------------------------------------------------------------------ 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)