Goa : A Lesson in Life. Chapter 4: Calangute

Power cut! Being the only one in the place to registered any sort of reaction, I looked helplessly at the attendant. Just like the lad in the Cafe earlier, this young man was completely devoid of any western cynicism. This was his business and he ran it like clockwork with obvious pride. I took the opportunity to inform him that this was my first day in Goa, as if he cared, to which he responded in typical Indian style to just sit back and relax until the power came back on. I thought back to the old man at the kiosk in Anjuna, maybe I still hadn’t got to grips with this pace of life yet. The rain had now stopped however, so I opted to carry on down the road.

The road to Calangute was lined with empty ‘theme’ bars, cafe’s, hotels and shops off all descriptions and conditions. From chic modern looking bars with palm trees and open-air VIP lounge areas to run-down launderettes. A mish-mash of old and new Goa catering for it’s traditional residents and holiday makers. The young student travelers and old hippies from abroad to the big-guns from the big smoke of Mumbai. A melting pot of cultures in total harmony and celebration.

This was still only day one though, so for now I just took note and carried on walking against the deafening backdrop of traffic horns and straining moped and car engines. This was the traffic etiquette of India; use your horn to communicate a request for space, a demand to get past, a thank you. Like an ugly, mechanical bird song. But predictably there was no road rage, no conflict, despite the complete lack of rules or structure, just like most things in India, the system just worked, somehow.

Eventually I arrived at the center of Calangute. The all too familiar souvenir shops lined a path to my right, along with a few restaurants I knew I’d be sampling at some point. This wide central area felt like my ultimate destination and seemed to be a focal point of all activity, with taxis lining the curbs, driver’s touting for business and the frenetic activity of a school finishing for the day. I’d been on the go since leaving England over 48 hours ago but a flight of stone stairs beckoned me onto the beach, which seemed much larger in scale to Baga, and was even more crowded.

A large restaurant stood to my left, it’s flimsy wooden structure seemingly propped up on stilts and vulnerable to the elements. Another time perhaps, as what grabbed my attention for the moment was a typical clumsy block of concrete away from the crowds, which, on closer inspection tuned out to be bench, simply labelled ‘Tourists’. Unhindered and unnoticed, I wearily made my way over the still burning sand and, at last, came to stop. As I watched the droves of holiday makers in solitude whilst occupying my very own throne, the need for a ‘new Goa’ dawned on me, with all the tourism and prosperity it would bring. Tourists were respected here, a little too much for me to be comfortable with. I didn’t need my own bench, I wasn’t better than anyone else, so I moved over to the centre of the beach, amongst the crowds, and completed my protest by clumsily slumping to the ground like a tired elephant.

I gazed out into the Indian Ocean, wondering which direction home was over the horizon. How many miles away and what time of day. The crashing waves and sounds of celebration were almost tuned out by the still calmness of the almost setting sun and the intoxicating flavours of the east passing in the breeze. I was like an island, alone in my thoughts, but then the calm was broken by a rumble of thunder. I stayed put for the main event, as did everyone else, as the warm orange pastel of the horizon was engulfed in almost total cold blackness. A swirling, violent, elemental backdrop on the canvas of paradise. Looking back to the steps, the match-stick wooden structures looked to stand no chance, and as the sun was almost filtered out completely, the rains came, like daggers on my brow, peppering the tarpaulin roofs of the beach shacks into submission. Time had stood still, as if the whole of Calangute was holding it’s breath, and then the breathe was let out as the backdrop shifted again as quickly as before, but this time the sun was even lower, as though time had sped up during the darkness.

