Goa, Goa, Gone

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Goa, Goa, Gone 23/01/08 - 02/02/08

I wave goodbye to the dirt of Shiv, and head back on the night train to Jaipur. The insects do their best to fuck with my karma again, but I'm a combat veteran now, and I just roll over in my top bunk and sleep while the bombs fall all around me. We catch a bus from Jaipur to Agra, home to the Taj Mahal. For those not in the know, it's a fucking massive white building of the temple variety, and well worth a couple of morning hours standing and staring. Then, we're back on the road for Delhi, where it all began, and where it all ends.

I spend my final day with Alicia and Laurence, drinking cocktails in a bar in the Connaught centre, and at night we head back to drink some more. I may have got them all wrong, but the Indians do not appear to be a partying people, unless they're whooping it up at a wedding. The bars are as empty as the desert, a few strays blowing through here and there, and not a whole lot to shout about. The next morning I say my final sad farewells, and take a taxi to the airport.

I fly to Goa via Mumbai, and from there take a bus to Panaji, changing on the way in Vasco da Gama. Panaji, situated in the north, is the capital city of Goa with a population of around 65,000. I throw my bags down in the front of the bus, and take a seat at the back. I get talking with a guy called Sarga, who works in the HR department of a big mining company. He helps point me in the right direction for hotels when we arrive at the bus station.

The first night in Panaji is another fuck-up adventure, as I wander the streets looking for a place to stay. I've bowled up late on a Friday evening and all the good inns are full. I stalk through the night, the weight of my backpack and the humidity drenching me in sweat, and I must look like a smack addict, wide-eyed and desperate, parachuted into the middle of a dry zone, going cold turkey and stir crazy. After trying all the classy joints, I start to scrape the barrel. The hotel owners circle me like jackals. They see the look in my eye and the stains on my clothes. Every place I view is a whole in the ground; a place you wouldn't leave a shit to sleep unless you really had to.

First, a pack of the cunts lead me up a long flight of stairs, hoping no doubt I'll reach the top and be too exhausted to turn around and go back. The guy leads me in and tells me the rooms are 400 rupees. He says that a German checked in yesterday, as though that will serve as some kind of recommendation. Instead, all it tells me is that foreign devils don't come through these parts often, because they way he says it makes it sound like an event worth doing a dance to.

I ask them to show me a room, but my mind is more than made up. The place looks like a Nazi death camp. Instead of pictures hanging on the walls there's disease and decay. The porter, if you can call him that, struggles with a bunch of keys, unable to open the door. As I turn and start to walk, they squawk and howl, one mangy dog shouting out discount prices while the other bites and tears at the door, fighting to prize it apart. I'm halfway down the spiral stairway to hell and the cost of the room is down to 100 rupees. I tell the hounds to go fuck themselves, that I wouldn't stay for free, and then I tread on, eyes red like bloody daggers, ready to mess up whatever creature steps out at me next.

It doesn't take long. I'm down into the next street, and a pin-headed cannibal creep is onto me. He's only five foot tall and there's no meat on his bones, but that's what makes him so dangerous, and I know I will have a fight on my hands if I get too close to his cooking pot. He tells me I can stay in his house with him and his mother and with no where to run I step in and take a look. His mother is a withered old crone, and I give her a polite "Namaste" complete with bow, in case she sets upon me and bites out my eyes. They want me to stay on the top floor, essentially a creaky attic full of skeletons and wild, dangerous animals. I thank him kindly and say my goodbyes.

I look at my watch and see it's gone nine. I'm running out of options and low of courage. If the skies were clear, I'd be able to see the buzzards circling. Someone points me in the direction of a place that might have a room, but instead it's another dead end. As I walk on, feet dragging and head hung low, a car pulls up and the man inside says he has a place with a room. I follow him up a hill and into a dingy, low lit building. The room is far for perfect - the walls are stained yellow, and the bathroom is black and crumbling, but when I sniff the air the smell of death is absent, and there's no place for murderous cutthroats to hide and creep out from while I sleep. The price of 600 rupees is fucking extortionate considering some of the best hotels I've stayed in cost less in Rajasthan, but I barter him down to a still high 400. He walks away a little disgruntled, and I throw my things down, record my hang-dog look on camera, and walk to one of the best hotels that turned me away earlier. They tell me they have rooms for tomorrow. I book a deluxe, order some dinner and wash away the memories of snarling hyenas and headhunters with beer.

