An urge to travel came upon me, away from pissed up English Johnny and the surly, introspective Russians. So when the seven day Ayurveda course was finished (feeling only half done) and the salesman/doctor tried to flog me a sack of tablets for a fortune, I moved on, bidding a fond farewell to the prawn marsala fry restaurant and the little kids who scampered around, over an under tables, happy as can be all evening long, as Mummy and Daddy cooked and served, cricket on TV in the background.
A tuk-tuk took me to Madgaon, a railway junction that I recognized from last year’s middle-of-the-night visit. Today, at mid-day, to spare my creaking legs, I got on the first carriage, then once comfortably settled on soft seat, surrounded by smiling women and girls and mewling babies, I got kicked off by the ticket inspector as it was a ‘ladies’ only’ carriage, set up by Indian Railways to keep perverts at bay.
The lolloping and clanking half hour ride - men only - took us south through dense vegetation capped by soaring coconut palms, and past one or two hut settlements enveloped in steaming heat, thirty minutes down the line to Canacona, a sleepy halt where dogs sniffed, crows swooped, crickets chirruped and three of us got off. Trudging up the dirt track, resigned to walking into town when, as if on cue, a tuk-tuk puttered round the corner, thank god, standard smiley driver and question at the helm: “Where going, sir?”
We bashed over potholes for three km to Palolem, a wide crescent bay where scenes from The Bourne Supremacy had been filmed, Matt Damon showing off his fitness on the beach, his soon to be dead girlfriend in a hut, and the location where the assassin spotted them. I recognized the setting immediately, but they must have cleared the sacred cows for the movie because during my visit they were everywhere, sleeping on the sand in the shadow of beached long boats and grazing on holidaymakers’ trash. Later on in the trip a bullock tried to butt me in the street, a local guy fending it off with hisses and whistles.
We were on the very southern border of Goa State, above Karnakatka State, and checked into the Seagull Guest House on Palolem’s main drag. Of all the lodging establishments I have ever slept in, the Seagull receptionists have to be, hands down, the cutest staff that god ever put in a hotel. That’s all I have to say on the matter, otherwise i'll be in trouble with the missus. The next few weeks were spent drifting from bed to terrace to café across the street to beach and back each and every day. Awesome.
A frog hopped across the shadowy stone floor before I realized it was a leaf on a breeze. Evenings, before the mosquitos showed up, were cool on the terrace, and that night, in our usual haunt, I met an American who spends six months in Los Angeles and six months in Palolem looking after injured, wild dogs here; apartment and mod-cons thrown in. He seemed very happy with his lot, spending evenings online in the restaurant, but looking forward to escaping the looming Indian monsoon season.
A couple – the girl shy and understatedly pretty; the guy dreadlocked, loud and earnest – sat on the next table. I took them for students but they were German farmers, herding and milking cattle on Alpine hillsides in Bavaria, the girl smiling and miming squeezing udders, taking a low-season break in the tropical Goan landscape.
The waiters were affable, cheeky chaps with amusingly over the top politeness, hailing from Himachal Pradesh, up in the north of the country on the Himalayan borderlands. They looked quite different, more Oriental, than your average Indian and had nothing but contempt for domestic tourists who now come to Goa in hordes, stingy tipping being the route of the problem. Must have learned that from the English.
One of the waiters was engagingly named Jimmy, a tough looking, shaven-headed guy with tattoos on his neck, who had once spent a year working in an Indian restaurant in a frigid Siberian city. Respect! I was further amused when coming across a puppy, adopted by a neighboring café, that went by the same name, and, one afternoon, Jimmy the waiter gave me a lift on his scooter, zooming off into the jungle to a barber’s shop where I had a haircut, a cut-throat razor shave followed by head massage.
Talking of head massages, I'd signed up for a five day course of Ayurveda with a bloke called Robin, nowhere near as capitalist as the first doctor. This practitioner has a clinic in his bungalow out the back of the Olive Grove restaurant that I was using as my dining/living room. Apparently he was so well-known that he didn't have to advertise. He also spoke great English, often chatting about international politics, and he obviously knew what he was up to in terms of treatment. However there were times, as I lay stark naked on a mattress on the floor, soothing music playing, and he was kneading my buttocks in a manly manner, that it did cross my mind that Robin could be one of those lah-di-dah poofters that you hear about, bowling round the wicket, as it were. He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time attending to the musculature of my buttocks. I’ve gotta say that it is a rather pleasant experience, having your buttocks massaged, although I never did quite rid myself of the feeling that he was trying to lead me down the path to Poofland.
