Goa : A Lesson in Life. Chapter 2 : Arrival in Goa

Goa Airport was unexpectedly modern and devoid of the EU rules, queuing and frustrations I’d gotten used to. Before I’d had a chance to have a look around the place I saw a short, grey haired, stocky man holding up a card with my name on it. This was Felix, the manager of Anjuna Palms. He greeted me like an old friend, although the only communication we’d had was via email a few weeks ago. I noticed the standard attire of the average Indian man to be a long sleeved shirt and trousers which seems a strange choice, given the heat, but I parked that thought for now as Felix took my suitcase and ushered me outside.

MONSOON. No sooner had we stepped outside but we were met with the most ferocious downpour of rain I’d ever seen. Water crashed into the pavement and onto the taxis across the road. Waves formed immediately creating a lake which powered it’s way down the hill towards the motorway. Nobody moved. This wasn’t the type of rain to be walking in. This caused damage. The gaggle of travellers, business people and locals had various expressions. The excitement of the travellers at this act of God, the annoyance of the business people trying to get to a meetings and the (what would become familiar) shrugging of the shoulders by the locals.

And in a flash, blazing sunshine again and my first smell of the Goan air, fresh with delicious spices, but almost too dense to inhale at first. “Welcome to Goa” said Felix, with a knowing humour. I towered over him but felt like a child in his company. Just like a Mafia Don, he was the boss, head of his family and business, and my tour guide. And so we set off towards Anjuna. The bright, modern roadside billboards where all in English, promoting the affluent lifestyle of the west, all against a backdrop of hard manual farmland labour, where woman of all ages tended to the crops in their vibrant, colourful garments. Just this vision made a big impact on me. Why the apparent love affair with the west ? The signs, to me at least reminded me more of propaganda than a simple commercial. All I could muster at this time was to ask Felix why everything was in English, to which he gave the rather brilliant answer “It’s much easier to learn than Hindi my friend”. With that I just sat back and enjoyed the beautiful scenery, the rolling hills, teeming with life and vegetation. This indeed was a happy, calming place. A welcome break from the rat-race back home.

We eventually stopped in a suburban area just outside Anjuna. Felix, without much of word stormed off into a nearby house. “I have to drop something off”. So, with little choice I just sat back and waited, and waited some more. Thoughts went back for a moment to Mumbai, but fell away quickly as Goa was nothing like Mumbai, and Felix was nothing like the guard. I suppose I immediately trusted him despite everything. I needed to get used to the ‘Indian’ way of doing things. Don’t question, don’t rush, don’t stress, be happy. After an inordinate amount of time, for back home at least, Felix re-appeared and we were on our way again.

Anjuna. I curiously tried to take everything in as we sped down the main strip and onto the hostel. The road was at least tarmacked, but no other structure even closely resembled home. Ramshackle huts that barely stood passed off as shops, cafe’s and bars. There was no technology, no conveniences I’d become accustomed to. In a word, there was nothing and hardly anyone here. As we turned the corner I noticed a group of unsavoury looking locals gathered outside a bright blue hut on various motorbikes. I’d hoped Anjuna Palms would be nowhere near here, but alas, 50 meters or so up the road, we arrived at our destination.

The path to the hostel lead past the back of restaurant, which was also were Felix’s livestock roamed and slept. After a month staying here, I still didn’t get used to the combination of cooking oil and animal faeces in the air. His home was back down the path further still. A comfortable looking bungalow hidden away amongst some overgrowing trees. Felix’s wife greeted me at the door with a beaming smile. She was taller than Felix with a dark perm and large round-rimmed glasses. If Felix was the manager, then his wife was the shop front. She immediately made me feel at home, even introducing their children who hid behind her, scared, like I was some sort of Alien. Felix said his goodbye’s and sloped off, Leaving his wife to show me around.

The hostel itself was merely three separate one-bedroom rooms in a line, sharing a common terrace area with a kitchen/toilet/shower-room at the back. The padlocked wooden door looked like it could be pushed over by a small boy, and was constructed with ill fitting, partially rotten wood which left large gaps. But, at £30 a month, this was to be expected, even the insect colony on the ceiling didn’t put me off. It was a room, with a bed, a table, a chair and nothing else. After Felix’s wife finished up her ‘tour’ I immediately handed over the £30 up front. She wished my a pleasant stay and even offered to do my laundry, but I was impatient to get out there and explore asap.

