Goa

Boys and girls

What an absolute giggle in Goa!

When I eventually touched down at the airport in Dabolim, it was extremely early and I was in Palolem (in the very south of Goa) in time for breakfast. I'd chosen Palolem based on its idyllic description in the Lonely Planet: perfect white-sand beaches lined with huts; palms swaying gently in the sea breeze; and a good traveller scene.

And I am sure that is how it is. In the summer season. When it is not raining. And when not everything is boarded up and covered in tarpaulin. The place was utterly deserted.

I made a quick SOS call to Jackie who said she would come to Goa later that day, but to the north. Dilemma, dilemma: stay on my own in the rain in the south; or have company in the rain in the north. I hopped in cab and headed back the way I came, to Baga. Jackie had asked me to find a hotel for four people. The responsibility was immense: I haven't been paying more than 150 to 200 rupees per night, whereas these people were not backpackers, but grown ups who live and work in India... They probably wanted a room with a view. I'd been lucky for the most part if my rooms had a window. But fortuitously, I stumbled on a delightful hotel, its balconied rooms overlooking a serene pool. And it was very quiet. Perfect.

And the mob started trickling in. It is always very special when a group of people -- who don't really know each other -- converge and gel, the conversation sparkles and laughter flows. First, I was joined that day by Jackie and two of her English mates from Bombay, one of whom is a freelance journalist and the other works for the English High Commission. In light of the lack of decent weather, it can come as no surprise that more imaginative pastimes had to be devised, mostly involving the local rum and late night swims (first in the sea and then in the pool). Judging from the scowls directed our way the next morning, my poolside caterwauling on Richard's harmonica at 2am was not readily appreciated. I thought I did a fine job for someone with no musical flair.

The whole affair brought back sweet, sweet memories of the San Pedro mafia (although sans Ring of Fire). One slight mystery was the disappearance of my clothes. We were astonished to recover them the next day on the beach; but it did beg the question how I managed to get from there to our hotel -- along the streets of Baga -- without them.

Otherwise, we engaged in the usual beach stuff. I had a massage (which was photographed frenetically by passing Indian men) and the others built a spitting-image replica of the Taj Mahal. I guess the major difference between our time on the beach and your habitual sun,-sea-and-sand escape was the fact there was no sun whatsoever. Periodically the skies would open and drench us. Unfortunately the humidity was around 98 per cent. This meant nothing dried. Within a couple of hours I'd worked my way through all the clean clothes left in my wardrobe (bearing in mind I only have two pairs of trousers it did not take long). And then started on the gifts I'd bought. (Mum, I promise I will wash the fishermen trousers before I give them to you.)

We were also joined by the hardcore French radio journalist (mentioned a few blogs back). And a delightful French law student -- randomly met by the French radio journalist on the plane -- living in London, but who has just spent two months on a placement with an Indian law firm. The French radio journalist was slightly more friendly this time insofar that he did not completely ignore me; occasionally removed his sunglasses; and quite shockingly stopped frowning and let his face rip in two when he cracked a smile. Also he was not quite as short as I recall. But still grey.

We continued to play very hard in the rain, including a trip to Panaji to wander around the picturesque lanes of the old Portuguese colony. Of course we were caught by a heavy shower,. Three of us tried to escape the downfall, squeezing into/under one cagoule. Certainly it wasn't ideal in my case: I was wearing a rather flimsy cotton dress and since my bottom-half was exposed, after the first five minutes it looked as if I was ready to enter a wet-sari competition. Monsoon rain and cotton dresses leave little to the imagination. Not wholly appropriate for Catholic mass.

As the weekend drew to a close, it was hard to say goodbyes as people made their way to their respective cities to return to work. A hardcore contingent was left. But we too eventually had to disband. I had a fantastic few days which is making my increasingly imminent return to London even more difficult to swallow.

On the plus side, my carpets and other packages have arrived safe and sound. I shall shortly follow suit. Just a couple of days to enjoy in Bombay first.

Bises