We chose Mandrem in northern Goa as it was reportedly one of the last few areas on the coast not be over-run with big hotels, noisy bars and package tours. When our autorickshaw dropped us off at Dunes, our accommodation, we were thrilled to discover that this seemed to be the case.
Our bamboo hut camp was right by the beach, which was a wide expanse of white sand, populated only by a handful of sun loungers under bamboo shelters. We loved our hut, which looked a bit like a cross between Ali Baba's den and a camp cabaret stage inside, with its purple draped walls and pink sequined mosquito net. So we spent a week there, reading on the beach, swimming in the sea, and enjoying fresh juices and seafood curries. Quite a few times we walked half an hour up the beach to the next 'town', Arambol, where there were a few more shops and restaurants.
Unfortunately, all the fun in the sea led to the beginning of my water- trapped-in-ear saga, which involved over a week of deafness, a trip to an Indian doctor and a Singapore doctor and culminated in having my ears vacummed by an ear, nose and throat specialist! They're still not quite right, but at least I can hear now...
On one of our days in Goa, we decided to rent a scooter and pootle down the coast to Anjuna, another resort with a famous flea market. We didn't want a motorbike as they seemed a bit dangerous, but men and women of all ages seemed to be riding around casually on scooters, so we thought it would be quite straight forward. With my history of motor vehicles speaking for itself, Ben was nominated as driver.
After a debarcle trying to rent a bike two days in a row from our resort (the guy in charge seemed to always be at the market for hours on end)we found another rental place down the road and Ben had a quick practice run. Not realising that it was a 'one chance only' deal, he turned the throttle a little too enthusiastically on his first go. The scooter shot across the narrow dirt road and nearly into the neighbour's property, with the man who was instructing clutching the handlebars and shouting 'Gently! Gently!'
That was it for us. The man told us we should get a taxi and the dejected Ben had to hand the bike with 'Jesus loves you' written across the front back to its owners.
We got a reasonable deal on the taxi to Anjuna, which was fine except for the fact that the flea market was only on Wednesdays. It wasn't a Wednesday.