I finally offloaded my bags, paperwork and personal effects. This was it. My first holiday alone. I could do what I want, when I want. My rules, my timetable. And so I set off down the path, past Felix’s house, the back of the restaurant and right down to the gang of locals on the corner. “You want bike?”, said an ancient looking man in the usual casual shirt and trousers. To which I shook my head, and noticed the collection of motorcycles and mopeds in the back of the ‘shop’. Again, I’d been taught to never judge a book by it’s cover. This wasn’t a crowd of vagrants, it was simply a motorcycle hire shop. “You want smoke?” They were all obviously spaced out on the local cannabis. To which I gave a polite “no thank you”, pulling out my inhaler and humiliating myself by faking an asthma attack to demonstrate why I couldn’t accept their kind offer. They all seemed to enjoy this, as the whole crowd came out of the woodwork laughing and joking amongst themselves. With perfect timing, I took another right and headed off down to the beach.

Anjuna is famed for it’s market, but as this was off-season, my immediate plan was to get to Calangute, the nightlife centre and the biggest town in the vicinity. But I had no map, no internet, I was going purely from memory and knew that Calangute (and it’s neighbour Baga), was the next town along the coast from Anjuna. Of course what I hadn’t bargained on was the lack of road signs, or even roads for that matter, so I found myself at the edge of Anjuna, looking at a sign labelled ‘Calangute’ and pointing into the woods.

Amongst the humidity of the trees were mud paths that barely marked the surface. I found myself passing through tarpaulin and wooden structures, which back home would be no more than a children’s den, but here were the home of entire families. This was real poverty. I had no right to be strolling through their home with my Next t-shirt and Primark shorts with handy over-sides pockets to fit my fat wallet. Yet the families seemed happy and content sleeping on the floor, with make-shift stoves made of rocks gathered from the nearby coastline. They waved and smiled as I fumbled my way in the undergrowth. I then reached a clearing, an overgrown graveyard as it turned out, and was soon met by a wall, then the cliff’s edge. I turned around and couldn’t make out the covered forest where I had been ten minutes earlier. I was completely, hopelessly lost.

Following my still 100% functional man compass, I came across what looked liked a tiny derelict church of some description. Outside was I can only describe as a tramp, a down-and- out, even in comparison to the families I had seen earlier. He obviously hadn’t washed in weeks, was steaming drunk, had half of the undergrowth stored in his wild Jimi Hendrix hairdo and blood was pouring down his face. As soon as he saw me, he almost danced over, skipping over the undergrowth like a crazed chimpanzee. He grabbed my hands and started kissing them, refusing to let me go. “Calangute?” I asked, to which he glanced up, his eyes beaming “CALANGUTE!!!”. he replied loudly, and pointed me excitedly in the direction. I thanked him and gave him a few rupees, to which he looked up at the skies, prayed to god and continued dancing by the derelict church in the undergrowth. I just about managed a smile whilst wondering for a moment how the man ended up in his situation.

True to the man’s word I found myself on the path to Calangute. I picked up the pace, passing a small wooden kiosk, when I heard a voice “Hello my friend”. A slight old grey man appeared from the kiosk, and beckoned me over. What now? Grudgingly I backtracked over to him. He stood there, motionless, seeming to look right through me, into my very soul. “Relax”, he said with a smile. I looked down at myself, this clueless blunderbuss stomping through the woods, peoples homes, upsetting the peace. To me I was fine, calm, relaxed, in control. But to the outside world and to this man in particular I was a quivering, stressed up train-wreck. From within the kiosk he conjured up a table and chair, as he opened up the front to reveal a bar. He then sat me down outside and served me a coke, the best kind straight from the fridge out of a glass bottle. I could feel the tension in my shoulders as I sat there, looking down the road to Calungute, my heavy heartbeat and laboured breathing. The old man continued to analyse me like a doctor, even coming over to massage the tension out of my shoulders before sending me on my way refreshed and relaxed.