So, that was how the days went by for three weeks: up and about by 10am, coffee/toast breakfast in the café, followed by a session of manipulation on my front and back. Return to the café for lunch – cheese omelet and toast – then late afternoon on the beach where we swam for hours among day-tripping Indian families and (apparently) dolphins.
A tuk-tuk took me to Madgaon, a railway junction that I recognized from last year’s middle-of-the-night visit. Today, at mid-day, to spare my creaking legs, I got on the first carriage, then once comfortably settled on soft seat, surrounded by smiling women and girls and mewling babies, I got kicked off by the ticket inspector as it was a ‘ladies’ only’ carriage, set up by Indian Railways to keep perverts at bay.
The lolloping and clanking half hour ride - men only - took us south through dense vegetation capped by soaring coconut palms, and past one or two hut settlements enveloped in steaming heat, thirty minutes down the line to Canacona, a sleepy halt where dogs sniffed, crows swooped, crickets chirruped and three of us got off. Trudging up the dirt track, resigned to walking into town when, as if on cue, a tuk-tuk puttered round the corner, thank god, standard smiley driver and question at the helm: “Where going, sir?”
We bashed over potholes for three km to Palolem, a wide crescent bay where scenes from The Bourne Supremacy had been filmed, Matt Damon showing off his fitness on the beach, his soon to be dead girlfriend in a hut, and the location where the assassin spotted them. I recognized the setting immediately, but they must have cleared the sacred cows for the movie because during my visit they were everywhere, sleeping on the sand in the shadow of beached long boats and grazing on holidaymakers’ trash. Later on in the trip a bullock tried to butt me in the street, a local guy fending it off with hisses and whistles.
We were on the very southern border of Goa State, above Karnakatka State, and checked into the Seagull Guest House on Palolem’s main drag. Of all the lodging establishments I have ever slept in, the Seagull receptionists have to be, hands down, the cutest staff that god ever put in a hotel. That’s all I have to say on the matter, otherwise i'll be in trouble with the missus. The next few weeks were spent drifting from bed to terrace to café across the street to beach and back each and every day. Awesome.
A frog hopped across the shadowy stone floor before I realized it was a leaf on a breeze. Evenings, before the mosquitos showed up, were cool on the terrace, and that night, in our usual haunt, I met an American who spends six months in Los Angeles and six months in Palolem looking after injured, wild dogs here; apartment and mod-cons thrown in. He seemed very happy with his lot, spending evenings online in the restaurant, but looking forward to escaping the looming Indian monsoon season.
A couple – the girl shy and understatedly pretty; the guy dreadlocked, loud and earnest – sat on the next table. I took them for students but they were German farmers, herding and milking cattle on Alpine hillsides in Bavaria, the girl smiling and miming squeezing udders, taking a low-season break in the tropical Goan landscape.
The waiters were affable, cheeky chaps with amusingly over the top politeness, hailing from Himachal Pradesh, up in the north of the country on the Himalayan borderlands. They looked quite different, more Oriental, than your average Indian and had nothing but contempt for domestic tourists who now come to Goa in hordes, stingy tipping being the route of the problem. Must have learned that from the English.
One of the waiters was engagingly named Jimmy, a tough looking, shaven-headed guy with tattoos on his neck, who had once spent a year working in an Indian restaurant in a frigid Siberian city. Respect! I was further amused when coming across a puppy, adopted by a neighboring café, that went by the same name, and, one afternoon, Jimmy the waiter gave me a lift on his scooter, zooming off into the jungle to a barber’s shop where I had a haircut, a cut-throat razor shave followed by head massage.
Talking of head massages, I'd signed up for a five day course of Ayurveda with a bloke called Robin, nowhere near as capitalist as the first doctor. This practitioner has a clinic in his bungalow out the back of the Olive Grove restaurant that I was using as my dining/living room. Apparently he was so well-known that he didn't have to advertise. He also spoke great English, often chatting about international politics, and he obviously knew what he was up to in terms of treatment. However there were times, as I lay stark naked on a mattress on the floor, soothing music playing, and he was kneading my buttocks in a manly manner, that it did cross my mind that Robin could be one of those lah-di-dah poofters that you hear about, bowling round the wicket, as it were. He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time attending to the musculature of my buttocks. I’ve gotta say that it is a rather pleasant experience, having your buttocks massaged, although I never did quite rid myself of the feeling that he was trying to lead me down the path to Poofland.
So, that was how the days went by for three weeks: up and about by 10am, coffee/toast breakfast in the café, followed by a session of manipulation on my front and back. Return to the café for lunch – cheese omelet and toast – then late afternoon on the beach where we swam for hours among day-tripping Indian families and (apparently) dolphins.