, he had got it wrong. I tried to console him by explaining no one can have 100% success rate and it was bound to happen sooner or later. He explained in turn that he was very tired.
We were starting to think about leaving when, predictably, an alcohol induced argument started up between Mark and Jan. Mark being boringly sensitive. However, it soon settled down and everyone was friends again. They offered to give me a lift home but as I didn’t want to go pillion with Mark, deciding he was too worse for wear, I hopped on with Jan and partner. Entire families and all their shopping seem to ride together on bikes here, tiny babies casually sitting on mum’s lap as she rides side-saddle, so wasn’t too worried. Besides the boyfriend seemed to be a very sensible chap and as they are in their 40’s well past the exuberance of youth.
We set off homewards with Mark driving beside us, going on about continuing the party, getting some booze and dancing the night away. We three on the bike could not have been less enthusiastic. Mark turned the corner before us and very suddenly I saw him gracefully arch into the air before both bike and he disappeared into the ditch. Jan and I gasped in horror. As we pulled up alongside ‘the accident site’ we both leapt off the bike calling his name.
Suddenly from the ditch emerged a now bloody Mark. Having (luckily) only cut his head above the eyebrow, he was pouring blood because, of course, heads do bleed. A lot. He was staggering about in the road asking “am I bleeding?” over and over. We made him sit down on, what I will euphemistically call the curb. BY the light of our bike’s we could properly see the damage. How he got off so lightly I do not know, but he really did only have a small cut above his eye as well as a rapidly swelling face and possible concussion. My wind-up torch was employed again because apart from the headlight on the bike there were no other lights except those on the distant houses. I stood there thinking “what the F@*?” How typical, how did I manage to find the only excitement in Anjuna??
Soon the road was filling up with headlights and as the police and other locals started to arrive. They asked me if I was with him, who had been on the bike with him etc. Then started to call an ambulance (I assume) and set about impounding the bike. When to his infinite credit, the English man insisted on taking me home so that I didn’t have to be further involved. Not having to be asked twice I jumped on the bike and he took me back to the cottage.
Walking back up the hill by torchlight towards the house at break neck speed I was relieved to see the porch light I had left on to help guide me back. Then I stopped in my tracks, the padlock that I had definitely put on the door upon leaving, was not there. Puzzled and, after my experience, a little drained and worried, I approached the door with caution. A pair of shoes outside led me to conclude that it couldn’t be a burglar, unless he was a very considerate or anal burglar, who, although might rob you blind balked at the idea of leaving muddy footprints on the rugs.
It was Thornton, owner of the house, who had every right to be there but had neglected to tell me he might be. I remembered with dismay that I had left the house a bit messy deciding to clean the next day in daylight and at my leisure rather than in the dismal electric light. Thornton however had already cleaned up, being himself embarrassed that the cleaner had not done a good job of getting the monsoon out. We chatted for a while and then he started telling me horror stories about scorpions and snakes getting into the house as well as how the houses really are not as safe as they look. All things that I would rather NOT know.
Bewildered first by the accident and then by Thornton’s unexpected arrival, it took me ages to settle down. I did manage to get to sleep, eventually, only to dream of bloody faces and huge snakes, waking several times to strange noises and imagined dangers.
So how does that rate on the intrepid chart?
Tomorrow I am buying a big bottle of TCP and will probably avoid joining them on the beach; I’ll let the dust settle on this one I think.
I want to know what the awful book was!
The intrepidity factor is holding out well.
Your bags of books have just arrived in Twickenham
Love, Carole
my lovelly i have thoroughly enjoyed reading you journey the the way u write is so bloody interesting.i will look up tomorow were i had very nice food in goa u should go there its write on a beach.be safe look after your self and enjoy.will be looking foward to read more.love u