On the Beaches of Goa

We wake up around 7, pack, and check out of our hotel. A very nice car is waiting for us outside---a taxi owned and operated by the hotel itself. The driver asks us if we did the city tour of Mumbai, and we tell him no—we only visited the Elephanta Caves. He laments our lack of sightseeing and tells us we have plenty of time to get to the airport (the morning is slow and few people are out), so we can quickly stop by a few places if we want. We decide we might as well.

Our first stop is the renowned colonial-era railway station. It is an expansive Victorian-style building that takes up a city block or more. A large clock sits directly in its center tower, keeping an even, ticking pace over the chaos of the city. It is beautiful, framed by the rising sun.

Next we drive down a narrow street to see the house that Gandhi lived at while in Mumbai. It has been turned into a museum, now, but of course it is closed this early in the morning. The house itself is a very English style white and brown construction, towering three or four stories into the air.

Our next stop is a small, but elegant, Hindu temple. People are feeding the birds, and pigeons swarm about us in the hundreds. The building is the usual white and orange temple structure, with high domed archways.

As we drive out of the city, we see the 27 story house of India’s richest man. He, his wife, and his three children occupy this enormous, glassed structure, with over 400 servants living inside. Juxtaposed directly underneath the house are some of Mumbai’s most famous slums (in fact, we pass by the one where Slumdog Millionaire was partially filmed).

Our last sight is the sea-bridge. A beautiful, winding bridge built out over the ocean—taking you directly from south to north Mumbai. Large, white ropes hold up the bridge in a beautiful geometric pattern that appears to open and shut as you speed through.

Finally, we arrive at the airport, check in, and take our seats to wait for our plane to Goa. We are bussed out to our plane when it lands, settle in, and nap the two hours south. We land in an incredibly small airport, surrounded by lush trees and red dirt. It is dark and humid inside, with two half-floors. We easily make our way out and book a prepaid cab to Anjuna—a northern beach known for its happenin’ atmosphere.

Our drive begins interestingly. We have to haul ourselves and our luggage about half a mile across two streets to get to the cab. About twenty minutes down the road, the driver stops for gas, and the English interpreter tell us the driver’s son is going to school and needs a ride---it’s on the way. We hesitate, but it’s difficult to say no (it is his son, after all), so we just agree. However, the driver’s son isn’t even there yet. We wait five minutes and tell the driver we really have to go.  It’s already 4 by this point, and the sun is beginning its slow descent across the sky. We wait a few more minutes, and finally an adolescent boy finds his way to the car and gets in. About twenty minutes later, he gets sick. The rest of our drive to Anjuna is spent (faces covered) watching the driver pull over every twenty or so minutes so the boy can throw up out of the window. Great. I hope it’s just travel sickness. If I get some strange, tropical illness from this kid I’m going to be kind of upset.  But anyway, here we are, so we trek on.

We arrive at Anjuna a little while later. It is remote, tropical, and very reminiscent of Latin America. The streets—if they are that—are incredibly small and narrow, most lined with red dirt. The coconut and banana trees hang overhead, and small, white, Portuguese designed Catholic churches dot the landscape. We arrive at our hotel---a beautiful wooden house with several rooms on the second floor. The outside is a bright blue, while the inside is a pastel purple. It smells of sandalwood and saltwater.

A young boy with piercings through the bridge of his nose, and his short hair tied back in a ponytail greets us at the door. He smiles kindly and grabs one of our bags and runs off to the hotel. We follow as he shows us our room. He doesn’t really say anything, but hands us the key and then heads on his way.

Our room is pretty cool. It’s a spacious lounge area, which has a bed in one corner tucked near a built-in bookshelf (where all of the books are in French), another wall has a fluffy futon sitting in front of it, and the bathroom is a half-room built into another corner, walled off by a shower curtain.  Little enclaves in the wall hold lit-up lamps, and framed, old pencil drawings of elephants dot the walls. I can definitely see some laid-back Western folks philosophizing the night away in a room like this.

Aside from the extra-powerful Indian ceiling fan above our heads, everything is quiet. This is Goa’s off season, but we didn’t quite realize how off it was. All of the restaurants, shops, and shacks that we’ve seen so far have been closed down—covered in tarps, silently awaiting the monsoons. We meander down a few pathways, trying to find our way to the beach, until we finally find the café associated with our hotel---The Elephant Art Café. Its Facebook page had proclaimed a central, activity-filled area, full of yoga, parties, Ayurveda, and more. However, we find that it is empty—the thatched roof has been dismantled and the kitchen closed for the season. How about that?