In the morning, I'm up early and ready to check the fuck out by eight. I slept well, but I'm not keen to stick around and slum it any longer. The hotel owner knocks on the door and delivers a bucket of hot water, but the shower, situated behind the door of the tiny bathroom, is not getting a view of my flesh today. I pick up my shit, and pay my dues, and then I'm gone. The Panjim Inn, my new home, is a different kettle of fish. It's expensive as fuck, but I'm tired and sore and need to try a little tenderness. My deluxe room has a massive bed, and a bathroom bigger than my last hotel room. I stay here four nights, switching to a single room after two to save a little cash.

On the second or third night, I come back to the hotel for dinner and walk up the stairs to the restaurant on the balcony. I'm shocked and disappointed by the smack of recognition as I see the blonde Danish girl I worked with in Shiv sitting at my favourite table, with the less offensive Danish girl and another guy I don't know beside her. I'd heard that this lot were going to be in Goa at the same time as me, but expected them to be at the beaches of Anjuna. Relations between myself and Blondie were a little strained during our time together. For reasons too long and boring to go into here, she is essentially a spoilt, rotten soul, the kind of arrogant, self-assured yet self-deluded fuck-wit that rubs me up in all the worst ways and brings out dark urges to destroy. I always felt I was on my best behaviour in camp, and although I was not shy to speak my mind, I gave the heavily censored version.

Nevertheless, contempt is hard to hide, and Blondie knows I've got her number. Now, we're forced into civility, and I sit with them a while and briefly "catch up". They've just come from Anjuna and are traveling north. Thankfully, they are not staying at my hotel, just passing through, and even better, it's their last night in the city. After getting over the initial shock, I manage to hold a conversation until they leave. Later, the guy, Christopher, returns to get something to eat while I'm sitting drinking my beer and reading a book. He turns out to be likeable in every way, and I wonder how in the fuck he came to be under the spell of a foul-hearted banshee like Blondie. After he leaves, I'm returned to solitude, and with a head heavy with beer, some negativity begins to creep in. Rather than push it away, I let it wash over me, reflecting on the good people I've left behind. These few days are my first alone in over a month, and it takes a little getting used to. By the time I finish my last beer I feel better, and take the road up to bed.

I like Panaji, but there is little to do so I spend large chunks of my time on the internet or sleeping. The nightlife is also pretty tame. Although there's plenty of bars and restaurants, most are dead by 10pm. On one day, I feel particularly adventurous and I take a left outside my hotel for the first time. The road takes me up a small hill, and to a large, orange temple sitting at the top of a long stairway. I decide this is where the good shit is at, and head up to explore. The road is curled round the hilltop, a long, winding stretch that I realise must be the Portuguese quarter.

The people up here are rich, and I pass big, elaborate houses decked out in bright, vivid colours. All the white picket fences and big porches make it seem more like the deep south of America than India. I pass by the Bishop's Palace, and then end up at the top of the hill next to an office block, looking down on the city. The road is a dead end that swings back around the building, so I start to do a circle. As I walk, I pass by a few dogs, lying by the side of the road. Until this moment, I'd never given much thought to India's mutt brigade, other than to curse them when they bring the noise at night. I'd certainly never considered them a threat.

As one skinny brown fucker gets to its feet and starts to bark, all that changes. This is no ordinary dog, minding its business in the sun. He comes straight for me at a slow trot, lips curled back into a snarl. As I look into his blood-red eyes, I know the fucker has lost his mind. I don't know what brain-rotting disease is his affliction - it could be rabies, dog aids, or maybe too many bitches have broken his doggy heart. Whatever, I know that one bite will be enough to do for me. He'll sink his teeth in good, and whatever poison is lining his lips will worm its way deep inside me. An English werewolf in Panjim city, fucking up the locals with his beastly ways.

