Month: February 2017

I’m settling into a comfortable and lazy routine here in South Goa. It is unusually warm for this time of year – high 30s. I say this as a statement of fact and not to elicit sympathy, as I suspect I wouldn’t get much. But it is rather extreme, so I’m moving as little as possible.

Mornings, I sit and read on the tiny balcony at Ruby Residency overlooking a riot of jungle greenery that is my back yard. The birds are usually going nuts, and every once in a while the cacophony includes the crow of a rooster. He is much noisier beginning at about 4 am but that’s a rooster for you. I’ve decided to like his wake up call, even if it’s a tad early for my taste.

The Ruby sits on a small rise overlooking the village of Chaudi, about 2 kms from Patnem Beach. It’s a considerable condo complex consisting of seven separate buildings of five storeys each. Everyone in the area knows it, so no worries about getting lost.

For the first few mornings I walked to the beach, hitting the road before the sun got too high. The path takes me through Chaudi’s Main Street, past the fruit and veg market and out along a flat, scrub area filled with egrets, goats, cows and the odd monkey being chased by a pack of dogs.

Patnem Beach is perfect. Sufficient restaurants and small shops to fulfill basic needs but not overdone. No beach hawkers…not one person yelling, “hey lady!” Sun beds and beach umbrellas – more than enough for everyone – and the Arabian Sea stretched out into forever. The water is warm, with rolling waves near the shoreline that can pound you if you’re not paying attention.

Twice now on the way back home at the end of the day, my Zen has been shattered…

When I was a kid, my Mom had this expression…”til the cows come home”. Used in a sentence, it sounds like this: “You can cry until the cows come home but you’re not getting that toy” or, later in life, “you can threaten to run away til the cows come home but you are not going to Woodstock.” Here, my challenge is to get home before the cows.

On two occasions, the road at the base of the small hill leading to my flat has been blocked by a herd of buffalo. They are massive creatures with long, mean-looking horns, and there are a lot of them – 30 or more. If you know my history with Indian cows, you’ll understand my angst.

Mumbai was a pleasant surprise. As big as it is – and it is huge – it is somehow welcoming with its tree-lined, traffic-choked arteries, gorgeous architecture and highly-approachable people. The fact that there’s a beach in the middle of it doesn’t hurt either.

I got remarkably lost on my first venture out. On a quest for an ATM and an Airtel shop to get a SIM card, I dutifully asked for and received clear directions from the folks at my hotel. Trouble is, the first Airtel shop couldn’t help me, and they directed me to a second. With the twists and turns involved in finding it, and street names nearly impossible to pronounce let alone remember, I lost the thread of lefts and rights as well as my sense of direction. No worries…a little more wandering than expected and a raft of smiles and helpful natives along the way.

I met up with Ruth and Lucinda on Friday morning. Ruth is a woman I met in Thailand last year; we stayed at the same hotel in Bangkok. She and Lucinda are also on their way to Goa but since we were in Mumbai at the same time, we decided to see some of the sights together.

Gateway of India, Victoria Terminus, Taj Mahal Hotel, the police headquarters so prominently featured in Shantaram, Leopold’s for lunch and a promenade in the hanging gardens, all under a blazing 34-degree sun. After a short break back at the hotel for a shower and rest, we were on the hunt for masala dosas followed by a stroll on Chowpatty Beach. Pure magic in the cool night air with the lights of the city twinkling all around us. I have wonderful beach pictures; they won’t load so this one will have to do.

I made my way to LTT Saturday morning to get the train for Goa. 650 rupees for the 40-minute trek across Mumbai to catch my 830 rupee, 750 km ride to the beach. That’s known as legalized highway robbery in the taxi industry. It irks me but I can’t complain; I’m getting a huge discount booking train travel online as an Indian senior citizen. The cabbies can see that I’m white, so senior or not, the cost goes up…

Nearing both midnight and Canacona, they happen in quick succession, a series of those Indian moments that never seem to happen anywhere else:

– With the help of all of my seat mates, I get myself to the door of the train ready to depart in lots of time. The train stops at Canacona for 2 minutes, so no room for error.

– The car attendant kindly opens up a type of jump seat for me to sit on until we reach the station. He outfits it with freshly laundered sheets.

– Swaying back and forth in my own world, I notice a handsome, bearded young man gesturing to me. He approaches, and we get into a conversation, the kind that fellow travellers have. He tells me he’s going to a yearly celebration at an ashram called Isha in Kerala and recommends that I check it out as he has found it to be a place with special spiritual energy. He then heads off to his seat and returns with a book for me – Inner Engineering A Yogi’s Guide to Joy by Sadhuguru. He asks that I pass it on when I am done with it. Which I will do.

– Canacona station at midnight and there isn’t a taxi or tuk-tuk in sight. I meet a young man who offers me a ride on his motorcycle to Palolem, but I politely decline. One of the station attendants calls a taxi, gives me tea and we chat while he feeds biscuits to the local stray dogs.

I’m definitely back.