by Reece Willis
I never knew when I was going to arrive anywhere in India by bus, but given how long the journey was supposed to take and the length of time we’d already been travelling, I guessed my departure point of Mapusa would be soon. My backpack had been with me all night. Picking it up, I lifted my leg over the jute sack, hopped forward and caught the top of my foot on a crate of chickens in the aisle. I pulled free but slipped the catch, sending the birds screeching from the cage, fluttering feathers about the crowd.
Women screamed, children laughed, the owner of the fowl ran ragged in a bid to round up each bird. I tried to assist, but my herding skills were useless. Instead I was politely, but firmly told to get out of the way and sent to the front of the bus as it pulled over. Keeping my head down, I mumbled apologies as I eased past two men obstructing the exit. I leapt from the doorway, hitting the ground ungracefully and rolling into the bushes as the bus pulled away.
My intentions weren’t to stay in Mapusa, only long enough to find a place to eat and source transport to Anjuna. Although it was like most Indian towns, it didn't have the intensity or bustle I expected. Despite the downpour, goods were being set out on the roadside in market fashion: fruit and vegetables, sacks of pulses, herbs and spices in neat rows all under the protection of umbrella stands. Apart from the traders and a few locals the streets were deserted. Maybe because of the early hour, the weather or the fact that it was out of season and the thousands of holidaymakers from around the globe were yet to swarm through the town. Whatever the reason I was grateful of the space and lack of attention to my presence.
I negotiated a rate with a taxi driver who took me straight to a hotel in Anjuna. The room was far from perfect, but I was in no need of luxury. The leaves of a palm tree blocked most of the light from the window and cast elongated finger-like shadows along the wall. I sat on the bed, which was positioned beneath the window and browsed my guide book.
I awoke sometime later to find the rain had cleared. The palm swayed in a light breeze, allowing a swinging fan of light into the room. Taking the Lonely Planet from my chest I placed it in my bag and went out.
The hotel was situated within a stone’s throwing distance of the beach lined with tall rocking palms gracing the base of the hills. The deserted sands were a dull beige under the white sky, the sea a dirty green. Most of the food shacks were closed apart from one, which sat upon a slight ridge. A man leant on the bar, head tilted in sleep. Speckled black and white dreadlocks hung loose to his shoulders, his goatee beard rested upon his chest. I cleared my throat and he awoke, focused in on my face, yawned and rubbed his eyes, 'Ah man, I'm so sorry. This weather can really drain you. Welcome to Royston's. Take a seat and I'll bring over a menu.'
By the open front I watched the tide curl white as it licked the shore.
'There you go,' he said, holding out a lime green menu with little palm trees in the corners. Although his complexion was Indian, he spoke with a London accent. 'My name's Royston and this is my bar. What can I get you to drink?'
'I'll have, um…' I browsed the list of drinks, 'A sweet lassi please.'
'No problems, back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.'
He disappeared through a set of saloon style doors. I was too preoccupied watching a cow on the beach scratching its ear with its hind leg to notice him come back until he placed a glass down with a lime green straw bobbing out. 'Have you decided on any food?'
'Cows on a beach, you don't see that in Blackpool.'
He laughed, 'Blackpool? Man, I haven't thought of that place since I was a kid. So, you're from England?'
'Yeah, the south.' I put my cigarette in my mouth and extended my hand, 'Sam.'
He shook it, 'Good to meet you. Yeah, we get cows, pigs, dogs and if you're lucky the occasional monkey.'
'What do you recommend, Royston?' I asked, returning to the menu.
'Swordfish and fries, caught first thing this morning. That's cool.'
'I've never had swordfish before, so go on, I’ll give it a try.'
He poked his head over the kitchen doors and called out my order. Walking behind the bar he uncapped a bottle of Coke, 'First day in Goa?'
'Arrived from Mumbai this morning. Pardon me for saying, but you don't sound very Indian.'
'Ha ha, I am and I'm not. I was raised in London until I was fifteen and then my parents moved out here. That was about twenty-five years ago. My dad's English and my mum's Indian. They met while he was on holiday in Goa. My mother was born in Anjuna. I think she missed Goan life a bit too much.'