I continue to walk quickly away, but the brute keeps coming, so now I have to turn and face him and look straight into those fucked up eyes. I walk backwards up the hill, planning my defence for what I believe will be the inevitable attack. I'm thinking it's best to go with a kick. If I bend down low to try to pick up a stick or rock to throw, that will only bring me down to his level, and leave me open for a lunge at the throat. He'd probably let me bleed out a little, circling, enjoying the spectacle of my arterial gushing, and then move in and sick my balls to finish me off for good. I figure, if he makes move, a swift, hard boot to the head ought to knock some sense into the vicious bastard, and give me enough time to make good my escape.

At this point, I'm about fifty yards from where Old Crazy Yellow barked his first insult, and still he shows no sign of letting me off the hook. I'm about ready to strike first and take the initiative when I hear shouting from over my shoulder. A group of Goan men have seen my predicament, and are rallying to the cause. OCY may show no fear when it's mano a mano, but villagers with flaming torches are a different matter. He starts to back away, so I decide to man up and make it clear who's the boss. I swing a boot, letting it whistle by his head, and he stops in his tracks, giving me time to turn and walk rapidly away. I pass my rescuers, who are smiling, saying "don't worry", and I smile back, telling them "it's no problem", like fucking up rabid animals is my vocation.

It's laid out in my travelling code of conduct never to show fear in front of the locals, no matter how weird or upsetting the situation. When you see a herd of cockroaches coming straight for you, shrug and act like it's no big deal. When you get back on the bus after taking a runny shit in the worst possible location, smile; it's no big deal. And when I mean fucking plague dog with a neuroinvasive disease tries to chew off your nuts, just smile, baby; It's No Big Deal. I don't know if I really pulled it off this time - I think the colour might have drained from my cheeks, and I know the piss damn near drained from my bladder, but maybe, with a bit off luck, I fooled them again.


After crossing swords with my four-legged friend, my taste for adventure diminishes a little. I take a bus to Old Goa, which amounts to a series of churches and cathedrals, all located within walking distance of each other. There are more fucked up dogs here, with bits missing or hanging off them, and I give these lepers a wide birth as I do my tourist thing and snap pictures. At this point, I have pretty much sampled all of what Panaji and the surrounding area has to offer. Maybe if I had some kind of guide book, or the inkling to seek out a tourist information I'd find I was missing out on some buried treasure of local culture, but I don't roll like that - I got my own fucked up style. I decide it's time to move on, and since I'm in Goa, maybe finding some kind of beach may be the thing to do.

Anjuna is the biggest tourist resort in Goa, the flame that pulls in all the hippies, party animals and skin cancer jockeys. I decide since the Danish have already rode that wave, there is no longer any reason not to go. I have two nights left in Goa, and then I'm gone for Vietnam, so I get all my shit together and I'm on the bus again. I check into a guest house and take a walk in the direction of the beach. It turns out, despite being full of fucking tourists, that there is pretty much nothing in Anjuna apart from places to eat, drink and sleep. There isn't even an ATM, and I have to borrow cash from the hotel owner. The beach is a twenty minute walk, and is a fairly impressive stretch of sand, although thought the beaches I saw in Thailand were a lot better.

There is even less to do here than in Panaji, so I just wander around, eat in restaurants and spend a little time sleeping on the sand alongside the many cows, who seem as keen on getting their tits brown in the sun as all their human cousins. On my second day, I decide to rent a motorcycle, and it's here that a little Indian karma kicks in and I get my revenge on the canine species. I've never ridden a bike before, and although I feel like I will pick it up fairly quickly, being blessed with fierce intelligence and fearful good looks, I also get the feeling that I may have to endure a certain amount of pain and/or humiliation before I achieve a state of equilibrium between man and machine.