We start to get a little nervous. We haven’t seen another person, there appears to be no food thus far, and definitely no cars or taxis. We get the feeling that we’ve entered an alternate universe that we may not escape from.  We walk down the stairs at the front of the deserted café to the beach.

It is beautiful. The sand shimmers a striped gold-crimson-black under our feet. The golden Arabian Sea sweeps to our heels as the sun sets in a wash of purple, blue, and pink in the sky. In the distance, we see lights and people. Thankfully!

About two minutes down the beach from our desolate café, we find Café Lilliput---a tiered restaurant that meets the ocean at its front door. Cool retro lights are strung up overhead, a pool table is in the back, and waiters busily run this way and that. We settle down into the low cushioned chairs and order drinks (I order a basil-watermelon margarita) as the waves roll in.

The ocean literally splashes up over the bottom tier of the restaurant, spraying our faces every so often. Exotic, ambient music plays through the speakers. We order dinner and sit for some time, just watching the water. After resting and assuring ourselves that we are still in some sort of civilization, we head back to our room to change clothes and freshen up. We are far too overdressed—me in my jeans, t-shirt, and shawl. I change into a beautiful shimmering blue dress that I bought yesterday in Mumbai, and we head out into the night. We really only know how to get to Café Lilliput, so we return there, where we order more drinks and some fries. A group of young Indian folks are sitting around, playing in the ocean, drinking, and dancing. They ask us where we’re from and if we want to go to a party with them. We tell them we really just got there and we are kind of resting.  “It’s okay” they reply “we’ll wait for you.” Say what?

They tell us we can even have our own bike if we want—they have three. Could you imagine? Cindy and I rolling around in the Goan night, in a place we’ve never been, on a bike we’ve never drove, on Indian streets? After they see our expressions, they tell us we can ride with them on their bikes—they’ll drive.

They already seem a little drunk and we have no clue where they’re going. After politely talking with them for some time, they finally realize that we really are not going with them. They wish their farewells and head off to partake in some trance-induced Goan nightlife. We head back to our hotel room---with a large bottle of Kingfisher to-go, and rest in our pretty little room.

The next morning, we head out into the sun. It’s been up since at least 4 am (the first time I woke up), and it’s directly overhead now. We have heard about the famous Anjuna Flea Market, and we ask directions and head that way. We walk down a tiny footpath, complete with palms, draping flowers, tall stone walls, and sandy paths that lead to the beach. We walk past a few more Catholic churches, and even stumble upon a closed Tantra center. Finally, we reach the Flea Market. Like the rest of Goa, it too is closed down. The vendor’s tents are dismantled, leaving only ghostly frames and empty wooden tables. We explore the empty stalls for a minute or so, then head back over toward the beach. We walk down sandy beach path and stumble out from under the palm trees onto the shore. It is midday now, and the sand is a vibrant crimson-black. Beautiful red, coral-like rocks wash up from the ocean, and we notice that the same rocks make up the shoreline. This must be where the sand gets its stunning color from.

We stroll down the beach, taking pictures of our various findings as we go. We head about a mile down from Café Lilliput and find another open restaurant called Hippies. Three sunbathing cows sit nuzzling each other out front.

We have found some small washed up liquor bottles, and we use these to collect sand in front of Hippies. Going about our business, we don’t notice when a tall, sleek Goan man walks up to us to inquire as to what we are doing.  “Are you playing in the mud?” he asks, referring to the sand. “Why yes, yes we are,” I respond unquestionably. “You like mud?” he asks. “Yes, it is beautiful mud!” we answer. He laughs, shakes his head, and tells us to come to his restaurant. After we fill our bottles with “mud” we head inside, under the cool shade of the restaurant’s tent.

A thin, enthusiastic man greets us. He tells us his name is Raj and that this is his restaurant. He’ll get us anything we like. We order drinks---Cindy a margarita and me a pina colada. We drink a few rounds of these while watching the glistening ocean, before we order a small plate of fries. We decide that we should actually eat lunch, and we ask what Raj recommends. His eyes sparkle and he says he’ll be right back.

He returns with a plate of freshly caught fish and prawns. These are on special for today and they are delicious, he tells us. I decide to try the prawns—after all, they are a Goan specialty. I get them in a Goan curry, extra spicy.

