Where Now?

They call it Dear Old Anjuna and it is.

Our first taste of the ‘tiny’ state of Goa was this place where a thousand legends and parties began.

I’m ashamed to say that I’m rather empty handed for this post, on a couple of levels. Firstly we took no photos to speak of at all. I’m a radio man and it’s taken a will of effort to turn my mind to visual matters of record. I’ve also been fondly insulted in the past by friends who claim I live my life in the moment, in my head, as an explanation for my photographic aversion.

Secondly, the season has hardly begun in Goa and it’s still very quiet indeed. So while there we took the incredibly overdue task of decompression and relaxation very seriously indeed.

Another reason is I’m finding our little 5 Mpx digital camera inadequate for a lot of tasks/shots. I’m seriously considering buying a proper SLR when we get to Delhi next week.

In any case, this is a tale of food, beaches and scooters.

Anjuna is the home of the Goa trance scene, trance being that wonderful repetitive genre of music that I was dancing to in the early 90s at parties in the mountains of North Wales. It hasn’t moved on, sadly. Many bars play it too loud and are not choosy when it comes to quality.

The party scene itself goes way back to the 1970s and back some more still; a great series of interviews by film-maker Darius Devas called the Goa Hippy Tribe can be found through Facebook via that link with all the old heads telling their stories, including the international dancefloor legend Goa Gil and the man who started it all, Eight Finger Eddie. Eddie sadly died aged 85, while we were there.

By most accounts the scene started in an old part of Anjuna, right down at the end of the long beach, behind what is now Curlies bar. This area hosts the weekly Wednesday flea market and Joe Banana’s, the café where they all hung out back in the day. We visited it but it was probably too early in the day as it seemed rather sad and forgotten…or maybe it is just that and this may be why many decry the loss of Anjuna’s old vibes, I just don’t know yet.

We stayed near the crossroads with the Vagator Road, at Anjuna Palms as I’ve said. This area is a busy bustle of buses arriving packed with domestic and foreign holiday-makers. Also cows, dogs and scooter ‘pilots’. The last of these are single-minded in their quest to get you on the back of their ride, even if you’re twirling scooter keys of your own on your finger.

The first week was spent on foot, sweating and burning, from basecamp to beach and bar. Haggling was done and items of clothes were bought. Essentials were shopped for and books were read. I can say no more really, what stories can a lazy man tell?

After Hampi and our arrival back in Goa it all went up a gear. Lucy finally gave in to my nagging to get a scooter. I hadn’t ridden a motorbike since borrowing my friend Luke’s 125cc while at university. I therefore chose an automatic beast. I went out on the first jaunt alone, to get the feel.

Having been told there was a litre of juice in the tank, I duly set out for Joe Banana’s along the back roads and of course ran out of petrol within 10 mins. Mild humiliation sprung from the long, hot push back to camp with the laughter of pilots and offers of sky-high priced petrol ringing in my ears.

I stubbornly walked another 2km to fill a 2 L bottle at the petrol station with market-rate juice and headed back to fill her up.

We were free! Lucy jumped on the back, we headed up for the junction that leads to Vagator…and was duly pulled over by the Goan Police. I had forgot to bring my licence and so began a push-me-pull-you game of good cop/bad cop. I was led from officer to officer, their rank and gravitas increasing. All of them wanted a Rs 1000 ‘fine’ or baksheesh. They took my keys and sent me walking down the road. They called me back and told me to take the bike. They denied having the keys. They demanded Rs 1000 again.

I was quite proud of my use of observed tactics (fingers of the right hand held together over the heart in apology and thoughtful but pleading head-wagging) and in time they accepted I had no more than Rs 400 on me (I tried for 200) and they took that, gave me keys and a flea in my ear.

We were both a bit shaken up and had had our money for a drink at the beach taken off us so we went home with our tails between our legs and a fresh dislike of the Fuzz.

The next day there was no roadblock so we sailed all the way to Arambol, a couple of beaches northwards. This was better indeed! After Lucy found the right position to prevent her backside being bruised by our passge over the deeply pitted roads, we were living the dream.

Arambol is said to be the new centre of the party scene but I didn’t like it. Plainly bad, young British lads were in the bars, the beach was filthy and I didn’t want to ‘come see’ anyone’s shop of tat and toot.

Another jaunt was to Calungute, a beach to the south. This was different and hilarious. A much larger place than Anjuna, it’s the Goan Blackpool.

A huge clean beach was rammed with Indian weekend merry-makers. Many a crate of kingfisher was buried in the sand next to endless sun loungers. Para-sailing and jetski touts drummed up business for the large number of machines ramming themselves through swimmers and surf with the random effortless flow of the traffic on the roads. Nevertheless, many people die through swimming and boating accidents in Goa; 10 people went missing while we were there and one chap who was staying at Anjuna Palms was found a week after he disappeared.

We spent a very relaxing afternoon sipping drinks and watching it all. It seems to me that Indians have much more fun than Brits on their domestic beach holidays.

Food, then, in Anjuna. The more simple you buy, the cheaper and more delicious it is. We can recommend Eatopia and Munches on the Vagator Rd and Starco on the crossroads itself. Going towards the beach there are a couple of good places, one specialising in kebabs which are sublime.

Guru is good on the beach trail itself and so is the Moon, which plays lovely Nepali folk as opposed to ‘balls-to-the-walls’ trance. I was assured that my interest in the music would be ‘very good for me’ when we return to Goa and we got great service and chats on the night because of simply asking what they were playing.

My cavalier attitude to the welfare of my stomach paid off well. I ate seafood, Goan Sausages, lamb kebabs and many kinds of fish. I’m the best worst vegetarian I know and I’m still to experience anything really bad in this regard, touch wood.

That’s it really. Not much more to say about Goa expect we intend to come back here near the end of our circuit of India when the party will be in full swing in January. Until then, Bom Shanka!