Taxi? Maybe tomorrow...

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One of Goas most idyllic beaches, home to friendly dogs and cows chilling by the lifeguard tower at sunset, kind of like floozy girls on the beaches in Cornwall.

Low season. Not much happening. Taxi drivers thinking up all they can for means of conversation on the, at least 6 ties a day, walk to and from the beach, consisting of
‘Taxi?’
‘No thank you’
‘Maybe tomorrow..’
If they hoped I’d get the message and bugger off by the 6th day, I’d hoped they’d get the message and bugger off asking by the 7th. Neither of us did. In any case, I got the bus.

Whilst I was there, however, as well as walking the 20m to and from the beach each day- thorough exercise I think- I also eat great food, drank some yellow water with fizz in it disguised in a bottle labeled something sounding like Fingkisher, slept in the air conditioned internet whilst doing nothing of any substance whilst it rained, and wandered the beach looking at attractive piles of rubble, piping and toilets where the huts used to lay.

Being low season the travelers hung out together, congregating around some of the last beach huts (they were brick, so probably not worth dismantling for monsoon) partying through the night. Talented folk playing the guitar and Tabla, and on the odd occasion with me serenading them with some stupid made up songs of needing rizla (for origami) to some random tunes. It was, once again, fun. Everyone knew everyone and everyone was welcome.

I bought an Indian anklet and bangles for a very good price from a lady on the beach. She assured me they were of the best quality silver and wouldn’t rust and she was on the beach every day. The quality anklet was lost from my ankle. The bangles rusted. I never saw her again.

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