Goan swimming

Agonda beach, Goa. Wow this is what we came for. A 2kms stretch of golden sand hemmed in by rocky headland on each side and backed by palm trees was pretty much the text book defintion of beauty and relaxation we had in mind. A beach hut right on the beach and a place to sling my newly acquired hammock and I have no longer any reason to go anywhere. With Atila at the helm and Denis and Sarah turning up we got a really nice fire going and scored some lovely looking prawns and Kingfish from the fish market in Canacona. This was really roughing it Robinson Crusoe style but with the luxury of having booze and supplies readily available. There were also some really good restaurants strung out along the beach where you could go for an afternoon beer or a meal by moonlight. Agonda seemed to have it all. A tiny little village supported the tourism with most of the families also fishing for a living. The church's influence was also now very apparent with Mass on sunday being attended en masse.

However after three or four days my feet began itching again to keep up the momentum of the trip, seriously threatening Holly's tanning time on the beach. For some reason I couldn't fully relax. It was at this point that God intervened.

I like a swim. I'm not the most confident of ocean swimmers though but a few days horsing around with Holly and Atila had my love of the sea blooming. We had noticed the waves picking up in size and intensity and the were now becoming a lot of fun to play in, body surfing and the like. Nature generally has its way of keeping us lowly humans in check however and reasserting her omnipotence. One particularly large wave had Attila and I being washing machined over and over. Up became down and light became dark as the wave through us up and then down, my shoulder slamming into the beach. I was then hit from behind, by Attila this time, breaking his fall, and my shoulder too as I thought at the time. Back on shore I retreated to the sanctity of our beach hut to quell the pain with a bottle of rum.

The next day after a trip to the local hospital I was the proud owner of a sling, a prescription for various pills, and a warning to stay off the arm for a week or so. It was decided then, we were staying in Agonda.

Over the river...

Crossing the river from Aronda, Maharashtra, into Goa was a fairly straight forward procedure. Queue up with the other bikes, taxis and cars and await the flat decked tug boat on the other side. 15 minutes later with gang plank laid we rode onto Goan soil. This is where everything started to get a little weird...

Perhaps the four days preceding this moment we had been happily hopping down the Maharashtran coast . From Ratnagiri we took the advice of a local chai shop owner and headed out to Vijayadurg, a small fishing village overlooked by a medieval fort. Here we were lucky enough to score a room in a not yet completed government guesthouse for next to nothing overlooking the fort and a tiny bay below.

A short hike over the headland led us onto a deserted beach where we happily tanned for the afternoon. The highlight though was yet to come. Tonight was a special night in Vijayadurg. Appearing for one night only at the local school was the famed magician Suhani. This was low budget magic at its best/worst. Ladies were sawn in half and people climbed into boxes only to be seen again minutes later running from the back of the crowd to the stage. And all set to the loudest, cheesiest hindi-pop mimed out by two scantily clad beauties. Holly and I weren't exactly blown away but the crowd seemed to enjoy it. We were almost the support act with many of the Indian families present taking an interest in the two gangly westerners.

For Maharashtra was not only stunningly beautiful but devoid of tourists. As we dived and climbed into and out of steep jungled gorges we saw no one. Inevitably as we reached the bottom of each gorge a settlement appeared where a few people waited patiently for buses or sat drinking chai. No westerners in sight though. It was as though it had been reserved entirely for me and the Tribe.

So it was almost a massive dose of reverse culture shock that awaited us on the other side of the river bank.

Westerners on Enfield motorbikes were everywhere. Dreadlocks hung limply from scrawny figured Israelis and Europeans and the maharati signage from the previous week were replaced instantly with English. Arambol, the first beach we came too was as pretty as any beach we had come across. It was however also crammed with backpackers and restaurants and shops set up to service their needs. On the way into town Holly's clutch cable snapped which pretty much decided for us where we would stay. A beach hut just behind the palms where a soundtrack of waves crashing played out for us. It took however an hour or two before we had settled into this alien way of life. People speaking English! Pizza, and pasta for sale and scantily clad adults attempting to tan on the beach. Most obvious was the lack of Indian tourists on the beach. This was more or less exclusively for tourists.

Three or four days later we had fully relaxed into the Goan experience. It now felt good to order expensively portioned western food to enjoy with a beer and chat with other bikers and backpackers. We moved fairly quickly down to Anjuna in time for the weekly flea market and a chance for Holly to do some well earned shopping. Anjuna seems to have had its day though with prices soaring as well as attitude. Touts lined most of the roads to the beach offering mostly taxis, and hashish. Three days of this was enough and with a packed beach full of sun loungers we longed to head somewhere more relaxed with the perfect beach.

At this point we heard from Atila who had shacked up in Benaulim for a few days just a few Kms down the coast from Anjuna. Benaulim was as quiet as it gets. Four or five beach side restaurants all with the ubiquitous beach huts behind and a handful of people at each. It was also scorchingly hot and lacked any real shade, so after two days the three of us decided to leave for Agonda, the promised land...

Keeping up with the Jonses

Time passed quickly with strength in my arm returning daily. Attila left only to be replace by Carla and Ema our Italian friends from earlier in the trip. They had bumped into Attila further south who had pointed them in my direction. The four of us ventured up and over the headland to the south to find another deserted cove where we played ship wreckers building a fire and a shelter. The following day we escorted Carla and Ema out to Margao where we left them heading north and us running some errands. The plan next - or so I thought - was to leave for Gokarna the following day. Holly became a little agitated and eager to return to Agonda before we ran all our chores. I put this down to the heat and the relatively hectic surrounds of Margao which had tired us after only two hours. It was no great shame to be back on Agonda beach an hour later watching the sun begin to sink towards the Arabian ocean.

We had got quite used to this. By now we had a favourite local restuarant - where the taxi drivers ate - which knocked out an amazing fish thali. We had our spot on the beach and all the locals knew us by face, probably due to my infamy as the one armed body surfer. Fully relaxed you might say with the pressure of the road dissolved by lots of sun, sand and sea. Holly ran off to grab some beers and cigarettes. She had been gone about 10 minutes when I guessed something might be up. All week she had been talking around the subject of having to collect something on Saturday. I had assumed that her contact lenses had arrived. At one point I became suspicious as my birthday was a week away and I sensed a surprise. Holly had assured me not to raise my hopes and that despite our constant requests no-one from home was to visit us. It was this thought my mind returned to here on the beach as I stared out to sea. Maybe somebody is coming, I mused. No sooner had I dismissed this as a false hope a roar erupted from behind me shortly followed by water then, sand, then a body...attacking me!!! We rolled in the sand and as I righted myself I caught sight of two pairs of eyes and extremely white legs I had not expected to see on Agonda beach, or any beach in India, for that matter...

I was so overwhelmed with the fact that two of my best friends stood before me on the beach the first question that came to mind was 'How long did we have them for?'. The shock of seeing Henry and Mark here on Agonda beach twisted my thoughts and for a second I thought that maybe they had literally just appeared to surprise me only to fly back on the next plane to Blighty their job done. 'Two weeks mate!' Mark replied. 'Excellent!', I shouted, 'I'll grab some beers!!'.

That night we dined on the finest meal Holly and I had eaten for a long time. We also washed it down with several more cold Kingfishers and the best/worst part of a bottle of Cashew Feni - the local moonshine. Unsuprisingly, Mark and I ended up in the sea at 1am, swimming around in our pants howling at the moon. This was going to be one hell of an interlude...