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Published: March 6th 2020
The taxi dropped me off outside my Treebo hotel. There was a giant marquee sign at the entrance with the words Beach Box Hotel. I walked through the towering gates and found no one. I took a look around. This place was definitely funky and unique. It was all metalworks and exotic murals. All of the rooms opened out onto the courtyard with a pool at its center and full open air bar. They had painted the pool bright red. There was nothing cookie cutter about this place whatsoever. Eventually, the manager strolled out informally and checked me in. The whole place was very relaxed. Lucky this was a secure location because as far as I could see the security was non-existent.
The hotel was positioned just beyond the northern end of the Baga Beach. I had chosen this location for its proximity to the beach without actually being in the main fray. To reach it you needed to walk across a small bridge that spanned across a charming inlet. I slapped on some suntan lotion and headed out. I wanted to take an initial beach walk to get a feel for the place. The plan was to walk all
the way to Calangute, the next stretch of beach after Baga, locate a McDonald’s and tuck in to some familiar grub.
The beach was drenched in bright white sunlight and the ocean waves glistened in its beams. A young kid stopped me to congratulate me on my height. The whole beach was full of youthful groups of Indians. Some of the roving groups were made up of Indian guys wearing matching “Goa Holiday” t-shirts and tank tops. There were also some families as well, but it was mostly a young crowd. There were a few Westerners, but not many, probably making up at most 10% of the beachgoers. And those that I did see were mostly lounging on day beds, while most Indians were more into hanging out on the beach itself.
I had discovered the Indian version of Daytona Beach. In the ocean were Indians all laughing and enjoying splashing about. I noticed that a lot more guys went in the water than girls. Also if an Indian girl did go in she did not wear a swimsuit. Rather she would swim in whatever she was wearing at the time, which most of the time meant t-shirt,
shorts or jeans. Meanwhile, a few meters over would be a Russian girl plunging into the water wearing a string bikini. It was an odd juxtaposition.
Another thing I saw on my walk was a beach version of kabaddi. I would never have recognized what I was seeing, but once back home during my many hours of watching obscure sport channels I had come across the sport. Kabaddi is a kind of team tag game that is played on the Indian subcontinent. I am not sure what the rules exactly are, but kabaddi involves one player being sent to tag as many of the opposing players as he can before being tackled. It seemed really bizarre when I originally watched it, and seeing a pickup version of it here on Baga Beach was positively surreal.
By the time I reached Calangute I was a sweaty mess. I turned off the beach into the awaiting streets beyond. The streets were lined with restaurants and shops selling various types of beach knickknacks. It took me awhile, but I managed to find the McDonald’s. No smartphone mind you, I found it using old fashioned traveler’s intuition and a bit of legwork.
Inside the fast food mecca was absolutely packed with young Indians. The line was a massive herd of spring breaking humanity, but I was not going to be deterred. I hung in there and finally got my Chicken Maharaja Mac.
When I arrived back at my hotel I felt like my initial foray out had been a grand success. I showered and rested up for my night plans. I was going to get dinner at one of the restaurants which had tables right on the beach. Afterwards, who knows. The night was mine and I could do whatever I wanted with it.
I chose a place called St. Anthony’s Restaurant that seemed to have the right vibe. As I headed up off the beach towards the restaurant I was greeted by an energetic waiter. He showed me to a great table where I could people watch the evening’s action. I decided on getting the Goan Sausage curry and Palek Paneer. Dev, the waiter, enthusiastically recommended that I get naan with that and of course a full pitcher of beer. Hey, why not.
I sat there with my pitcher and took in the scene. The sky had turned
shimmering black with night. There were some spotlights close to the restaurants, with which I could see people milling all about. There was a buzz of youthful energy. The sounds of waves crashing, people chattering and thumping music all blended together into a single atmospheric cacophony.
The Goan sausage curry combined perfectly with the moist naan bread and the grease trickled down my hand with each delectable bite. My assiduous work on the beer pitcher put me in a chill frame of mind. With each bite and sip my stomach was imperceptibly beginning to fill up. I got to talking with Dev who was from the state of Bengal. He said that I must go to Calcutta and of course come back to his restaurant again this week. Next time he said I should try the Pork Chili Fry. Sounded like a delicious plan.
I decided to walk off my meal along the beach. The beach was now significantly dark near the water’s edge. So much so that I could hardly see far in front of me. It was quiet by the water, but the restaurants and beach bars were all lit up in neon and bumping music.
Before I came to India I had researched some popular music to download on my Ipod for the trip. I was beyond pleased to hear one of the songs pulsing out of one of the bars.
Everyone I saw tonight out at the restaurants and wandering the beach was Indian. As I walked along the beach guys kept appearing out of the darkness to try to entice me into their empty bars, either that or offer me hash and marijuana. I was glad that I was 6’6, 250 pounds, with a shaved head and an ugly expression when need be. Even in these unfamiliar dim surroundings I was feeling pretty impenetrable.
