Today was everyone’s last day in Goa apart from mine. I donned my tour-guide hat one last time to take them to Panjim, via Mapusa as always. The mood on the coach was melancholic. We’d formed a bond as the aliens in a foreign land and knew we probably wouldn’t see each other again. As we disembarked onto the streets of Goa’s Metropolis, we couldn’t escape the fact that we’d drawn attention to ourselves. Even amongst our own group was a variety of looks, cultures, fashions, and even languages. From the squat, duck-out-of-water, smart businessman on holiday; Chris, to the fashion-model tall, super-trendy and impressionable Magda. The chilled out antipodean-style traveller Roisin, to the dark, brooding leader with all the machismo and looks of a Hollywood movie star (Ronan).
As we headed out of the station towards the place I first tasted biryani, a cold-sweated panic hit me like a train, as I fumbled around my many pockets. My wallet was gone! As I started to freak out, the party looked on, motionless on the street, as if waiting for their next instruction. I had to see them off there and then, to go after my only option of going back to the bus that dropped us off. After all the politeness and friendship, it was a terse goodbye, I’d brought them all here, and embarrassingly, after all my hyping of Panjim, I’d have to leave them in the lurch. I did a 180 straight back to the station, at double quick march.
Crushingly, Panjim station was now more heaving than ever. I had no idea of what the coach looked like amid the kaleidoscope of paint-jobs and chintz. I tried to start off vaguely at the spot we were dropped off at, but it was hopeless. I searched a couple of nearby coaches mostly out of desperation but I knew my wallet was long gone by now. Luckily I found enough loose change to get me back home. I took a breath and weighed up the options…..
All my travel money was now gone, along with my wallet, which also contained my debit card, but luckily I still had my credit card back at the hostel. The only question was, could I use it over here? I looked back towards the river into Panjim. Maybe I should just catch up with the others, even just to say a proper goodbye. I had more pressing issues though, I needed to cancel my missing debit card, immediately. The last of money was spent on the coach ride home, which seemed to take an age. At this moment I had no idea how I was going to get through this crisis, but step one was definitely get back to the hostel. I hurtled past Felix’s place and began rifling through my documents and belongings. I found 200rs and a credit card.
I stormed out of Anjuna palms and flashed past the bike shop almost on autopilot, towards the nearest phone box just by the Sea Rock. It was a dry, blazingly hot day, which did nothing to cool my temperature or lower my rising blood pressure. I hurriedly and clumsily picked up the phone in the makeshift phone kiosk, I had all the Barclays contacts numbers laid out before me, which I’d luckily took away with me just in case. The first obstacle was actually getting through to the U.K., which I eventually fathomed out, and got through to the comfortingly familiar accent of a bank call-center clerk. Card cancelled, I stood outside for a while in the dusty street amongst the taxi’s, pondering the next move. I needed more funds, a cashpoint machine and the correct pin number which at this moment I wasn’t 100% sure of. There was a hotel half way back up the road to Anjuna Palms which seemed relatively modern, so I brazenly walked up to reception and simply asked the question. This was make or break time, either the smartly dressed man behind the counter helped me or I was basically stranded.
Just like the man in the kiosk on my first day in Anjuna, I was calmed down and made to feel at ease by the hotel receptionist. A simple question of “How much do you need?” and a signature, no pin required. Sure, they got a pretty high commission for their trouble, but yet again the Goan people had taken me by surprise. I was in deep trouble 5 minutes ago. Now I was back in the game.
The morning’s panic and the heat had taken it’s toll as I drifted off into a deep comfortable sleep. It was getting dark by the time Roisin and Ronan returned, sadly not accompanied by Chris and Magda who had now gone off on their separate journeys. We sat at the table outside one last time and toasted to a moment in time we’d never forget, then just as the darkness fell I noticed a green beam of light in the distance, over by the Sea Rock. Re-invigorated by the long sleep, I promptly excused myself and headed in it’s direction.
