Friday, February 13, 2004
MIRAMAR, Goa! - As I've said before, I really hate it here in Goa. I've had a rubbish day, stuffing myself full of the most luscious seafood you could possibly imagine. We've had a bit of a reunion with the "tough Aussie chicks" we met in Mount Abu, and have spent the day on the terrace in Dona Paula, eating fabulous concoctions of choice mussels in a fresh herby veggie broth, strips of squid cooked with lemon juice and garlic (they melted in the mouth!) and big fat juicy prawns, that we waded into wielding hunks of good bread. And when you've got good bread, life can't be too bad, can it? It was washed down with G&T (it's anti-malarial you know) and some beers, and took all day to cook, eat and luxuriate in. Mmmmm.
We've been hitting the beach too! I forgot to mention in the last installment the most humourous vendor experience of the trip so far. We got to Vagator beach on Tuesday to be assailed by cries of "cheap as chips", "d'you want to see my expensive rubbish?" and, unbelieveably, "that's Asda price!". As a former employee, the latter struck a real chord, though I was disappointed that the seller of sarongs and random handicrafts didn't slap her back pocket as per the advert. Nonetheless, some Brit tourist with a keen sense of irony must have been here before us and spread the gospel of Rolling Back The Prices. It was certainly original, and such cheeky self-deprecation may be a pioneering movement in the flogging-stuff-to-tourists industry, especially to the niche market of the British who may appreciate such wackiness. Erm, we didn't buy anything.
On Wednesday, we rocked up to the far north of Goa. Tiracol Fort is just over the estuary of Tiracol River as is as far up state as you can go, before you end up in Maharashtra, and Jeffrey kindly drove us up there, in his last hurrah before leaving for a few days. We had to get a ferry from a near-deserted beach, punctuated only by a beach shack and a couple of umbrellas. Few people. No hotels. Sheer paradise. We had a majestic (I feel I may have used that word before) view of it from the fort itself, which (quel surprise) is now a "heritage hotel". It's all been painted in a pale Mediterranean yellow - the sort of colour with which they paint souvenir bowls in Tuscany - and serves classic Med food. Jeffrey thought we were being a tad fleeced with the prices, since the hotel was not five star ... But, the view, Jeffrey, the view! I have seriously never sat anywhere to eat with such an idyllic aspect, a paradise beach falling away to the horizon lined with palms. We reflected that any expanse of sand at home that has any sort of good weather is usually covered with thousands of people and slightly crappy old hotels. Beer and gazpacho at prices a smidgin' above the norm was a small price to pay for such basking ...!
Coming down the coast from Tiracol, you get back into the busier areas of north Goa, of which the aforementioned Vagator is one. (But even that is not busy by European standards - busy means more than a few shacks and perhaps twenty people in the water, at least at this time of year). Next door to Vagator is Anjuna, famous for its flea market, held each Wednesday, which we went to visit. Apparently, it's renowned for hippy stallholders attempting to flog expendables in order to fund their ticket home. It was a huge, rambling place, with the usual Kashmiri shawls, blankets, carved handicrafts and spices on sale. Jamesy bought a shirt, but desisted from opting for one of the tie-dye variety (I think we'll have to work on him a bit before he goes hippy - though the beard is coming on a treat!). There were also stalls selling CDs, which we investigated ... At least one was run by a brilliantly cliched whacked-out character (the one I'm thinking of was I think Japanese), peddling a blend of Scandinavian trance, Bombay chill-out beats, Goan lounge sitar moods, and one intriguing combo known as "Infected Mushroom". It was such an overwhelming selection that we didn't buy; we're going to find some crumbling hippies to give us some tips on what beats are hot in Goa this season, and take it from there. Actually, who needs Goan lounge, when you've got Jeffrey's CD collection. Tonight, with the seafood, we were relaxing with Bob Dylan and a fine album by Greek mullet-man Yanni, sporting the sort of 'tache that built empires. Brilliant.