'Can't say I blame them, it's idyllic.'
'Oh, it's peaceful now, but when the tourist season comes, it's the complete opposite. Non-stop partying around the clock and non-stop work for me, which I'm not complaining about. I'd rather be busy if you know what I mean.' He took a swig of his drink, 'When the season finishes I stay open, but hardly anyone turns up. But it's cool, gives me time to unwind until it all kicks off again.'
He’d been in the kitchen for a while by the time I finished my meal, so I left some folded notes under my cup and took a slow walk along the beach in the fine rain. Hearing faint footsteps closing in behind me I turned only to find a couple of pi dogs combing the sand in the distance. Minutes later the drizzle turned into a downpour and the breeze gathered momentum. The dogs scarpered with their ears down, tails between their legs and I made a desperate dash back to my room.
The bad weather persisted into the evening leaving me nothing to do but read, listen to music and stare at the wall. I thought about my grandfather in hospital, how he had asked to see me. What could he want? He must know how difficult it would be. It wasn’t a simple case of a ferry ride across the North Sea. Besides, we’d already gone through the motions of a last goodbye on my most recent visit to Ostend. There was nothing more to be said and me seeing him in a debilitated state would surely be as distressing for him as it would for me. I decided to get an early night with the intention of catching sunrise.
A fiery warmth torched the sky, painting the shore the sparkling saffron I'd hoped to see. Royston was sweeping away the night's sand from his porch.
'Are you serving food?' I asked.
'Hey man. Yeah, give me ten minutes. How's bacon and eggs?'
Over breakfast I asked how long he'd owned the bar. 'About ten years now, since my father retired and passed it on to me. He called it Paradise Place, but I renamed it and gave it a bit of a facelift. How's breakfast?'
'Yeah good, thanks. Reminds me of my nan's...' I stumbled for a moment then quickly changed direction. 'Have you got any recommendations on what to see in Goa?'
'There's loads to see in Goa. Arambol is my favourite of all the beaches. I'm heading out there tomorrow to help out a friend if you want to come along.'
'Yeah sure, what time?'
'Early, around eight. Meet me here, we'll have breakfast and go after that.'
I soaked the last corner of toast in egg yolk, 'I'll catch up with you again this evening if you're around. I'm off to Vagator this morning.'
'Cool. Try and climb up to Chapora Fort if you can, you'll get great views over Morjim beach, Chapora River and across Vagator and Ozran beaches.'
Near the hotel, the owners of a group of taxis congregated. I haggled the fare to Vagator with one of them and within twenty minutes I was at my destination. 'On left side, Little Vagator,' he said, as we pulled into an empty car park. 'Right side, Big Vagator.' I asked if he could pick me up in an hour or so. 'Yes, I will be here.'
I'd only taken a few steps when an Indian lady came over; maybe early twenties, tight green top and skirt to match. Both forearms were covered in black bangles; on one wrist hung a cloth bag from which she produced a handful of marble ornaments. I smiled, said no thanks and walked on. She followed, pursuing me with her pitch. The faster I walked, the more she kept up until I stopped, and said no thanks again.
'Then maybe I can show you good time instead,' she said, putting her hands on her hips and slowly gyrating.
'No
, that's fine, thank you.'
'But much special time, very nice, you and me.'
'If I buy one of these,' I pointed at the ornaments, 'will you leave me alone?'
'Yes, yes, of course, sir. Now which one you like?' I went to choose but she interjected, 'You cannot decide? Why not buy one and then you are getting second one at half of price.'
'Okay, how much?' I sighed.
'I am giving you for three hundred rupees only.'
'Okay, so I've only got two hundred rupees spare. How about I take just the green elephant.'
'Very good sir. As you are very nice man, I give you marble flower for fifty rupees only if buying both.'
'Two fifty and we're sold, right?'
She waggled, 'Very good, sir.'
On giving her the money she began another sales spiel, but I was quick to leave, heading off in the direction of Little Vagator. I heard her catching up with me, but when I turned around, prepared for battle in round two, she wasn't there. From the corner of my eye I saw something move, but when I looked, again there was no one there. All I saw was a copse of palm trees swaying in the wind.