The light looked to be behind the Sea Rock, almost on the beach in the dense forest. I could now also hear crowds of people, and faint music, was this the start of the high season? Was this the first of the legendary Goa Beach parties? I was uncontrollably drawn to the strobing green light like a magnet as it rotated up into the sky in time with the music. There seemed to be no other route to it other than the path behind the Sea Rock into complete blackness. I didn’t care though, as my destination loomed into view. A large whitewashed villa adjacent to the beach. Cars were pulling up outside, well dressed party goers, with modern dance music pumping inside. I paused for a moment. Maybe this was a private party? The clientèle was certainly a class above what I’d seen so far. Either way though, I decided to take a closer look, but as I stepped forward I lost my footing in the blackness, and felt myself falling. Time slowed down exponentially as my flailing arms and legs searched in vain for a branch or the ground. As the impact eventually came, I froze for a moment to take stock. I was now perched on some sort of concrete ledge. As my eyes adapted to the darkness I could see that I’d landed on the end of some sort of sewer. I thanked my lucky stars the ledge had broken my fall, as the bottom was a good ten feet or so further down, which would have meant a broken leg at best. As I hesitantly moved my limbs, everything seems to be in one piece, and there was little pain, but maybe I was just in shock.
I eventually got to my feet to realize my next problem. The top of the sewer was just out of reach. I’m no climber, being heavy and clumsy, but I do (so I’m told) have a very loud voice. So, from the sewer in the darkness I decided I had no option but to call for help. My sheer Britishness, even now, made me consider what exactly to shout out in desperation. I settled for a HEEEEEELLLLLLPPPPP!!!!
I listened out for the response, but all I could hear was the party in the distance, with the waves crashing in the background, maybe the tunnel was blocking the sound, I called out again and again this time with more urgency. Nothing. I now had faith in the Goan people, so far they’d always popped up just at the right time, but not this time. My heart sank. I cried out a final time, and the force of the air through my battered ribcage took away my remaining energy. I sunk back onto the ledge and must’ve blacked out for a time.
The building, rhythmic sounds of the party jolted me back into the real world. I needed to get out and no-one was here to help. I paused a little to focus on the top the sewer, and, just as a practice run, reached up to grab to edge. Not too bad I thought as I pulled myself up from the ledge a little and then back down again. I psyched myself up with deep breathes and visualized the ascent. Reach up, pull up, leg up and push… over and over in my head. With one last deep breath I went for it, reaching up with both hands. I knew I couldn’t hold it for long so from under me, my feet scrambled up, just about gripping the damp concrete of the sewer interior. Now the really difficult bit, with one lung-busting heave, I pushed up again with both hands to give my foot a chance to make it from waist height to the top of the wall. I just about managed to hook on the edge. I paused for a second to catch my breath again. The worst was over as I now had three limbs holding me up. With one last final push I managed to swivel over the top of the sewer, landing in a heap in the dark undergrowth.
As I emerged from the path outside the Sea Rock and into street lighting I hesitantly checked over the damage. I was badly grazed below the knee but nothing much else, superficially. But as the cold night air brushed on shivering skin and through to my battered bones, I could feel a quivering inside. I’d been knocked. Shaken up, Inside and out. Slowly and painfully I made my way back to Anjuna Palms. I’d had a luck escape.
As though nothing had happened, I re-took my seat beside Roisin and Ronan and nonchalantly poured a vodka and coke with quivering hands, only to be met with worried astonishment. I noticed my elbows had also taken a bit of a beating as they took me through the damage report. A gash on the cheek, and a badly cut up ankle. As they scrambled for a solution to make me feel better, I had only one, as the nausea began to kick in. “I’m off to bed. Goodnight”.
That took me back to my days in Goa almost 25 years ago…. Thank you 🙂
Thanks Radhika, I’d love to hear your story too and compare, what did you think of the places I visited? Did you agree with my observations?
I hope you didn’t fall down any holes!