Goa: A Lesson in Life. Chapter 9: Anjuna Introductions

I arrived at the now familiar terrace outside my apartment, which ran the length of the four adjoining rooms. Chris’ room was at one end with the shared wash-room and rudimentary kitchen facilities at the other. Functional white plastic tables and chairs added some home comforts and right next door were sat the couple I’d heard earlier. Ronan and Roisin. A good-looking Irish couple clearly in love and looking to explore and relax. Ronan immediately reminded me of Scarface-era Al Pacino. Dark and brooding, the in-control alpha male. while Roisin seemed the more happy-go-lucky, blonde haired, blue-eyed traveller type. They made a great couple, even finishing each other’s sentences off as Ronan graciously made the introductions. I was immediately made to feel at ease when I could’ve just as easily been a thorn in the side of any plans they may of had for peace and quiet together.

As the ten minute deadline approached, Chris arrived at the table and again introductions were made, nothing too heaving, just a name and address for now. I was chomping at the bit , my mouth watering at the prospect of more Kingfisher. But we had one more member to recruit, as a tall statuesque figure appeared from another one of the apartments. Magda was like a fish out of water, a young Russian girl with curly shoulder length red hair and hardly a word of English. She reluctantly joined us, clearly struggling with the three-way onslaught of Queen’s English, Irish and Geordie. She did attempt to make some sort of introduction, but as she loudly and dramatically attempted a background story, all we could decipher was her name.

Ronan, Roisin and Magda were all too happy too join myself and Chris as we set off to the pub. The lights were on at Felix’s house as we passed but I still felt as though I had to give them a bit of background to the place, as I assumed the title of tour-guide. The stench from Munchies restaurant caught them completely off-guard, but proved a timely icebreaker as they doubled over to the gag-reflex inducing faeces, farmyard and kitchen aroma concoction. I gave them a full heads-up as we approached the bike hire shop, but there was never really anything to worry about here, they were just a friendly bunch of locals who wished us all a pleasant evening as we passed by and hung a right towards the beach. After all the talk of going on an adventure and seeing the world, what it really boiled down to, what I was really in need of, was a bit of company, a decent night out with friends. Maybe that was why things had got off to such a false start. Maybe that was why my thoughts had turned inward towards cultures and prejudice. Maybe that’s why, until now, everything had seemed a bit flat.

The road down to to the bar was pitch black, with not a soul in sight. I pointed out a few landmarks along the way. The road to Baga, Dum Biryani (another local restaurant) Paradiso, (supposedly the biggest nightclub in Goa, but sadly still closed due to it being off-season). In no time at all the road bended round to the left and we arrived at the Sea Rock bar and restaurant, situated at the end of the road and overlooking the sea. This area was also a gathering place, with other small cafe’s, public telephones, taxis and moped activity, but again very quiet at this time of day at this part of the season. As we entered the empty bar, Sea Rock’s seemed ill prepared to withstand the monsoon, with it’s rickety wooden construction and tarpaulin roof completely open to the elements. As we sat down to order, the miserable, walrus-like owner had just finished issuing orders to the usual fresh-faced young waiter, who we all took an immediate shine to. As he took a request for my third biryani of the day, we all discussed our reasons for being here in Goa, or to put it more accurately, of being in Goa in the off-season. In the background the violent action of the film “Rollerball” was distracting me somewhat, I looked forward to watching it properly when I got home.

Chris, as it turns out, was a city-slicker, banker, hedge-fund manager. The type that would go on and cause the financial markets to crash in the coming years. Below the calm exterior he was in melt-down and needed an escape. His honesty was touching, but none of the sharks were watching him here. Here, he was with friends. Ronan and Roisin had it all worked out. Ireland, having just adopted the Euro, was booming. They were both studying to make their fortune in property, met at University, fell in love and were now on an adventure together before the hard work started. Magda told a long drawn out story full of expression to a table full of blank incomprehension. Then it came to my turn……

In 2005 I’d been made redundant after 8 years of becoming progressively de-skilled as an I.T. professional. I’d started from the bottom again in customer services and now worked as a ‘Ticketing Consultant’ for American Express, which is every bit as bad as it sounds, but I was also out of place and out of time in an office full of young people and an over-the-top camp manager who took an instant dislike to me. Through all of this, including the demise of my band at the time, I was relationship I had lost interest in, but was in too deep, as we now lived together. It all culminated on a holiday to the island of Fuerteventura just a few months earlier. One night I just wanted to go out alone so I went to see a band at the ‘Rock Island Bar’ in Corralejo. I got talking to a guy, first about the band, and then onto what I was doing here without my partner. As it turned out he’d been in the same situation as me, so we chatted about it some more, visited some more bars and eventually he recommended I should go to Goa, play some guitar, and do some karate. I looked up at the half-puzzled, half-suspicious expressions looking back at me, then finished off my story. “I decided there and then I was going to Goa”.

As Sonny, the young waiter went about his task with effortless efficiency we revelled in just how inexpensive the place was. 30p (English Sterling) for a Kingfisher beer, even cheaper for shorts. In fact, as the night progressed Ronan was cutting out the middle man and just buying bottles of vodka. I asked Sonny where the toilet was, and he signalled over to behind the bar. I walked through, noticing to my right, a front room, complete with furniture, a blasting TV and an entire family! They glanced over with hardly a stir as I hurriedly, desperately made my way past. The corridor branched right into a kitchen of sorts where I was attacked by wet underwear, slapping my face and entangling me from ridiculously low washing lines. I eventually made it through to the toilet (a hole in the ground with two ridged foot-wells).

Back at the table there were casualties. Chris and Magda decided to call it a night but I stayed on. Roisin was, as Ronan put it, ‘cracked’. So he took her home as Sonny looked on in hope. I was his last customer. We’d all tipped him extensively throughout the night but as I looked over to his sleeping bag in the corner, that now familiar feeling of something not being quite right washed over me. I had dutch courage to spare right now, so I politely asked him about his sleeping arrangements. With the walrus looking on, it appeared that Sonny basically ran the whole show, morning, noon and night, sleeping on the floor when, and only when the last person (in this case me), had left. As usual, he fed me a line about this being the foundation onto better things, education, etc. with a smile and determined look, but all I could see was slave labour. Child slave labour. As I left, I couldn’t resist a look back. The walrus seemed to be tucking Sonny into his sleeping bag. They were smiling, as if they’d had a good day and were looking forward to tomorrow, and who was I to question that?