And so, for the following week at least, we all went about our business. From time to time we’d get together, frequently back at the Sea Rock, or late at night on the terrace over vodka and coke, but largely we kept a respectful distance, not wanting to tread on anyone’s toes or get in the way of anyone’s plans. I continued to make the almost daily trek into Baga, but just knowing I had company back at the hostel reassured and relaxed me. Finally, I felt comfortable, at home.
The rooftop training picked up pace, with my audience of one, Felix’s young son, looking on from below, copying my efforts. With the seemingly endless free-time, I also broke out the acoustic guitar for the first time, and even composed some new songs, sometimes singing and playing completely unbridled, out on the terrace, in full view of the workmen opposite. I was in the groove, in tune at last with my surroundings, content in myself. This daily ritual has now faded into memory. but as the weekend approached, we all decided to visit Calangute that evening, this was to be both a celebration and a farewell before we went our separate ways.
We all gathered once again out on the terrace in our Sunday best. There was anticipation in the air, as well as a touch of sadness, I hadn’t got to know them all that well, but it was nice having them around. Ronan, in typical style had already arranged transport and as Felix’s wife notified us of the Taxi’s arrival, we abandoned the usual vodka and coke bottles littering the flimsy plastic table. Surprisingly (although I was beginning to expect the unexpected here) a half-Jeep, half-truck vehicle pulled up outside Anjuna Palms. Two gangsta-style youths manned it, while we occupied a bench arrangement in the back. As they pulled away the excitement was palpable as we issued request after drunken request to our DJ host, which rapidly degenerated into ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ by Shakira on repeat (my favourite song at the time), along with my trademark loud and over-enthusiastic review of everything that was ‘brilliant’ about Calangute.
As the party wagon ground to halt at the Calangute crossroads and the exhausted driver and DJ were paid off. The mood changed to a more civilized one as we considered our options for dinner, rapidly coming to the decision that closest was best, we arrived at a uncharacteristically ‘Chinese’ looking restaurant, complete with dragon decorations and other oriental imagery. As I looked around, Chris, Ronan, Roshin and Magda, we were all so different, individuals from varying backgrounds. Yet we had found ourselves here, right at this moment, in this weird and wonderful place, raising a toast to friends.
After the meal, we went traditional Goa, and onto a beach shack which was really no more than a tarpaulin roof propped up by vertical wooden beams. A lone fridge served as a bar, seating being the usual white plastic table and chairs. We all took a seat and drink as people of all ages danced to the music in total abandon with trademark wide white smiles. Us westerners remained stoic, cradling our bottles nervously as the dancing, already hilariously intentionally terrible, degenerated further into clumsy acrobatics and general fumbling about in the sand. With a knowing smile, I was once again reminded of why I loved India and It’s people so much. There was no trouble here, no egos, jealousy or conflict. in fact nothing serious or negative at all. Time after time we were asked to get up and join in, but we were all just too full-up with food and drink by now. That was except for Magda, who appeared a lot younger than us and seemed to be getting a bit distracted and in need of mixing with her peer-group of young Russians we noticed back at the the Sea Rock. The journey to the toilet was every bit as bizarre, a maze of military equipment this time, following by the usual hole in the ground.
As the “dinner and drinks” Part 1 of the evening plan drew to a close, it was time to initiate “Part 2 – Cafe Mambo”. After almost a week of singing it’s praises, I’d finally broken them down. We’d head back to Anjuna first for a quick change (mostly for the benefit of the girls) and then to Calangute’s/Baga’s best club. As the taxi pulled up outside Anjuna Palms, the still distracted Magda, instead of going back to the hostel, headed straight, without a word, in the direction of the Sea Rock. That was the last we ever saw of her. As we gathered in the taxi to head back into Baga, we concluded it must have been the language barrier, or in true Mowgli fashion, ‘wanting to be with her own kind’.
Tito’s Lane, Baga was the epicentre of Calangute/Baga (or probably even Goa) night-life. It lead down to Baga beach from the main Calangute/Baga road with Cafe Coffee Day on the corner. I’d stayed clear of the more famous Tito’s so far, it just seemed a bit too exclusive or, to be blunt, ponsy. I much preferred Mambo’s which was situated just further down and extended out onto the beach itself. Mambos was every bit the bar/club I’d hoped to find in Goa, The modern central bar served you just about any drink or food you liked, all hours of the day and night. Moving away from the bar were crowds of revellers amongst wooden totem-pole structures and palm trees, Just like the internet cafe back in Anjuna, the decor almost had a Jamaican flavour to it, Indeed, the odd spliff-toting rastafarian was a common sight here.
As we took our seats on the outskirts of the dancefloor/main-standing area, we observed the strange courting rituals of the locals. Public displays of affection were a strict no-no it seemed here in Goa. Not once did I see a couple even holding hands. Instead we witnessed, testosterone fuelled, tight-shirted males, dancing like peacocks in a frenzy literally inches in front of their prey’s nose. As the men vastly outnumbered the women, almost 10 to one, women got in for free, and were obvious targets for the duration. The most attractive of them would, quite naturally, instigate a dance-off between 2 or even 3 suitors at a time. Although there was never any trouble, one thing’s for certain. I would have hated to be a single woman in Goa (or loved, whatever floats your boat).
As we watched, drank and chatted, various domestic animals would emerge from under the seats. Cats, Dogs, the odd Parrot. This place was devoid of all the suffocating rules necessary to maintain order back home. Here, you just did what you liked, free to enjoy the moment. We discussed their plans, Chris was off on the sleeper train to New Delhi, while Ronan and Roshin were off for some private time to a beach shack along the coast in Colva. As for me, as I looked out onto the idyllic beach and over the Indian Ocean to back home, there was only one place for me right now, and that was right here.
