We’d talked about it a lot, over the years.
‘Next time you’re in Sri Lanka,’ Polly would say, ‘Pop over and see me.’
It sounded simple enough: Sri Lanka to Goa, where Polly takes the same apartment each winter, November to April. Just a short hop, and it’s even in the same time zone. Yet it was never quite as easy as it sounded.
Until June this year, when I finally disencumbered myself from steady work and mortgage, there was never any extra time. If I went to Sri Lanka is was to deliver a painting holiday, then I would be rushing straight back to take up position at my decorating bench. With monthly bills to pay, I couldn’t afford to take unpaid leave, save for an extra day or two tagged onto the end of a trip, just to remind myself of how good life could be, if only…
On planning this extended trip, I was still not considering India. I was eager to be back in my favourite country as soon as possible and Polly hadn’t been sure if she could go over this winter as she, too, was in the process of selling her house. Part of my proposed itinerary was a little complicated, though, and I decided to go and have a chat with Trailfinders to see if they could help me find an unusual and reasonably-priced routing, which indeed they could. During the course of the conversation, while we were looking through the best options, I casually mentioned the possibility I might like to go to Goa, as well, but I didn’t think it would be feasible.
‘There’s a new, direct flight to Goa from Gatwick airport,’ said the consultant. ‘Starting on November 5th.‘
This was the day I’d originally planned to fly out. I wondered if Polly had heard of this flight? I was certain she’d usually fly from Glasgow, but I messaged her, and she answered immediately:
I’ve just booked it, she wrote. Seat 14A
It was now or never. I booked seat 15A, directly behind her, and we were set to go.
Polly wasn’t used to accepting visitors until she’d got her place set up properly after the long rainy season, where everything stored in the house needed to be washed or aired, and personal items retrieved from cupboards and dusted off. The fact that I could only manage a week on this occasion made the situation tolerable for her, and although jumping through the hoops of officialdom for such a short time was a tiresome process I’d be loathe to repeat, it was better than nothing. ‘One day’ promises had come to fruition and, in the process, I set foot on Indian soil again, after a staggering thirty-three year hiatus.
It could be said that Goa is ‘not really India’, and that I shouldn’t judge such a large country on just a tiny corner during a very short stay. It did feel different, though. For one thing, there were more cars on the road than bicycles, and only a handful of cows. I remember 1991 Goa as being one of the easiest, least ‘typically Indian’ places I visited on that trip, and I expect the assessment still stands. But apart from that, I didn’t recognise the place at all.
In my memory (which is usually pretty good, and certainly photographic) there was little more than a long, narrow beach, stretching for as far as the eye could see in both directions, backed by a dense thicket of coconut palms and the odd rustic shack selling fish curry. Women plied the length of the sand all day with baskets of fruit, which they would slice for you without your having to leave your sarong. The women are still there, the fruit having been joined by jewellery, clothing, nail services, massage and just about anything else a modern visitor might want. Many of the tourists themselves are now of the package variety as several large, smart hotels have sprung up around the breezy guest houses tucked amongst the palms; colourful umbrellas and plastic sun loungers back the beach, along with piles of rubbish which they don’t seem to notice. They’re a far cry from the bohemian, long-term beach-bum fire-twirlers who quietly collected at sunset and were easy to avoid, if wished, on the miles of empty sand.
I wondered, at first, if I was in the same place at all. It’s possible that I wasn’t; here, in Calengute, the beach is framed by two headlands. I am sure I would have remembered such a feature. I am told that I may have been in the South, which fits my description more accurately. Sadly I didn’t get the opportunity to check this theory, although that’s where I’ll be headed next time; the mystery has got to me. I don’t like to think my mind is playing tricks.
The food has much improved since my last visit, when a thin, coconut sauce over a bit of unidentifiable fish and a dollop of sticky white rice was the standard fare, and I recall my longing for the pea masalas of Calcutta and the dosas of Madras, as it then was. This time the most delicious tarka dhals, biriyanis and crispy samosas were among the best I’ve ever tasted.
Polly’s gin and tonics on the terrace weren’t too bad, either.
The famed Indian bureaucracy, however, is alive and well, as experienced on my first day. Polly and I both wanted local sim cards, so after asking at a nearby phone shop and being offered an outrageous price, she called her friend Tariq, who acts as a bit of a fixer. Within a couple of hours, he arrived at the door with a serious-looking couple who walked in with thick paper folders under their arms.
‘Passports,’ Tariq demanded. Bemused, we handed them over and he passed them to the lady of the couple, who studied them in depth and made several photographs, while the man – perhaps her husband? – filled out forms.
Next, we needed to be photographed, but properly. Without glasses; head and shoulders only; against a white background. Yes, that’s it, like a passport photo. But nothing in Polly’s apartment is white, and orange walls would simply not do. With Tariq and the other gentleman holding each edge of a grubby white towel they must have found on the bathroom floor, the woman took out her professional-looking SLR camera and the mission was accomplished. We handed over the money, the woman made a little bow and they exited. The slight glint in Tariq’s eye suggested that he, too, found it faintly ridiculous. I was now the proud owner of a sim card which I would need for just one week, while somewhere, a filing cabinet in an official’s office is groaning under the weight of yet more pointless paperwork, in triplicate. I blame the British.
I believe the principal reason I have not made a return visit to India in all this time is my obsession with Sri Lanka. I would always have difficulty picking the former over an opportunity to visit the latter. Now, though, I’ve broken the deadlock, and further Indian adventures are on their way, I am sure.