Whereas most of the hippy set spend most of their days corrupting their bodies with various ingenious substances, and probably heaps of infected mushrooms, we had an encounter yesterday with a bloke who is Incorruptible, so they say. St Francis Xavier was an early Jesuit and a Portuguese missionary in India and China who died in the 16th century. His body was covered in quicklime to make it rot quicker - but when some curious Christians uncovered the corpse, they discovered it had miraculously not rotted at all! Beatification was thus a foregone conclusion and St FX garnered quite a following in Goa, where his body was installed. Well, all except various limbs and organs which were distributed around Europe and South-East Asia, as everyone wanted a piece of the action. One fanatical follower actually bit the poor bloke's toe off and carried it all the way to Lisbon! Today, Franny is encased in a glass coffin for all to see, and actually whipped out into the open every ten years or so for people to file past and be photographed with. He's not looking great these days, it has to be said, but it's a hell of a story that is a big part of Catholicism in these parts. He lies in Bom Jesus, one of the collection of big big churches in Old Goa, the old capital that is now no more that the churches themselves, standing with antiquated dignity either side of the main highway to Panjim.
Tomorrow, we head south. Palolem Beach is, they say, unspoilt and pristine, boasting a collection of beach shacks that you can hire out for a few days, spending your time swimming, drinking from coconuts, lounging around, that sort of thing. The stuff of which dreams - and, no doubt, Goan trance, Bombay chill-out and maybe even infected mushrooms - are made of...
We've been hitting the beach too! I forgot to mention in the last installment the most humourous vendor experience of the trip so far. We got to Vagator beach on Tuesday to be assailed by cries of "cheap as chips", "d'you want to see my expensive rubbish?" and, unbelieveably, "that's Asda price!". As a former employee, the latter struck a real chord, though I was disappointed that the seller of sarongs and random handicrafts didn't slap her back pocket as per the advert. Nonetheless, some Brit tourist with a keen sense of irony must have been here before us and spread the gospel of Rolling Back The Prices. It was certainly original, and such cheeky self-deprecation may be a pioneering movement in the flogging-stuff-to-tourists industry, especially to the niche market of the British who may appreciate such wackiness. Erm, we didn't buy anything.
On Wednesday, we rocked up to the far north of Goa. Tiracol Fort is just over the estuary of Tiracol River as is as far up state as you can go, before you end up in Maharashtra, and Jeffrey kindly drove us up there, in his last hurrah before leaving for a few days. We had to get a ferry from a near-deserted beach, punctuated only by a beach shack and a couple of umbrellas. Few people. No hotels. Sheer paradise. We had a majestic (I feel I may have used that word before) view of it from the fort itself, which (quel surprise) is now a "heritage hotel". It's all been painted in a pale Mediterranean yellow - the sort of colour with which they paint souvenir bowls in Tuscany - and serves classic Med food. Jeffrey thought we were being a tad fleeced with the prices, since the hotel was not five star ... But, the view, Jeffrey, the view! I have seriously never sat anywhere to eat with such an idyllic aspect, a paradise beach falling away to the horizon lined with palms. We reflected that any expanse of sand at home that has any sort of good weather is usually covered with thousands of people and slightly crappy old hotels. Beer and gazpacho at prices a smidgin' above the norm was a small price to pay for such basking ...!
Coming down the coast from Tiracol, you get back into the busier areas of north Goa, of which the aforementioned Vagator is one. (But even that is not busy by European standards - busy means more than a few shacks and perhaps twenty people in the water, at least at this time of year). Next door to Vagator is Anjuna, famous for its flea market, held each Wednesday, which we went to visit. Apparently, it's renowned for hippy stallholders attempting to flog expendables in order to fund their ticket home. It was a huge, rambling place, with the usual Kashmiri shawls, blankets, carved handicrafts and spices on sale. Jamesy bought a shirt, but desisted from opting for one of the tie-dye variety (I think we'll have to work on him a bit before he goes hippy - though the beard is coming on a treat!). There were also stalls selling CDs, which we investigated ... At least one was run by a brilliantly cliched whacked-out character (the one I'm thinking of was I think Japanese), peddling a blend of Scandinavian trance, Bombay chill-out beats, Goan lounge sitar moods, and one intriguing combo known as "Infected Mushroom". It was such an overwhelming selection that we didn't buy; we're going to find some crumbling hippies to give us some tips on what beats are hot in Goa this season, and take it from there. Actually, who needs Goan lounge, when you've got Jeffrey's CD collection. Tonight, with the seafood, we were relaxing with Bob Dylan and a fine album by Greek mullet-man Yanni, sporting the sort of 'tache that built empires. Brilliant.
