08/01/2007
This morning I awoke to the sounds of pumping music and the gentle crash of waves at 5am. Obviously I was in the wrong spot sleeping when there was so much happening in the bar 15 metres away. The English love to party. Since arriving yesterday I have heard nothing but talk about the Chelsea football team while the shockingly white brits drinking kingfisher after kingfisher.
I’m at Pololem beach in the south of Goa arriving by train from Mumbai yesterday, and walking 1km down a sweltering hot beach with a 20 kg bag. I found the place Harry stayed for weeks last January and got a massive discount for being Harry’s lady. They all still have fond memories of him here as Calisto from behind the bar keeps recalling. I was here myself last year too for one night with Harry. We had rode from Gokarna, a secluded beach 50km south of Goa and arrived in the dark and covered in dirt and sweat from the eventful ride. It was this short journey where we tried to ride through a police block, as we had many times before, but with this one there was no quick get away. For many people it wouldn’t have been such a problem, however, Harry had no licence, no papers and no insurance. This can usually be overlooked with a bribe, yet with reoccurring bike problems we could not turn off the bike to show papers in fear it would never start again. Harry being Harry talked his way out of it and they let us pass scott free. On arrival that night in Pololem we discovered that the police had recently cracked down on all Enfield riders who commonly rode without documentation, costing them severely and getting their bikes confiscated. I guess good karma was with us that day.
It does feel weird being here by myself. It’s a guided yet independent journey I am on. Harry’s knowledge has been invaluable in my trip so far. The disjointed Hindi he taught me before leaving has brought respect from those I try and talk to. Even when arriving at Pololem and being surrounded by touts offering to carry my bags and have good cheap hotel I simply called him and got directions to his old hotel, which ensured minimal harassment on the walk up the beach. I like Pololem. I am staying in a coconut hut that is on stilts about 2 metres off the ground. The hut sways in the sea breeze and it like a mini sauna inside but for $6 a night there is no need to complain. The room is simply with its woven palm branch walls and straw mattress bed and pillows. It is all so natural except the bright purple mosquito net that keeps me safe at night. When we came here last year the huts were different. Every year the huts are rebuilt after the monsoon season where they all get destroyed. It seams such an effort to rebuild these huts every year, but I guess the weather has offered no other option.
I caught the train here from Mumbai and this was a journey was unnerved about. My last Indian train trip was from Chennai to Madurai with Harry. We were the only tourists in our carriage and we were welcomed on the train with immediate stares. This did not stop...for hours. I refused to sleep and tried to stimulate conversation with Harry to try and keep us both awake. The train left late at night and the seats of the train folded out to make bunk beds. As the hours crept on those around us slowly folded the seats to beds and their stares turned into snoring. I was still unnerved, hearing stories of groping and stealing on Indian trains. Awaking with a hand on my breast and to see an Indian man inches on my face would not be the best wake up call. Harry put me on the bunch above his and wrapped me tightly in my sheet to try and suppress by fears. I said to just say my name if he needed to wake me and don’t touch me, or creep up on me in the night unless he wanted me to brake his nose. Of course I had a shallow sleep and had vivid dreams of being harassed and scared. When I finally did drift into a decent sleep I felt a hand caress my leg, and woke in a startled fright. It was Harry looking rather settled after a dreamless sleep. I don’t think he knows how close he was to suffering my powerful punch in the nose.
The journey this time immediately brought back horrid thoughts with anxieties rising. My primary fear was that Harry not here to protect me. The two other Aussies I had met in Mumbai- Sian and Michael were heading to Varanasi and I thought about changing my plans and heading north with them. But no, I thought I can do this alone and booked the last ticket to Goa that night. Following the afternoon in Colaba, I headed to Victoria station alone. But this time was different. As soon as entering the prestigious building constructed in the time of British colonisation, I looked around and saw numerous brits with they small packs and guitars. I guess the invasion never really did end. I followed the various other tourists to platform 15 and mounted the train with feelings of excitement and adventure as apposed to the fear and resentment of last time. I was in the same birth as two Germans and a man from Finland called Mikoh who smelt, drank rum and would not stop talking for hours. I announced my retirement and settled in to the sounds of ‘chat’, ‘masala tea’, ‘coffee, coffee’. ‘Samosa’, ‘chicken lollypop’ (?) from the salesmen that continued pacing the aisle long into the morning.
I disembarked the train at Margao, 40km from Pololem, and jumped in a taxi to my destination. After awkward conversation with the ‘cricket fanatic’ driver, I discovered that there were now three retirements to the Australian team, Tandulkur was renamed for the Indian sides captaincy, and Ricky Ponting was, like so many other Indians, his favourite cricket player. I have lately retorted to the question ‘Where you from?’ with simply ‘Ricky Ponting’ and they immediately tell me how much they love Australians. I was dropped off at the main street of Pololem with its countless tourist shops and took me overweight pack and myself down the sands of the beach.
Pololem beach is a different India, almost a commercialised India dulled down for the massive influx of tourists every year. The food is western food specialising in every pasta and pizza you can find. Chinese, Mexican, Italian and even steakhouses. Bending their customs of the sacred cow to make a quick buck the to tourist who will always pay. The Indians still wear their silk saris and look like beautiful goddesses on the beach compared to the countless number of white tourists trying to brown their skins in the least amount of clothing possible. In any other part of India you must at least be respectful enough to cover you shoulders and not show too much flesh. It is funny to hear some tourists talk about how much they love India yet haven’t as of yet left the safety nest of Poloem beach surround by other like minded tourists. It is a different India out there and it’s disappointing that they come all this way to lie and a beach and disregard the rest of the India, disregard the culture and customs the country is overflowing with. I don’t want to miss out and when I too get my quick fix of the Indian sun and wild parties I will leave Pololem and return to Mumbai and to experience a new adventure with this country.
