We just returned from a trip to Goa over the weekend [Picture Gallery]. It was clearly not enough time to get around as much as I had wished for. My friends Jan, Nicola & Anna got to stay a few days longer but I had to go back to work.
If you ever go to Goa perambulate it from north to south. Well, maybe just rent a car or get a taxi. But be prepared that they’re gonna rip you off like a cheap hussy is will take your money and leave you high and dry. I am really not complaining, maybe just exaggerating a bit. Our flight was delayed for more than three hours which gave me time to sit around the Santa Cruz domestic airport, watch people, do a little soul-searching and finally listen to music on my iPod, I hadn’t done that for at least a week (but the music I discovered will be presented on a different stage soon). When we arrived in Goa the sun had already set, so we couldn’t fully soak in what this part of India had to offer. Our taxi driver rushed through the 2-hour route in only one and a half and almost gave us a heart attack. It seemed like he felt so comfy hanging around with his driver buddies at the airport that he must have felt an enormous urge to get back there asap.
Dear friend, not so fast, I might as well have have blurted out. There were bad news awaiting our arrival in Palolem, a quiet town in the south of Goa. Jan made reservations at a kind of beach hut resort which -according to our information- hadn’t opened yet. Apparently, the authorities require the owners of such accommodations to apply for the license to run such a business all over again each year. So if this would have turned out to be a dead end, we had no place to stay. The driver had no idea where to find Ciaran’s Camp and a local gave us the info we were afraid of. Anyway, he was nice enough to guide us the way on his scooter (probably hoping for a tip, I suspected). We found ourselves in the middle of what looked like a forest of palm trees. It was pitch-black, bleak and eerie. In the glow of my cell phone we managed our way to the administration building following the hammering and sawing of the huts still being under construction. The owner got two cottages up and ready for us. He told us we could stay there for now and decide later if we were bothered by noises.
The girls were shocked. I can imagine why and to what extent. Arriving in a strange place late at night, driving on a road that does not even qualify for that denomination just to get to a dark, humid place at some beach. But to be frank, it wasn’t that bad at all. The cottages were quite spacious with queen-sized beds wrapped in mosquito nets, a bathroom with running, hot water and a porch. Camping deluxe!
We opted for Palolem mainly because it is said to be an insider tip and not to overcrowded, unlike the north of Goa. The prices are very moderate compared to Mumbai, at least for food and drinks, which come in a rich variety. You might be better off shopping for the usual tourist crap in one of the metropolitan areas but going for a little memento wont hurt. Although, the Hippie market in Anjuna might be worth a visit. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had the time to go but my friends did and they brought back an ashtray with a woman sitting inside like in a tub. What stunned me most was the intricacy of the piece and the attention to detail the creator must have put into it. That means, of course, that you can actually see nipples including the areola and her genitalia. I would have brought home the exact same item. Well done, Jan!
We stayed for four days in Palolem and then headed for Panjim, Goa’s capital. Panji, as the locals call it (and Panabi, or something similar, as they pronounce it), gains its beauty actually from the Portuguese colonization. Some of the houses still bring back the spirit of the nineteenth century. One question, that is true for all of India, arises: Have these houses ever looked any different then today? It seems that no matter how long a building has been exposed to the unbearable humidity, heat and the rain that come with the monsoon, they all look alike. In no time, the weather gives them a nice smudgy paintwork. Or maybe it’s just negligence.
We took a stroll around the city. To be more precise: We followed the Lonely Planet recommended trail. And we got company. That’s the problem when too many people rely on the same material. They end up doing the same stuff, seeing the same places, restaurants and eventually run into each other. Ashamed they then avert the other’s gaze. Ups, how did this happen? What a coincidence? What I am doing with this thick book in my hands? If you stick with the Lonely Planet there will be no going astray. But at least, after a long day of sightseeing, when you relax in the editor’s choice from page 365 and you are surrounded by like-minded travelers, there will be one safe bet: You’ll have a lot of common impressions to share and chat about. Only never leave the trail.
We didn’t. It was too hot for detours, anyway. And by doing so we were trapped by a team of reporters of the Goa News pressing us for our views on Goa’s hospitality, taxi driver affability, bargain prices and perceived security. We gave in and told them what they wanted to know but refused to testify in front of the camera. Being all sweaty and still a little hung-over from the night before, we would have made a dreadful impression. Four imperialistic asshole-tourists complaining about service, being ripped off by some idiot driver, who -with his fancy driving style- had shortened their lives perceptibly, and corrupt police framing them by palming some marijuana off on them. Well, the latter did not happen to us but it, in fact, is a known police scam to get foreigners to bribe them, accordingly. And bribing your ass off is what you will do, considering ten years in prison for the possession of narcotics weighed against a couple of Rupees. Or maybe it’s just an urban myth.
A fact is, instead, the Indian’s fondness for bureaucracy. That’s probably one of the remains of the British occupation and I thank them for that. There are not enough issues to force regulation on. The government of the state of Goa recently decided that foreigners planning on retiring there, cannot came on a tourist visa which is primarily for travel, not retirement. Nor will they receive a permanent residence title. Instead, they have to go through the loophole of flying to a location nearby such as Singapore and re-enter which is a brilliant move since those are 400 bucks not being spent on the domestic market. And it sends out a clear message as well: You can come and visit but don’t ever get to homey, we’d rather stay with ourselves. And off-the-records, the friendly face you see when haggling for a bargain price is only a facade. Or maybe this is also just an urban myth spread through the press. Lastly, I want to state that I had a wonderful time in Goa but always being nice is just lame, and politics is no different in India than in Europe.
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