Whereas most of the hippy set spend most of their days corrupting their bodies with various ingenious substances, and probably heaps of infected mushrooms, we had an encounter yesterday with a bloke who is Incorruptible, so they say. St Francis Xavier was an early Jesuit and a Portuguese missionary in India and China who died in the 16th century. His body was covered in quicklime to make it rot quicker - but when some curious Christians uncovered the corpse, they discovered it had miraculously not rotted at all! Beatification was thus a foregone conclusion and St FX garnered quite a following in Goa, where his body was installed. Well, all except various limbs and organs which were distributed around Europe and South-East Asia, as everyone wanted a piece of the action. One fanatical follower actually bit the poor bloke's toe off and carried it all the way to Lisbon! Today, Franny is encased in a glass coffin for all to see, and actually whipped out into the open every ten years or so for people to file past and be photographed with. He's not looking great these days, it has to be said, but it's a hell of a story that is a big part of Catholicism in these parts. He lies in Bom Jesus, one of the collection of big big churches in Old Goa, the old capital that is now no more that the churches themselves, standing with antiquated dignity either side of the main highway to Panjim.
Tomorrow, we head south. Palolem Beach is, they say, unspoilt and pristine, boasting a collection of beach shacks that you can hire out for a few days, spending your time swimming, drinking from coconuts, lounging around, that sort of thing. The stuff of which dreams - and, no doubt, Goan trance, Bombay chill-out and maybe even infected mushrooms - are made of...
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
MIRAMAR, Goa! - We spent a good part of yesterday wandering around a spice plantation near Ponda. The guy showed us cashew nuts, coconuts, pineapple, nutmeg, cinnamon and cumin all growing, plus a huuuuuge jack-fruit and lots of pepper creeping up other trees. Never really knew how pepper grew and what it looks like. Now I do. Fascinating! We got a big big lunch (spicy, naturally) thrown in as well, tasting our way through the forest we'd just walked around.
E-mail and the net are all very well - but, yesterday, for the sake of nostalgia, we popped into Panjim telegraph office and tried to send a telegram. The lucky recipient - Mr Ian 'The Dexter' Dexter - was to be wished 'heartiest Pongal greetings' (?!) and congratulated for the distinction conferred upon him' (two of the stock phrases used by the Indian telegraph company. Unfortunately, telegram communications to the UK were discontinued just last year - but we could send one to Dubai or Germany, if the mood took us ... I'd rather use pigeon post myself.
E-mail and the net are all very well - but, yesterday, for the sake of nostalgia, we popped into Panjim telegraph office and tried to send a telegram. The lucky recipient - Mr Ian 'The Dexter' Dexter - was to be wished 'heartiest Pongal greetings' (?!) and congratulated for the distinction conferred upon him' (two of the stock phrases used by the Indian telegraph company. Unfortunately, telegram communications to the UK were discontinued just last year - but we could send one to Dubai or Germany, if the mood took us ... I'd rather use pigeon post myself.
Sunday, February 08, 2004
MIRAMAR, Goa! - Picture the scene. Not one bronzed Adonis, but three, pounding down the golden sands from their beach hut into the languid, warm waters of the Arabian Sea, sun beating down over the sparkling water while gentle waves break on the palm-strewn shore: minor gods in their prelapsarian paradise.
A beautiful scene indeed. Unfortunately, the buggers splashed three wan-looking northern Europeans with varying beer bellies on their way into the ocean. Still, that isn't to say we didn't have a ball on Candolim Beach this afternoon. We settled around a table in Reggie's beach shack: a swim here, a cold beer there, whiling the perfect afternoon away, doing nothing in particular ... I'd like to say we could even hear the breakers splash onto the sand, but the shack was churning out a series of nineties chart hits, from Ronan, the one and only Lou Bega, etc, but that was a treat in itself. At one point, a traditional narrow wooden fishing boat turned up on the beach; we helped the guys push it onto wooden blocks in the sand, so they could unload the day's catch of silvery mackerel and sardines (which have far more exotic names in local language Konkani!). Richard, one of the fisherman, had a bit of a chat ... and then tried to flog us handicrafts! You just never know who is going to turn round and try and offload a carved marble elephant trinket box on you round here!
