------------------------------------------------------------------
Domnic Fernandes continues (Part III) his reminiscence of
Mapusa of the 1950s
http://www.goanet.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=426
------------------------------------------------------------------
Travel -- What's On (Dubai) May, 2006
Bhaji on the Beach
Ayurvedic massage, wheatgrass shots, 6am yoga, colonic
flushes - Palolem beach in southern Goa is the
ultimate soul-cleansing holiday. So Gareth Roberts
watched it all from the bar with a Kingfisher and a
coconut.
"Excuse me, miss, the carpet here seems to be soaking
wet", I said, squishing my feet into the expanding
dark stain for effect. Our 737 is 15 minutes out of
Dubai and still ascending and 1 can feel thin tendrils
of fear brush the back of my neck. "Water and
electronics, not a good mix, especially at 30,000
feet". I shout to the flight attendant. "Don't worry
it's nothing, we can get you another seat" she shouts
back from the jump seat in front of the Executive
Class seating.
The seatbelt light pings and almost immediately the
wall mounted cinema screen crackles into life - so
begins two hours of in-flight entertainment
Bollywood-style -- West Side Story meets Four
Weddings and a Funeral. With car chases. My
three-year-old daughter is so enthralled she has
stopped eating the toothpaste she fished out of the
complimentary wash bag while nobody was looking.
Two song-and-dance hours later the plane descends into
Goa. First, the dark cyan waters of the Arabian Sea,
then the black, palm-spiked rocks of mainland India
and then lots of dark lush green. After Dubai's
halogen landscape, Goa wraps itself around you like a
leafy primordial boa. The friends we're meeting here
appear from nowhere, bouncing up the stairs their
faces beaming the internationally recognisable smile
of people who have three weeks off work.
"We've got a taxi booked, its great, you'll love it."
I'm worried. Fully loaded, our taxi --which from a
distance looked like a people carrier from any
international airport until you realise it's not that
far away, its, right in front of you, it's very, very
small -- shuffled out of the airport and gripped the
black tarmac road that snaked over the hill into the
rolling dense forests of Goa. The first night was
spent only a few clicks from the airport as the next
day half our party went on a shopping expedition to
Mumbai to stock up on exotic material and discount
Ray-Bans.
Once in Goa, we discover The Coconut Creek Hotel
really is set in a coconut grove and swisher than the
website photos suggest. The shaded terraces,
respectfully raised to only half the height of the
massive palm trees, jostle for space by the pool. The
chalets wed booked online are spacious and well
appointed - each has a small terrace leading to the
pool and bar where your next beer is only a wave away.
Thee owner, a feisty Scot with a penchant for pub
quizzes, has a well-honed sense of what constitutes
good service welcoming guests personally and offering
great tips (garnered from 20-years in the region) on
how to get the most out of the area in two weeks -
most of which is lost by our third Honey Bee - an
innocent-sounding brandy concoction that demolishes
the senses with the zeal of a cyclone.
Come dusk and the mosquitoes come out to play. These
sneaky black monsters have evolved biting skills that
made light work of my clothes and repellent. But I was
only bitten twice in two weeks and they work short
shifts - Deet is recommended, swatting is optional.
The Coconut Creek seems entirely occupied by
returnees. Sean Davies a sunburnt taxi driver from
Dorset, England visits twice a year with his wife, "
It's incredibly calm here, I'm happy to just sit down
by the beach watching the surf, Id move here if I
could.
The next day, we pile into another tin-can taxi and
head down the coast to Palolem. Regarded as one of the
world's great beaches, Palolem is a three-mile
crescent of platinum sand in a bay carved by gentle
surf, monitored by a million impossibly angled coconut
palms. When the breeze picks up, they sway like drunk
supermodels - all big hair and stick thin bodies. Our
bamboo hut is like a cast-off from a bad Tarzan movie.
The huts double in number every year, sporting names
that range from the mundane Beach Huts to the
comically exotic Mr Jane's Marigold Chalets to the
baffling iPod Villa Music Huts. Each year they build
them and at the end of the season they tear them down
and burn them.
The beach is home to hundreds of motorcycle taxis,
rickshaws and hole-in-the-wall shops selling
everything from sarongs to vodka to racy cassettes.