When our food arrives, it is amazing. The prawns are one of the best things I’ve had. The Goan curry is tropical and intense. Alongside the prawns I also have a small fried fish (which literally is the whole fish, dropped in the fryer). The plate is decorated with French fries and slaw-like vegetables. It’s beyond filling and a perfect meal for the hot afternoon.

After letting our food sit, we head back down the shore, returning to Café Lilliput. It’s about 4 pm, and the café has set up sun-bathing chairs outside. We ask for two, and lay out in the slowly sinking sun.

With the sound of the ocean at my feet, and a cool breeze blowing over me in the warm, sandy afternoon, I fall asleep. I wake some time later as a group of chatty Indian men stroll by. They say hi to me and walk around the bend. I close my eyes. A few minutes later, one of them is tapping me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, can we have a photo?”  they ask. “Ummm….I guess?” is my reply. There are about eight of them, and they each take turns posing with me for various photos.  Oh, India. 

I lay back down and realize that my legs and shoulders are turning red. The last time I tried getting a tan (which was in a tanning bed) I ended up in the hospital. But I figure if I drink my electrolyte water and put aloe on my burns, I should be in good shape. I don’t feel sick, after all.

To immediately cool myself off, I run into the Arabian Sea. Now, those of you who know me should know that I am terrified of water. It’s not that I can’t swim, it’s that there are a lot of things in open waters that I simply cannot compete with. Enormous fish, sharks, snakes, crabs, eels, whatever. Things with slimy skin, teeth, and poison. And they swim by nature. I’m a feeble, thrashing human who can’t even see underwater. So, generally I leave the water to water-things and I take my chances on land. But, the sea was so inviting and my skin was hot, so I decided to break my rule and head into the water.

It was amazing. The water was warm and silky, crashing around my body. I’d run about a foot into the tide, and be swept ashore by an incoming wave. That’s the thing about the Arabian Sea—it is wild and jagged. A thunderous, hurtling body of water. Only the most insane would dare to go more than a few feet in. So, I would run up to where the sea met my knees, and let the waves roll over me until I was back to shore. More than once I ended up with sand scrapes on my thighs and back. But it was joyous and fun.

The sea came sweeping further and further ashore. I wandered back up to Cindy, wiping the water off my face. She’s laughing at me, when suddenly a wave reaches up and claims one of her silver sandals. We both shout and dive toward the shoe, as the water carries it out to sea. I run this way and that, battling the low tide, falling here and there, and finally, I emerge with the shoe in hand. My small warrior triumph for the day. We laugh and head back to our hotel to rest and dry off for a bit before coming back out for the night.

I shower the salt out of my hair, change out my glasses, and we head back out. We decide to make our way to Hippies, but we want to try the road, since the ocean is back at steps of the buildings on shore.

The night is dark and humid. Strange birds and tropical creatures call and whistle at us from the tree tops. The path we’re following suddenly ends at an abandoned sea shack, so we have to turn around and find another road. With the small beams of our flashlights, we find the main road. After winding around its various curves and turns we reach Hippies. The owner, Raj, is ecstatic to see us again. We eat dinner and watch a family build castles in the sand. The night is dark, lit up only by small lamps and candles. The ocean slowly goes back out. We walk along the shore back to our hotel. I almost stumble across something, and look down to see the fattest fish I’ve ever seen. It probably died in the ocean, but has now been washed ashore. Its dead silver eyes shine in the moonlight. Crabs crawl around it. I shudder and we continue on.

We make our way back to Café Lilliput and order two waters, watermelon juice, and an unripe mango shake (we didn’t intentionally order the unripe mango shake—it just came that way). We talk to our waiter friend for a while as the candle on our table burns low. The black water crashes against the lowest step, and we breathe in our last night in Goa.

We return to our hotel and pack, and finally fall asleep.

The next morning, we wake up early to find breakfast before heading out at 11 am. However, nothing is open. Even our Café Lilliput is closed. So we walk along the main road, meandering in and out of small villages, finding beautiful buildings but nothing open.

At one point we see a dog who has his head stuck in a large bucket. We tell some people nearby, and they find the woman who owns him, and later we see her chasing him around, trying to free him.

We slowly return to the beach, hoping our café will be open. Along the way we discover an enormous dead snake, turned belly-up on the sand. The sight is disturbing and sad, and we continue on, wondering what kinds of snakes lurk in the trees above us.

When we return to Café Lilliput, it has finally opened. We take the “eagle’s nest”—a small overlook directly above the shore—and order breakfast and tea.  After eating, we collect our bags and head out toward our next adventure---the southern shores of Kerala.

 

Until then,

 

Namaste!