The landlady of my hostel wheels out a little Honda automatic, and as I get on she runs me through the basics. I'm listening keenly, but something is just not sinking in. As I attempt to slowly pull away, I instead blot off at incredible speed, and find I lack all capacity to make it stop. I'm trying to locate the brake, but the bike is going faster, and heading straight for a stone wall. At the last minute, I manage to at least steer away from the wall, and plough straight into the dog that was sleeping next to it, minding its own business. I run straight over the fucker, which to my relief is able to get up and limp away, signaling its extreme displeasure with a volley of barks that go on for the next twenty minutes. The bike somehow comes to a stop, and I turn around to look at the landlady, who has her hands clasped to her mouth. "Poor dog" she says. Poor dog indeed, but I meant it no harm, enough if I did end up maiming it a little, and intention is what gets you into hell.

Normally at this point I'd be politely asked to get off the bike, and deemed unfit for the roads. Here, though, money talks, and they want mine, even if I am a goddamn menace. I'm encouraged to try again, slowly. I give it another go after more instruction, and get the hog under control enough to make it to the end of the drive, where the injured dog is still barking at me. I clumsily wheel it back around and then drive back up to the guest house. The landlady suggests I stay off the road for a bit and keep practicing, but I glide past her and she shouts encouragement, thinking I've got the hang of it. The truth is, I don't know how to turn the bike around whilst still in motion, so I just keep going straight out onto the road. I bear round to the left, and keep on going for another four or five hundred yards, until I finally pluck up the courage to do a u-turn.

Although shaken by my experience, I'm fed up of walking to and from the beach, so I stick with the Honda. The landlady shouts "slowly, slowly" after me as I pull away. I keep the bike for the rest of the day, managing to avoid further injury to either myself or innocent bystanders, and only struggling to remain in control on the steep dirt tracks near the beach.

On my last night in Anjuna, I sit by the beach again. So far, I haven't seen any of the wild nightlife I'd heard about, but tonight I get close to a little taste. I'm given a block of hash by the manager of the restaurant/bar I'm in, and having nothing to roll with, ask a girl at a near by table who I see skinning up. We sit together for a bit getting stoned, and on my final night, I at last get shown a good time.

The next morning I get my shit together and take the three buses required to get to the airport. I'm booked to fly from Goa to Delhi on the 1st, and then out of Delhi on the 2nd, so I change my flight to one day later, something the airlines seemed unable to cope with over the phone, meaning I avoid having to get a hotel in Delhi and then transfer back to the airport the next day. I return to Panaji and chill out on my last day, eating a good meal and smoking the rest of the hash. Then, there's more bus journey's and two flights before I'm back at Delhi international airport. I have six hours to kill before my flight to Hanoi, and I spend them in fits of rage and frustration at how fucked up the airport is. There are no cash points once you pass through immigration, and despite being assured I could spend dollars if I changed up all my rupes, this turns out to me a fucking lie. Unable to buy any food or drink, I divide my time between sitting, standing and walking slowly. I think back on my time in India, and wonder how Vietnam will compare.

India is a wild, wild country, filled with all kinds of wild, wild beasts. I suffered in the sun and went through many bush trials. I stood and stared poverty in the face, tangled with mad Danish witches, shat in a bush filled with human waste and ran over a dog with a motorcycle. I saw huge temples and forts next to straw huts and battered tents. I watched a plotless slapstick comedy that went on for three hours. The county is a boiling pot of contradictions and confusion, like the desert that burns your face off in the day, and freezes your ass off at night. Since leaving, I've told a lot of folk all the fucked up shit I've seen and done, and no one seems to want to visit India any time soon based on my recommendations. That's kind of the point, though. Either you like you food hot and spicy or you like it bland. If you like it hot, check out India. If you can get your system used to a Vindaloo, there's not a lot left out there to shock it.

Just remember to keep an eye open for those fucking cockroaches, and when on public buses, keep your shit packed tight, and under control.

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