The town of Bakti Kutir is on a hill overlooking the
bay through palms so dense that under a full moon, it
looks like a bar-code plantation. There's a mad
selection of therapeutic treatments but `Panic Yoga'
catches my eye. As I imagine yoga for plane crashes,
I'm told the sign says Pranic Yoga, a different kettle
of transcendental meditation.
Bakti Kutir - which means `devotional meditation' in
Sanskrit - has around 12 permanent huts built into the
retreat. They're basic but compared to the shacks on
the beach these look like they were designed by Norman
Foster. By local standards they're expensive at 500
rupees a night. For your money you get electricity and
water is delivered by men with pots, but you're paying
for silence. The only noise is the animals - crow is
the dominant species, followed by cats, dogs and
dolphins.
Wildlife aside, Bakti Kutir is one of the few places
that does not deem it necessary to broadcast thumping
techno or teeth-gnashingly awful `Goa trance.
Throughout the day, the beach bars slowly raise the
volume of their PAs until 9pm when sun-kissed
backpackers look up from their Kingfisher beers and
dance themselves into a sandy heap, watched by the old
Goa favourite, the 60-something hippies - casualties
of their experimental lifestyles, these amiable,
slightly fuzzy characters still think it's the summer
of 69. I salute their sarong-wrapped lifestyle.
Actually, the entire Goan economy seems to rest on the
sarong industry - petrol attendants, pharmacists,
waiters, fisherman, all had a sarong to sell me - soon
we were up to our waists in them. Not much happens at
Bakti Kutir, which is the point, unless you're keen on
Ayurvedic treatments. One involved having your body
covered in gritty powder and rubbed silly. My friend
looked 10 years younger but said it was like being
massaged by an orbital sander. My wife had a vat of
warm oil was poured on her forehead - she said it was
`amazing', her hair glistening with oil like sheld
spent Saturday night in a British chippie.
At 6am Birkenstock-clad feet scuttled to yoga. Every
morning I missed it. I got enough yoga trying to take
my shoes off after a brace of Martinis - which the
waiters will make you if you order wheatgrass `shots'
that, according to the organic menu, are good for the
immune system.
By night, the restaurant serves the colourful fish we
were snorkelling with by day. They're bathed in
satanically good garlic butter. Snappers, kingfish,
tiger prawns the size of lobster and lobsters the size
of F I cars - the seafood in Goa is heavenly. Diners
are protected from falling coconuts by a billowing
tent that is like eating under a giant jellyfish. The
vegetables are organic and grown on site - the owners
try to maintain a low-impact (environmentally, that
is) resort that leaves you feeling smug on return to
un-green Dubai. Although Palolem is hardly
undiscovered, the absence of big hotels adds to the
sense of escape. The sea is clean, and full of
dolphins - local fishermen, and here everyone is a
fisherman (when they're not selling sarongs), will
take you dolphin-spotting for a few rupees. We were
told by our captain that you can hardly see the water
for dolphins. Not quite, but we saw dozens and it was
magical. Past the rocky promontories is Patnam Beach.
It sports the most laid-back beach bar in the known
universe. On huge wooden beds swing from the terrace,
you can listen to the surf and drink mint tea until
the heat demands frosty bottles of local beer. Further
up the beach, we saw the future of simple Goan resorts
- HOME offers boutique chalets, the menu would not
look out of place in a north London cafe, the
clientele are young, achingly cool and a tad sniffy.
Shopping opportunities in Palolem are slim - unless
you're a sarong fiend - hawkers sell cheap jewellery
whose lustre is sometimes made with skin-burning
corrosive paint. Ankle chains are popular and the
stores sell bright lampshades, bedspreads and tie-dyed
T-hirts. The Baga Beach night bazaar is more of an
event than a market - with live music and incredible
food, it gets busy but the haggling gets tedious. When
I found myself haggling for toilet roll, I realised it
was time to go home.
Air India flies Dubai-Goa direct. wwwairindia.com
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Tired of spam? Yahoo! Mail has the best spam protection around
http://mail.yahoo.com
_____________________________________________
Do not post admin requests to the list.
Goanet mailing list (Goanet@goanet.org)
