Goa to the beach

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March 7th 2009

The tuk-tuk ride back to the station was totally in the dark, as the sun rises at a lazy 6am. We left with the night watchmen getting ready for bed. On the way, we had to veer many times to avoid stray dogs sleeping in the middle of the road (it’s a wonder they don’t wake up). One man chose to use the main highway as his loo. People were sleeping covered head-to-toe in blankets in the outskirts of Hospet. When we got to the train station, we could hardly enter there were so many people sleeping on the floor there. We were on the waiting list for our train, but were rewarded when we saw our names on the list. The train was delayed for half and hour four times, but we watched people wake up and face the day. One old man took about fifteen minutes to get out of ‘bed’, with an old woman pestering and poking him the whole time.

We ate something we can’t identify at the station, and it was FANTASTIC. When the train finally chugged in, we were excited to walk all the way to the front. Our carriage was A/C, and only had two bunks rather than three stacked against the wall. Theoretically, linen was provided, but we only found one sheet and one pillow between us.

Later in the journey, I saw a small boy sleeping on what must have been the entire stock of bedding. Most luxuriously, there were curtains that you could draw for privacy! I love sleeping on the train and slept like a baby, in that I woke up every few hours and mewed for George, who read Rum Diaries and looked out the window. George fell asleep for half an hour once, but he woke up with a start and was paranoid he’d punched someone in the face and kicked at them wildly. I think I would have heard that, but he’s still kind of convinced.

We arrived in Margao, a city in Goa which is lined with beautiful Portuguese mansions in various states of disrepair. The bus to Benaulim was so crowded we had to sprawl over our luggage, and G. got into a fight with the fare collector who tried to charge us an extra 6Rs for our bags. “I’ll have Trading Standards on you for this!” etc. because nowhere on the fare list did it describe an extra charge for being a tourist.

Only one final rip-off until the day was over, in the form of yet another tuk-tuk laden with our possessions. The road stopped 300 meters away from the hostel, Blue Corner, and we hoofed it the rest of the way. At this point, I’m thanking Ganesh that my backpack has straps, as this journey would have been impossible on wheels. Blue Corner told us they were full and pointed us down the beach to Sundance Hotel, which charged 400Rs per night for the privilege of not sleeping outside. We bought a bottle of Old Monk rum from Blue Corner, and started our own rum diary after what felt like a very hectic week. The beach was exquisite, and the sunset was drawn out and hazy. We played pool and cards and ate chicken like kings until we collapsed.

March 8th


As soon as we woke up, we scoffed down some amazing banana porridge and walked down the beach to our reserved room at Blue Corner. The rooms are individual coconut huts with attached bathroom/shower with slate floors. The beds had mosquito nets that connected in the four-poster style and draped to the floor. The whole structure, the entire site, is taken down and rebuilt every year so as not to be destroyed by the vicious monsoons.

Our first foray into the sea was refreshing, but not as refreshing as NZ. The Arabian Sea is too warm! (I said it before and I’ll say it again). The rip current is dangerous, but the waves are large and fun to play in. We walked into town and ate pizza while we waited for the supermarket to open so we could replace the rum. There was a short stop at a stall for George to buy more flip-flops, as he had manly decided he didn’t need any, and then did. A man in a stand arranged train tickets to Cochin. We walked back feeling very righteous about having completed two items on our to-do list.

Dinner was a crab named James Bond and a chicken handi so spicy once George fell asleep I started hallucinating. Really, I love spicy food, but my poor brain just couldn’t handle the sweats. Our bed was humming with mozzies despite the elegant net (“You need to pack it in carefully” a German tells us too late).

March 9th

George estimates that it’s only a slight exaggeration that he has over one hundred mosquito bites across his beleaguered body. I did slightly better, probably because of the spice, I bet those bugs took one bite out of me and started tripping out. We relaxed on the beach; body boarded and got lots of sand everywhere. By now our pool games attract onlookers, and George beats me every time but it’s OK because I school him on the ancient game of chess.

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Photos

James Bond
Fresh crab for dinner

Sarong lady
George in the waves