It was time to leave, time to eat. I was swept away amongst the crowds as they gathered up their belongings and huddled back up the steps. What would my very first meal in Goa be? The restaurants, all advertised in English, were mostly vegetarian, with only a few labelled ‘non-veg’, or in the other words, the opposite to back home. I was drawn to a large building back at the crossroads of the Baga/Calangute road, so in I went, up a flight of stairs and into a completely empty restaurant with immaculately laid tables. An old grey man greeted me, seemingly dressed in the same garb as the porter boy back in Mumbai, and proudly welcomed me inside, like it was his own home. This was the way in India, no matter where you were, a restaurant, cafe, bar, hotel. The staff made you feel welcome, they made you smile, they made sure you were happy. Back home, we had disgruntled staff on the minimum wage, bitter about having to work such a lowly job. Here, they had pride in their work.

I had no interest in looking through the vegetarian menu, rather I wanted the waiter’s recommendation, to which he raised his finger in acknowledgment with a grin, spinning on his heels and straight back through the door to the kitchen. I sat overlooking the main road i’d walked the length of earlier. Droves of local noisy twenty something’s on mopeds passed by, the atmosphere building to maybe some sort of event later in the evening. For now though, a large bottle of Kingfisher had arrived at my table, which the waiter opened and poured into my glass. I’d never heard of the brand before, but it was everywhere here, emblazoned on billboards, hotels, restaurants, bars, and even planes. It was the archetypal easy going 4%-5% larger. It’s simple, cool crispness the ideal accompaniment to the complex, multi-layered fireworks that is Indian food.

And so the best meal I’ve ever eaten was presented to me. A vegetarian Thali, or an assortment of dishes, each in their own small metal bowl, placed in a circle around a central helping of naan. As my senses where assaulted from all angles with the wildly varying heat, textures, flavors and aromas, not a single dish was recognizable from back home. One I could of sworn was chicken, but may have been tofu or something similar, some, like the best Bombay and Sag Aloo I’d ever eaten, or a simple marriage of red onion and lemon juice, or a weird and wonderfully tangy-sour cheese dish played accompanying roles, while others, including a variant on ‘Butter Chicken’ demanded my full attention, with it’s addictive, thick, moreish gravy seeming to be a perfect match for my taste buds and combining the sweetness of a korma with the cutting heat of a madras and all points of texture and spice in-between.

Although I was given a knife and fork, here, you ate with your hands. So I hungrily went about the task of tearing off a peace of Naan, and using it to dip, shovel and grab from the smorgasbord of dishes, washing it down with the cool larger. From time to time the cheery waiter would top me up, almost unprompted, expertly avoiding to distract or bother me in any way, whilst still being constantly on hand if needed, the consummate professional. Rice was strangely absent. but I would soon be introduced to proper Indian Byriani later. That’s another story.

As the last few morsels finished off, I slouched back into the chair, 100% content with life. As the waiter gave me a knowing glance I could only look at him wide-eyed as I released a sigh of overwhelming satisfaction and signalled for the bill. If memory serves me right, I looked down the list of items I’d ordered, which came to a grand total of just over £1 English sterling. I doubled it, as anything more may have been deemed an insult and thanked the waiter for a level of food and service I’d never experienced before, and never would again outside of India.

I made my way up to a taxi rank around the corner, as Calangute was nearing it’s night-time shift. I noticed a 24 hour complex of bars and shops I’d return to another day, but for now it was home-time for my tired legs and full stomach. The Cadillac style taxi felt like a water bed as I reclined to almost horizontal in the back and simply called out the request ‘Anjuna Palms’. I noticed the moustachioed driver was wearing what looked like a sea captain’s hat as I began to drift off, trying to pick out my location as neon lights whizzed past in the darkness. I was soon snapped out of it as the driver screeched to a halt outside the bike shop on the corner I’d passed earlier that day, The attendants still stood outside, conversing and smoking, in fact, I don’t even think they’d moved a muscle since I’d been to Calangute and back.

After paying the taxi driver I found myself back in my room. It had been an exhausting but exhilarating day, but before I had a chance to rest, there was a knock at the door, Felix’s wife. “We have a delivery for you”. I followed her through to the house where a young lad had just arrived on his moped, obviously a bit worse for wear after a long journey. He untied a large oblong package which was strapped to the frame and handed it to me with the hope of a tip in his eyes.

My guitar had arrived.