CANDOLIM
To say this was the Benidorm of Goa might be a trifle unfair, but then we arrived here a couple of days before the ‘season’ started. Over the weekend the first tourist coaches arrived, clogging up the roads and depositing fat westerners, like plaque on an artery, onto its worn and broken pavements. Where Palolem was geared up for independent travellers and back packers, this place is for the package holiday. The long stretch of road running parallel to the beach is lined with large hotels that vary in their degree of palatability. There is a supermarket with queues that wind impatiently through the aisles, bars with big screens to show two football matches simultaneously, soon to be packed with Bacardi Breezer swilling apes, restaurants boasting their selection of fried breakfasts, roast dinners, steaks, chicken tikka masalas, and karaoke, and the sandy run up to the beach, litter strewn with plastic of differing shapes and sizes. And then there is the beach itself, the plastic waste blended with the large gritty sand, that is lose and an effort to walk upon, scratching between the toes. Sunbed upon sunbed lined row upon row, as far as the sun dazzled eye can see, all looking out onto the sea. The sea with its pounding waves and fierce currents. The sea with all of Goa’s cargo ships sat waiting to be let into port, the silhouettes of those furthest away looking like little grey monopoly boats.
There is also the sex tourism, which although it existed in Palolem, the women there were slim, attractive and the same age as the men they chose to indulge in a little Indian romance with. Here however, it is not uncommon to see a handsome young Indian, hand in hand with some barrel shaped woman, with neon blonde hair, coarse from years of bleach, and a shiny, pink face, 20, 30 years his senior. I must admit in Palolem it didn’t dawn on me that the pretty young white women seen with equally pretty young brown men was to do westerners and Indians until I spoke with one of the men that worked at the beach huts we were staying in. He was particularly distressed one day as he had seen the girl he had been chasing with some ‘dirty smelly Indian that didn’t wash’. He was clean he insisted and couldn’t understand his rivals appeal. I learnt through a few other barmen that to come and work on the beaches during the tourist season was a no brainer for young single Indian men. I naively thought that it must be the money that drew them from all parts in India to work, but it turns out that the lure of scantily clad pale flesh, looking to offer itself to smooth talking lothario’s is a fairly attractive pull also. The women offer them drinks, meals out and finally their beds for a week or so, and in return they get a real taste of India. One thing I do find curious though, is why aren’t all the Indian men in Palolem? Without wishing to sound fatist/ageist/not sure what, but something ‘-ist’ I expect, but the ascetics are far more pleasing around those parts. I suppose the older they are, the more likely they are to have a bit of cash, or is that being too cynical?
I am being a bit mean about Candolim. We have been here for almost a week, and we are having a fine time. We have a lovely room, off the main roads, with a large balcony that looks out onto a small garden with palm trees and greenery. I have seen woodpeckers, eagles, a mongoose and butterflies as big as my hand visit our little oasis regularly, and the woman who owns the place is wonderful (she is also obsessively clean so no unwelcome beasties, my man sleeps soundly at last). The beach road is nice enough, with yet more fairy lights, less traffic, and friendly shopkeepers and waiters, all of whom remember your name and say a cheery hello as you walk past (apart from the scarily serious Faroque who works the shop closest to us and asks us with great intensity what we are doing every time we pass him). And if you turn right on the beach it possible to leave the industrial vistas behind and inch a little closer to paradise
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We have taken a couple of days out of Candolim, once to explore the northern beaches, and the other to drive around a little and explore the villages and countryside. Driving around the countryside is wonderful. There is something really liberating cruising along quiet back roads, the greens bursting from the roadside and across the fields, the russet earth skilfully blended by mother nature to provide a colourful contrast, the dust lightly flicking the face, and the warm air rushing past and through the hair. It is truly a simple, but exhilarating pleasure.
ANJUNA
The party beach. Where Goa goes and goes and goes. Apparently. Just not right now.
There is a large flea market that is held there every Wednesday, that was started by the hippies many years ago. It reminds me of the North African souks of Morocco. Stand upon stand of vendors selling similar wares to their neighbouring stalls, lined up along winding roads, flanking either side of it. As one travels past the make shift shacks containing bright clothes, smooth silky looking wood, cheap trinkets and aromatic spices, there are the calls of the vendors desperate for the attention of the hapless tourist, ‘Cheap, cheap.’, ‘Good quality, come look, just looking.’, and ‘Cheaper than Adsa!’. The sellers are savvy and outrageous with their starting bids. I asked about an old coin that was with many others in a cardboard box, the starting bid was 650 rupees (almost £10), I smiled and told him that I would pay about 70 rupees, and he immediately reduced his price to 250 rupees. (I still didn’t buy it.) But it just shows how unbelievably ruthless they are at prizing money from the tourists pocket.
There are also the ear ‘cleaners’ too. Pesky little parasites, who accost you as you walk past by grabbing your ear and launching towards it with a long spike and a dirty cotton bud. I watched it happen to someone, who being a little more tolerant to being poked and prodded around, let this man scrape around in the insides of his ear as the man pulled vast swathes of orangey looking gunk from it, before finally producing a small stone. They then pass a card to the stunned and violated victim stating that if they extract stones from the ears they need to be paid a vast sum of money, around £20. This is all a con of course, and they use a slight of hand to produce the revolting looking ‘wax’ and little stone, and the dumbfounded dupe is left with a lot less money, and a dirtier ear for the pleasure.
After the market we walked back up along the beach and were greeted by some upbeat and inviting bass lines from one of the bars. We went inside for a couple of beers, it was early so there were only a few people around. We were told that things would liven up around 9, so we decided to stay around and see what the party scene at Anjuna was like, considering its reputation as the 24 hour, full power party paradise. We hung around, a few drunk Russians turned up flailing their burly bulks around, and then the music stopped, at 11.30. That was the party. I understand that when the tourist season really gets going, around Dec, Jan, Feb and Mar, things go on a little longer, and the bars get rammed. I am just glad we didn’t come to Goa looking for a party; we would have peaked far too soon and missed the main action.
CALANGUTE
Hell on earth. Hot, rammed, noisy, dirty, an assault on every sense. The sea is packed with paragliders and jet skis bouncing around off the waves and swimmers heads. Don’t ever go there.
The rest of the beaches are a mixture of picturesque calm, silky sand stretched along the shoreline or busy, bustling throngs of people, looking for the next bar/sunbed.
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