It was reminiscent of walking through a forest late at night, with the devil hounding my back, making me pick up pace and run as if my life depended on it. Occasionally glancing over my shoulder, I made my way across to the larger beach. Rain fell heavily, a forceful wind lashed at my back. I stopped at the base of the hill leading up to the fort. As I climbed, I could hear laboured breathing. Several steps later, wheezing and coughing swept into my ears and with it came a familiar sour smell overlain with a faint sweetness.
A series of octagonal battlements interrupted what was left of the ruined laterite walls of the bastion. The view might have been great on a clear day, but a veil of thick sea mist cloaked all but the tip of Morjim Beach ahead.
Eyes fixed forward, I fought to hold back the tears. I eventually found the courage to turn around. He was a lot further away than I thought. All I could make out was an oversized surgical gown draped over a wasted frame, bare feet except for the weeds entangling the toes. I’d seen enough and started heading along a trail leading to the beach. My clothes were covered in mud, the skin on my hands raw from climbing. With each step, my feet sunk deeper into the black sand until at last I found solid ground. I took one last look up at the fort. Although I could only make out his shadow, I knew his eyes were on me, in me, scrutinizing my soul.
I found shelter in an abandoned hut near the car park and sat shivering, trying to comprehend the sick games my head was playing. By the time my taxi appeared I'd gathered up what little of me was left and hauled myself in the back saying nothing to the driver.
However much I tried to push the morning to the back of my mind, it distracted me from whatever I did. I flicked through the guidebook, remembering what Tyler had said about Hampi. I marked it off next on my route.
The last thing I wanted was to be holed up in my room all night. Instead I went to Royston's where I had my evening meal, a simple tomato curry. He sat down with me and poured a small glass of clear liquid with a slight froth, 'Here my friend, cashew apple feni. My brother-in-law makes a whole batch of the stuff.'
I drained it quickly and immediately felt like I'd swallowed paint stripper. My eyes welled as he filled the glass again. I loved cashews and I loved apple juice, but this took on a whole new level. I guessed it was in its rawest form and didn't wish to offend my host by turning it away. I drank the next glass more cautiously, forcing a smile, but I started to feel sick and heady. My mouth numbed, my tongue found it hard to tackle each word, 'Is feni alcoholic by any chance?' I slurred.
'Of course. This is about forty percent.'
'Oh.' He went on to ask if I was okay. 'Yeah, it's just that I don't drink.'
'Oh.'
I smiled, told him it was fine and excused myself, arranging to meet him in the morning as planned. Staggering back to the hotel I made it to the bathroom just in time, drowning a cockroach on the toilet seat in tomato curry feni. I collapsed on the bed, the room swaying, the palm tree tap, tap, tapping. Despite my stomach wanting to erupt at any second, I closed my eyes in hope it would die down.
The sound of shuffling brought me out of my slumber. I couldn't make out who was there at first, but as my eyes adjusted I zoned in on my grandfather's face, tinged with a yellow hue and collapsed on one side. The vision was so real, but I knew it couldn’t be. He was hooked up on drips, dying in a hospital bed in Belgium. I said nothing, my mind in turmoil, my mouth finding it hard to form a single word.
I got up and headed towards the door. He put his arm out to prevent my exit, but I whacked it away and he lost his balance, falling to the floor. Cursing the door handle for not being where it should have been, I struggled my way to freedom. Wobbly sitar music played out of tune somewhere down the hallway. I wasn't sure if I was imagining it, but it faded the further I got from the hotel. Wind and rain against me, I pushed through until I reached the beach where I fell face down in the sodden sand. I moved my head to one side, but could do no more. Thunder cracked overhead. The sky, beach and palm trees lit a brief silver with lightening as the rain hit me like a million pellets.
42
'Jesus, what happened to you?' a man's voice asked. 'Are you okay?'
I opened one eye, the one not buried in the sand and then closed it again, 'Uh?' I groaned as I was turned over.