This place was completely pulsing and happening. It was a Baga beach party and a Baga beach party don’t quit! Unless of course you are forty years old and rapidly slipping into a food coma. Then you wisely take your old ass back to the hotel for some rest. Anyway, wandering around was mostly couples and large group of guys. So I just soaked it all in. There was no pressure here for me. I just accepted for what it was. I earned my going out and
partying stripes long ago.
* * *
The next morning I awoke determined to make it to the beach before the bulk of the crowds showed up. Apparently, arriving at Baga beach at 10am was not nearly early enough. One of the reasons I wanted to get there early is I didn’t want to worry about my possessions when I left them in the sand to go swim. Not to worry though with only 250 rupees in my shirt pocket I was probably one of the poorer men on the beach. But still I didn’t fancy anyone walking off with my shirt and hotel key.
I found a relatively deserted patch of beach, put my stuff down, and ran into the waves. Ever since my year in Australia I have been a proficient bodysurfer and promptly began catching wave after wave. I always like to keep an eye on my possessions while I am in the water though. Unfortunately, two young Indian couples wandered over and stood directly between me and my stuff. How annoying.
They were watching me ride waves. One of the girls seemed particularly interested and was practically staring a hole through me.
In fact, she stayed behind looking as the other three began to wander off. I caught one more ride in and up on to the beach. I walked past her and turned around to catch the girl’s stare as she looked back at me. I smiled a sly grin. With ego boosted I sauntered down the beach. Probably the tallest, palest thing that Baga Beach has ever seen.
Near the end of the beach I found a rock to sit down and dry off on. After a while I found myself surrounded by about seven or eight guys. They were trying to look nonchalant and ambivalent, but eventually they couldn’t help themselves. The inevitable request came. One selfie please!
However, they didn’t want to take a group picture with me. Each guy wanted an individual picture for their very own. Each time a guy was finished he would turn and say, “one more”, and then a friend would sit down. Sitting on the rock with the guys posing next to me I felt like the Ronald McDonald statue I saw sitting on a park bench outsides McDonald’s the day before. And funny enough I felt a newfound sympathy
for old Ronnie.
There was one guy who took his selfie with me, but instead of getting up remained seated and said “hat”. I guess he wanted to take another photo, but this time with his hat on. That was strange because I thought he was wearing his hat when he took the first picture. Then he said more clearly, “hand”. I stared at him blankly. He then grabbed my arm and slung it around his shoulder. “Oh” I said, “Arm”. A few more snaps and it was done and so was I. I left to the astounding chorus of one more.
For lunch I went to Starlight Shack, which was one of the ubiquitous beach bars. There I ate fish and chips and drank chocolate milk shakes and tropical Belly Bomb shooters until I had a nice little day buzz going. I finished the whole thing of by sampling feni, the local Goan cashew liquor. The feni wasn’t bad, but I preferred the Belly Bombs.
Afterwards I wanted to find the perfect spot to view the sunset. I decided to take a little rock ledge path north of the beach. I figured I could find myself
some solitude. The path ended and I clamored down amongst the rocks. As I walked, I could see in the distance a tiny secluded beach with a small idyllic restaurant on it. I had found where I was going to have lunch tomorrow, that’s for sure. But not today. This moment was all about me, remoteness and the setting sun.
I picked a spot and blissed out on the oncoming sunset and the tunes in my ears. The sun took longer than expected to set, but I didn’t mind. I was working hard to stay in the moment, as I had already begun thinking about future trips and making calculations as to how this sunset ranked among all the sunsets of the past. The whole area merged into a kaleidoscope of colors: dark tan, lime green, dark palm green, navy blue, and blinding white sea highlights.
I could not care less that it was Friday night. I just didn’t have the desire or energy for a party night. However, I had done the research and discovered that Tito’s Lane was where all the action was. I could at least walk over there and see what the fuss was
all about. There were a lot of nightclubs in the area, kind of tacky, but they were obviously busy. Twenty years ago, heck ten years ago, and this would have been my spot. As I was wandering around checking the area out two guys on a motorcycle stopped next to me. The one with the mustache said, “I am Pablo Escobar. Want cocaine?” I waved him off and kept walking. They drove by again saying, “Hash, marijuana?” That was enough for me. Time to get back on the main road and find some dinner.
I ended up in a pizzeria with tables in a large second floor window. Here I could observe the crowds as they milled about while I read the book the Hare Krishna gave me way back in the Mumbai temple. “Of all the living entities who have accepted material bodies in this world, someone who has been awarded this human form should not strive hard day and night simply for sense gratification, which is even available for dogs and hogs”.
As I sat there contemplating the path to transcendental happiness, the entire street went black. A massive blackout rolled through knocking out all the
street lights and electricity in all the shops as far as the eye could see. That is except for this pizzeria, which seemed to have some kind of generator. When I finished my pizza I waded out into the darkness. The only thing lighting my way back on this busy street was the harsh glare of approaching headlights.
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Dancing Dave
David Hooper
transcendental happiness
Sounds as if you reached enlightenment in Goa, Tommy. And you didn't even have a Hare Krishna sultana & honey sandwich. Smile on...