Yesterday, we had a trip into the interior (sounds a bit Dr Livingstone, but don't presume anything ...). First stop was the village of Chandor, notable for its Portuguese colonial villas. We rang the doorbell of one which was apparently the most interesting and spectacular; certainly looked it from the outside, with a beautiful whitewashed facade offset by strikingly coloured flowers. We were ushered in to meet Mrs Braganza, current matriarch of a dynasty of Braganzas, stretching back to the 16th century forebears that built the first bit of the house. She took us around the ballroom (BIG chandeliers!), the libraries, the rooms full of Chinese antiques acquired by ancestors involved in the spice trade at Surat in modern day Gujarat. It was absolutely fascinating to see this relic of the colonial past; the whole reason that tourists like us are shown around these days is that such a villa is prohibitively expensive to maintain and those in custody of them need all the cash they can get.
We went to the Seminary at Rachol next. It's not open to the public, we found out, but we did pick up a trainee priest and gave him a lift; he pointed us in the direction of our next destination, Loutolim. They have a place there called "Ancestral Goa", a hilarious reconstruction of "traditional Goan life" through the medium of perspex models of fisherman etc. They also have the largest laterite structure in India! Actually, it's a big rock that has been roughly hewn into the shape of St Mirabei. Still, interesting to see it, especially with the cashew, rubber and pineapple trees all around.
In the evening, we saw a facet of modern life in Goa. The Hospedaria Venite is an inn-cum-restaurant, and we went there for dinner. The room in which we sat was the result of many years of marujuana induced haze, with graffiti scrawled on all four walls: pictures of eyes, e-mail addresses of random Danish backpackers, philosophical legends that may have made some sense up there in the clouds, vitriol against George Dubya, that sort of thing. Funny thing was, they had a lovely dining room just next door, which we were unable to be seated in, for some reason. Do we look weird? Food was good, though it took a while to arrive ... Wonder what the waiters were smoking?!
A beautiful scene indeed. Unfortunately, the buggers splashed three wan-looking northern Europeans with varying beer bellies on their way into the ocean. Still, that isn't to say we didn't have a ball on Candolim Beach this afternoon. We settled around a table in Reggie's beach shack: a swim here, a cold beer there, whiling the perfect afternoon away, doing nothing in particular ... I'd like to say we could even hear the breakers splash onto the sand, but the shack was churning out a series of nineties chart hits, from Ronan, the one and only Lou Bega, etc, but that was a treat in itself. At one point, a traditional narrow wooden fishing boat turned up on the beach; we helped the guys push it onto wooden blocks in the sand, so they could unload the day's catch of silvery mackerel and sardines (which have far more exotic names in local language Konkani!). Richard, one of the fisherman, had a bit of a chat ... and then tried to flog us handicrafts! You just never know who is going to turn round and try and offload a carved marble elephant trinket box on you round here!
Yesterday, we had a trip into the interior (sounds a bit Dr Livingstone, but don't presume anything ...). First stop was the village of Chandor, notable for its Portuguese colonial villas. We rang the doorbell of one which was apparently the most interesting and spectacular; certainly looked it from the outside, with a beautiful whitewashed facade offset by strikingly coloured flowers. We were ushered in to meet Mrs Braganza, current matriarch of a dynasty of Braganzas, stretching back to the 16th century forebears that built the first bit of the house. She took us around the ballroom (BIG chandeliers!), the libraries, the rooms full of Chinese antiques acquired by ancestors involved in the spice trade at Surat in modern day Gujarat. It was absolutely fascinating to see this relic of the colonial past; the whole reason that tourists like us are shown around these days is that such a villa is prohibitively expensive to maintain and those in custody of them need all the cash they can get.
We went to the Seminary at Rachol next. It's not open to the public, we found out, but we did pick up a trainee priest and gave him a lift; he pointed us in the direction of our next destination, Loutolim. They have a place there called "Ancestral Goa", a hilarious reconstruction of "traditional Goan life" through the medium of perspex models of fisherman etc. They also have the largest laterite structure in India! Actually, it's a big rock that has been roughly hewn into the shape of St Mirabei. Still, interesting to see it, especially with the cashew, rubber and pineapple trees all around.
In the evening, we saw a facet of modern life in Goa. The Hospedaria Venite is an inn-cum-restaurant, and we went there for dinner. The room in which we sat was the result of many years of marujuana induced haze, with graffiti scrawled on all four walls: pictures of eyes, e-mail addresses of random Danish backpackers, philosophical legends that may have made some sense up there in the clouds, vitriol against George Dubya, that sort of thing. Funny thing was, they had a lovely dining room just next door, which we were unable to be seated in, for some reason. Do we look weird? Food was good, though it took a while to arrive ... Wonder what the waiters were smoking?!