A blurred face I thought I knew loomed over me, joined by another; an Indian lady, very attractive with shining eyes, 'Should we call a doctor?' she said.
'I'm okay,' I replied. 'Just need a few minutes.'
'Let's get you inside,' the man said, who when I looked again I recognised as Royston.
Slumped in a chair with a glass of coffee and a bottle of water on the table, I heard voices coming from behind the kitchen doors.
'How was I supposed to know he didn't drink?'
'Well, you might have asked him? How much did he have?'
'Two glasses, maybe three shots in each.'
'So, he's had six shots of my brother's feni and he doesn’t drink. Thank god I didn't marry you for your intelligence.'
'Ah come on babe, we both know it's because of these stunning good looks.'
‘Nice you're taking it so seriously. What if he choked or was robbed or something?'
They both reappeared, the lady smiling sympathetically. She placed a couple of headache pills down, 'How are you feeling?'
'Better now, thanks. Sam, by the way.'
'Aashi. Sorry we had to meet like this. My apologies for my husband's stupidity, he rarely thinks before he acts.'
'He wasn't to know. I should have picked up on it after the first glass. If anything, it's my fault.' I swallowed the pills and light heartedly laughed, 'I'll be fine, I've been through a lot worse.' I looked to Royston who looked to the floor, 'Hey, I'd still really like to go to Arambol with you today if the offer's still there. It's my last day in Goa and I'd like to make the most of it.'
'Well at least let him cook you breakfast, you need something to eat,' Aashi said.
When the eggs and bacon arrived, I could barely look at them, but ate what I could. Royston sat opposite. Embarrassment washed over me, 'I'm really sorry, mate. I didn't mean to cause you so much hassle.'
'You haven't, I'm just glad you're okay. You had us worried there. How did you end up on the beach?'
'I'm not sure. I think I was trying to make my way back here.'
He chuckled, 'Hey man, you're not the first to be washed up on the beach from a crazy night in Anjuna. How about you get yourself a change of clothes and I'll pick you up from your hotel in an hour?'
The door to my room was locked and I didn't have a key.
'Ah good morning sir,’ said the young man on reception. ‘I was shutting your door last night as you were leaving it open and had not returned. Here, take spare key.'
I opened the door and was relieved to see the only thing laying on the floor was my open journal. My mind still he
avy from the feni, I stood under the shower and inspected a mass of tiny bumps on my arms and legs. I glanced in the mirror, they were on my neck and face too.
I slid on my sunglasses and found Royston outside in a white open backed Jeep. 'Feeling better?' he asked as we drove away.
'The headache's died down a bit, but I've got these little bumps all over me.' I held my arm out to show him.
'Sand fleas by the looks of it. They're a real bitch. Try not to scratch, we'll get some antiseptic cream in town.'
The weather was in our favour; a flawless blue sky complementing the rich green landscape and brilliance of the 16th century churches. Pulling into a driveway of a secluded summer house, we found a man with his head under the bonnet of a black hatchback. 'Still no luck with the car, Lopes?' Royston called over as we came nearer.
'Na man. I've been at it again this morning and it still won't start. I'm hoping it just needs a set of new sparks.'
Lopes looked roughly the same age as Royston, with close cropped hair and a warm smile. 'Go down to the beach and I'll bring some coffee out,' he said. We walked down a slight hill until we came out onto the pearl white sands and crystal blue waters of Arambol where Lopes joined us shortly after with a tray of cups.
I left the pair talking and took some pictures. Fishermen maintained large nets alongside hollowed-out canoes, others sorted through the morning's catch; final moments of life flapping around the plastic sheets. I stared down, watching the fish gasp the air, the very thing that was killing them. Something brushed my shoulder and I turned, half expecting to come face to face with my granddad again, but it was only two boys asking for school pens. Rummaging through my shoulder bag I found two ballpoint pens I'd bought specifically for moments like this. I asked for a photo. One stood with a dead silver fish between his teeth, both grinned with their thumbs up. Re-joining my friends, I welcomed the idle chit chat, the sound of the breaking waves and wind swishing through the palm trees.