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Published: November 18th 2007
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Morjim Beach
Marci and Christopher hit the beach. “It was interesting getting out into the clean night air, at last, to see the name of the place spelt out in Hindi Devanagari characters: Go-wa.”
- V.S. Naipaul, A Million Mutinies Now
We arrive at Dabolim Airport not to the cool air of a Goan evening, but rather the tandoori-hot afternoon sun. The moment I heard the screech of liberally applied brakes and saw our driver’s feathered hair, broken nose, and dark cool-guy shades I said a silent prayer to the Vishnu and Jesus stickers that adorned his dashboard. Here was a young man born to drive derbies, but who should never have been allowed on public streets. Like a paramedic on amphetamines, he would tailgate trucks, lurch into oncoming traffic, lean on his horn, pass within inches of hurtling death and begin the process again. He drove as Naipaul put it, “as though metal was unbreakable and made man a god.” When the son of a bitch took his cell phone out for the second time I began to stare piercing needles of hate into the back of his skull, entertaining fantasies of grabbing him by the feathered hair and bashing his forehead in the dashboard Jesus.
Thar she blows.
Our trusty radial tube (200 rupees). An hour or so later, our knuckles literally white, me and Marse shared relieved looks as we rolled to a stop in Morjim.
We hurriedly unloaded our gear and I turned around to face an expectant face, nearly a head below mine.
The Driver: "My tip?"
Me: (Shaking my head) "I wish you a long and fruitful life."
Marci: (Under her breath) "Maniac!"
Reminded of the high value of life and the tenuous hold that each of us have on existence, we walked down the sandy path to our guest house--The Goan Cafe.
Consisting of a medium-sized blue and white building inscribed with a British Windsor crest and the motto, "Glory to almighty God," and two rows of thatch huts suspended on wooden struts, the Goan Cafe is run with undivided care, attention, and smiles by a trio of deeply religious brothers.
A sort of antithesis to the fundamentalist, evangelical Christianity that makes newspapermen and political pundits sit up in their chairs, the three brothers faith, though physically evident (a tattered ten commandments hangs from the bar, the trim of the room above us was adorned with an illegible biblical verse) manifests itself primarily as
simple kindness and concern. All three brothers came across as sweet, unassuming and extraordinarily helpful (For example, when the power went due to a raging monsoon storm, Lawrence appeared, as if from nowhere, to follow us back to our room with a candle.).
The beach itself is a long, flat slice of sand extending from some rocky outcroppings on the Northern tip to the mouth of the Chapora River at the Southern end. Supposedly, one can see olive ridley turtles nesting where the river meets the ocean, but when we went to check this out we found only river run-off garbage and a few hundred Indian gulls nesting there. Apparently, it's not the right season, but as I watched a Dalit (untouchable caste) woman picked through the fluorescent light bulbs, discarded sandals, bottles and rubbish strewn across the river bank, it was hard to imagine the miracle of life--turtle or otherwise--occurring on those shores.
Outside the river run-off area, the rest of Morjim Beach was pretty idyllic. We arrived in the off season, so most of the time there appeared to be no more than a couple dozen or so people scattered across the whole length of the
Sunset.
Sunset at Morjim Beach, steps from our guest house. beach. It was very sedate and, as a result, we ended up spending a good portion of our time in Goa playng in the surf, swimming, and lazing about in the sun there.
In the morning things were a bit busier. Large groups of fishermen would come from the neighbouring village to cast their nets offshore or push a large wooden boat off its slats and into the water. Women carrying large containers or packages on their heads would use the beach as a shortcut. The occasional bird of prey would circle overhead. For our parts, Marse and I would recline on the lounge chairs provided by our guest house and watch the show.
I don't mean to suggest that we spent all our time lying on the beach and frolicking in the warm Arabian sea. We spent an awful lot of time doing those things, but not all.
Almost daily, Marse would hop on the back of our 120cc scoooter and I would attempt to navigate the bpot-holed byways of North Goa. Dodging the lumbering trucks, occasionally out-of-control touristsm barking dogsm sleepy-eyed cows, motorcyclists, and taxis was a challenge, but I managed to avoid dropping the bike save for one time--when me and Marci foolishly decided to make a low-res movie on the winding gravel path leading to Morjim beach. Embarrassingly, the video record lives on...
Our daily sojourns varied. One morning, we drove sixteen kilometers North to Terekhol, a remote Portugese fort situated at the Northern tip of the Goan state. The fort, while paling in comparison to those we had seen in the North, was impressive mainly for its location. It sat atop a cliff overlooking the confluence of Terekhol River and the Arabian Sea. From its ramparts we could see the forests and beaches of Goa stretching off into the distance and watch waves form and break as rolled towards the exposed shoreline of Querim Beach.
Part 2 tomorrow.
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Ali
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Jesus loves you
Hey there Chris and Marci! you guys look like you've had one helluva ride! notwithstanding vancouver's notoriously underqualified drivers, i bet you're both thankful for the road rules back home :P~ beautiful pictures by the way. i don't know if you're back yet or still enjoying the heavy indian air :) take it easy, the both of you. p.s. Love the jesus headbutting fantasy. :)