No account of Goa would be complete without mentioning the toilets. And what you get here is usually a hole in the ground. If you’re lucky, like in this restaurant, you’ll get recesses for your feet either side, and if you’re very lucky, you’ll get a proper flushing toilet basin. Mercifully the aroma of the magnificent food drowned out any stench as I looked puzzlingly at the only other fitting in the otherwise bare wash-room. A brass tap, about five inches up from the floor. The location of the tap continued to baffle me for the rest of my trip until it dawned on me this must be to wash your feet.
Back on the path into Panjim center, I was drawn towards the riverside, with it’s wide pedestrian-friendly pavement, and looked out over the rippling water and morning haze to the distant bank on the opposite side. The architecture and layout of the place felt almost European and quite familiar, but being from Newcastle I’d seen it all before. There was nothing of note here bar a large vessel fitted out as a restaurant. I casually perused the menu almost as an afterthought before moving on. Across the road I noticed a thankfully modern-looking chemist. Time to sort out my ailments. The professional looking lady behind the counter didn’t need a diagnosis, the bites where plain to see, almost golf ball in size by now and covering large sections of my arms and legs. She looked at me as though she’d seen my type, the naive traveller, a million times before, and prescribed ‘Odomos’ cream whilst proclaiming ‘No more bites!’. The cream was 100% effective and began working almost immediately in healing the wounds and deterring further attacks. That was the end of my mosquito bite concerns there and then. Ticked off the list.
As I walked the streets of central Panjim, nothing really stood out as I passed the usual line-up of identikit shops, cafes and restaurants that you would see most days in most cities. Poverty was prevalent, beggars with crudely open-severed limbs, or fevered mothers with new born babies. Think Slumdog Millionaire. This was uncomfortable, uneasy and something I didn’t want to see or know about having thankfully been sheltered from it so far in the resorts. But like the boy on the beach yesterday, there was something dark and sinister about the place, beneath all the vibrancy, colour and welcoming white smiles. I felt more exposed here and was beginning to see the sanctuaries of Anjuna, Baga and Calangute in a new positive light, but I soldiered on in search of something that I hoped would change my gloomy first impression.
The Municipal Gardens, in the usual central location, lined by the usual bars and cafes was predictably underwhelming, as was it’s most advertised landmark, ‘Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception’ church, a drab washed out building atop a flight of steps I didn’t have the interest (being non-religious) to ascend. And so I carried on walking until I’d exhausted my options and myself, noticing a reassuringly modern, fashionable looking cafe to satisfy my now rampant hunger for another dose of Biryani. It did not disappoint, being every bit as good as before. As I looked around the almost deserted cafe, serious doubts about the whole trip re-surfaced. There was nothing of note in Panjim, no unique stand out features that I hadn’t seen before, nothing to hold my interest, no mental stimulus. I surely would have got more out of a visit to the big European cities: Prague, Barcelona, Berlin. Or maybe it was just my westernised programming craving commercialism, a quick fix of vulgar shopping arcades and the latest fads. Maybe Goa was just different, maybe I was just different and we weren’t compatible. The many theories and observations bounced around my head like a game of ping-pong, tiring me out, and then it dawned on me what I was forgetting all along. This trip was meant to be an escape from home, an escape from all the self-imposed rules and daily grind. With this new outlook I knew it was time to leave Panjim and get back to base, to give the holiday resorts I’d given up on a second chance.
On my way back to the station I caught up with the comfortably cynical and moronic social media updates in an internet cafe full of serious gamers wired into their virtual world through headsets. I even emailed one of my friends back home with a half-hearted account onto uninterested ears, before arriving back at the worryingly much emptier bus-terminus. As the sun started to set in the distance and an eastern dusk approached, I realised it was quite possible I’d missed the last bus, or at least the last bus from Mapusa back home. I knew the ‘Mapsa’ call very well now though, and boarded the sparsely populated coach with great relief. As we approached Mapusa the light ominously faded further as my day turned into a race against time. We pulled into Mapusa station to a familiar site the world over, the end of the working day, and the last stragglers winding down before the final commute home. The unique feeling of having been on a ‘proper day out’ washed over me, but more than that, I was really looking forward to getting back to Anjuna, to reset and start again with my healed stomach, skin, and parked anxieties.
As the coach approached the final corner outside the bike hire shop, night had fell into total blackness, with almost the speed of a dimmer switch. I thanked the driver and his endlessly entertaining assistant and was greeted by the usual warm welcome from the rabble over the the road. In that moment it felt like we’d now become friendly acquaintances, as the hard-sell was gone in place of genuine interest about my day. ‘Panjim!’ I exclaimed with all the bravado of the experienced traveller, to which the response was muted nods and thumbs of approval. Also in that very moment, it felt like I had arrived back home. As I quietly, almost tip-toed passed Felix’s front door towards the hostel behind, I got a buzz of excitement about what tonight would bring, the world was my oyster in what was , after all, the party capital of India. As I passed the terrace of the first apartment, the usual empty chair and table was occupied by a western looking guy who I almost ignored in surprise. ‘Evening’ I said almost hopefully. ‘Evening’ was the response of the English fellow-lodger.
