Goa

From the stone-splitting heat of Rajasthan we made our way south to the tropical enclave of Goa. Goa is known internationally as a hub of nocturnal beach parties, trance music and alcohol and pill-fuelled hedonism. So far, so Bray.. However, off-season what you find is a peaceful laid back haven away from the madness of the proverbial Indian city, and the bustle of traveling around and moving location every few days. There is a completely different atmosphere here and the Portuguese/Catholic influence is omnipresent. On the bus journey into Margao (one of those little toasters on wheel that don't inspire much confidence..) there was a multitude of Jesus-related paraphernalia at the front of the bus and brightly coloured religious stickers dotted around the interior of the bus. There was even a Child of Prague! Although you do see women in sarees, there are also a lot of women dressed in those sort of old-fashioned housekeeper-type dresses that you see older women wearing in the south of France or in Italy. And many of the women also have short hair, in contrast to the ubiquitous long tresses you see everywhere else. There are also plenty of holy medallions knocking about and a multitude of shrines to Mary and Jesus, every few metres in fact. Because it is surrounded by rough and hilly terrain, Goa remained relatively closed off from the rest of India and it's not difficult to imagine that it remained part of Portugal until the 60s, when Salazar finally threw in the towel. Yes, there is definitely more of a tropical, Caribbean feel here, with idyllic beaches lined with leafy palm trees leaning over under the heat of the sun and weight of the wind. We stayed in Palolem, one of the quieter and more independent resorts, away from the wealthy Mumbai families who come and holiday in Goa. We basically had the place to ourselves, as for most people they were wrapping up the season. We stayed in a little beach shack, basically ON the beach, which meant we could pretty much roll out of bed into the sea. The sun shone and the waves rolled, and in the tropical heat there is nothing more to do but abandon oneself to total 'farniente'. Perfectly fine with me. Relaxing, reading, napping, swimming, eating, sipping Mirindas, and sweating. A lot. It was all going swimmingly (apart from the presence of some nasty bug in my intestines which made me poo ACTUAL water for a week..) when one evening, as we sipped our drinks at a bar further down the beach, the sky cracked open and unleashed it's fury. We pegged it down the beach to our shack and discovered once inside that there was very little separating us from the elements. Becky remained utterly unfased, while Tori and I began to give into our inner disaster movie impulses and decided to 'emergency pack'.. Just in case. In our defence it was bloody noisy and quite scary, with the shadows of the palm trees and flashing lightning every 3 minutes, and a whole host of nasty bugs trying to claim asylum in our shack. So after packing (by the light of my TK Max €5 pig-shaped dynamo torch...which, I might add, has come in handy in more than a few powercut-enduced pickles) we attempted to sleep. Me on my mattress on the floor and the others under their mossy net. I had just about been managing to fend of the bugs, but finally declared forfeit when a big fecker of a RAT slipped in through a crack in the wall adjacent to my head, did a little jig, then disappeared back from whence he came. The cheek! I'm not particularly bothered by rodents in general, but in such close proximity to my face.. I draw the line. So under the net I hopped, and had a few stolen moments of sleep. We awoke to find the sun shining as if nothing had happened!