Arriving at Arambol

Cashew fruit with the nut hanging off the bottom

I arrive at Arambol after allowing myself the luxury of a taxi from Baga, on the way the driver points out, well actually no, stops, reverses back 100 yards back the main road and then points out the cashew tree growing by the side of the road. He remarks on the hard work endured, mainly by women, to get theses nuts onto our tables, although its not just the nuts they use, the local liqueur, cashew feni, is also a by product amongst other things (as to the feni's taste I wasn't to experience that till later on). I was greeted by Martin, who was to be my host for what turned out to be the next week staying in one of his sixty rooms at the aptly named Ivon's (a slight spelling mistake he admitted to me later on but it attracted the Russians nonetheless). The room was...well colourful. Each wall was painted a different colour, although I have to admit it was particularly good at showing up the mossies, ten of which I managed to dispatch before I went to bed. The compound itself was just a minutes stroll to the beach over some sand dunes, these dunes were host to a variety of wildlife, mainly the cows and the beach dogs but also to three large pigs who seemed to live in a den at the side of the hotel, they grazed happily on the numerous rubbish tips that frequented the dunes (it appears, so far anyway, that nowhere is sacred when it comes to the odd bit of fly tipping, although take some solace in the fact that every other night someone will come along and burn it at sunset to keep the mosquitoes at bay). Ivons was a pretty sociable place, on my landing I share a balcony with a German and a Swiss and we soon braved Arambols Russian/hippy contingency together.

Ivon's, my room was the bottom left

Arambols beach is much less crowded than that of Baga and Calangute's and the scene is completely different, at its north end is a headland and the south tails of down into Mandrem beach (a bit of an exclusive hot spot, also where the local turtles beach to lay there eggs). There are still the obligatory beach shacks but they are much more sparse and some dedicated solely to soul food, focussing on fresh fruit lassi's and ayuvedic meals. On first impressions the move from Baga seemed to have been a good one, however, I have yet to experience another bit of local wildlife that was soon to come knocking at my door.

Baga/Calangute

Fort Aguada, fresh water wells and light house

Been trying to squeeze in the sights and sounds of the surrounding area, which despite having been through such a turbulent past there are very few of note. The main historical attraction, Fort Aguada, which lies at the south end of the beach is an old Portuguese fortification and was used to defend against the Dutch and Marathas , it also had a large water reserve, the first the Portuguese would have availability to after the voyage, it held as the Indians put it 27,76,000 gallons. To be honest most of this I learned from my guide book as it would appear, despite being of huge historical importance, the government seem no need to actually provide any information at the fort, with the exception of 1 sign at its entrance. It is most likely a reflection on the fact that it is free to get in, and with the nationals reluctant to pay for pretty much anything there could probably be no other way, however it just seems a little sad. The taxi driver promptly showed my round the numerous helipads just opposite with, what appeared, more national pride, informing my it was used mainly by the head of the Kingfisher Empire, Vijay Mallya, and other Indian elite when the reuglar parties were being thrown.

View from Fort Aguada onto the 'House on the Hill'

 The other main thing on the menu here is the markets, the two main contenders being the ones and Mapusa and Anjuna. The Mapusa market is mainly directed at locals, but had elements of tourist tack to keep the hordes that visit for the day happy. The fruit/veg and dried fish sections seemed to dominate on the sensory front, with bunches of corriander harmoniously blending with that of the rotten fish...not. The rest of the market consisted of anything else from underpants to umbrellas with the 'fresh' fish section taking up the other quarter of the market. I think I arrived a little late in the day to be wandering around that part of the market and as I tried to swiftly remove myself I found myself slap bang in the middle of the meat market, which smell rivaled that of the fish. The Muslim run beef stalls had various kinds of cuts hanging however they all had one thing in common, the flies. The chicken stalls gave me a new insight into the meaning of 'caged hens' however it was the large cheeping noise that drew my attention, a man with a large wicker basket on his head with a net over the top carried what must have been hundreds of chicks which he obligingly reached in and sold by the handful into a paper bag for the princely sum of 200 rupees (no snaps I'm afraid my weak constitution for the smell of meat got the better of me).

The Anjuna market is a totally different affair, set up originally by 'Eight Finger Eddie' for Western travelers to sell there unwanted possessions in a last bid attempt to prolong there stay in Goa, has now grown to an enormous flea market. Although there is still a Western section, mainly dealing with fashion the majority of the stall holders have picked up sticks from their usual haunts on the beach trails and hope for better business at the market, however if you look hard enough you do spot the occasional one of a kind trinket. After parting with 500 rupees for two pairs of trousers and a shirt, none of which I have or will ever wear, I decide it best to head home, were I was treated to a suspension-less auto-rickshaw ride home, clearly via a footpath, how he made it over that bridge without losing wing mirrors and at that speed I will never know!

Playing Catch Up

Well I've arrived, safe if not sound, the three hour delay in Dubai due to the captains inablilty to make a decision on whether or not to allow the drunk, and apparently emotionally unstable, German sun-seeker back on the plane. He did.

Dabolim airport also doubles as a military airport, providing assistance to Mumbai if needed and vice versa, I was told that Goa, with its large western tourist population, is always on high alert when the extremists are trying to make a point although this has mainly been directed at Mumbai...so far. As we taxied to the 'Terminal Building' I look out the window to see three fighter jets and one slightly dusty, dilapidated looking airport bus, which a man was throwing water at in an effort to give some form of transparency to the windscreen, one of these modes of transport was to the terminal.

Once inside a disorderly queue formed, the flight was predominantly German charter tourists so I'll let you paint the scene, and the various forms were stamped and passports scrutinised. i shied away from the German couple I was sitting next to on the plane as they were sent to the back of the queue and I hurriedly filled in the visa entry section I had dutifully translated to them that was to be filled in by officials only. The baggage reclaim was another sight, the passengers of DE 5344 were greeted by a giant roulette wheel, some Goan casino had clearly seen an opportunity of filling in the last bit of space available in the airport free for advertising,  red 3 proved my winning number and off I went.

I was collected by from the airport by my host for the next two weeks, Jimi, and he whisked me through the back roads and...main roads? Swiftly weaving between anything from 'the mother' ( a cow) to 3 generations of the same family huddled on a moped, this was all through sleep deprived eyes and had it not became the norm over the next few weeks I may have questioned my sanity that morning. Arriving at Baga Villa, swing a right after the 24hr Subway, and I was met by a clean spacious room with hot water, a commodity I was soon to learn should not be taken for granted!

The Baga/Calangute strip consists mainly of Brits and Russians, the majority of whom seem to be season regulars, judging solely on the colour of their skin/leather. The roads and the pavements are one and the same with no human, animal or vehicle seeming to have right of way. Dotted along these 'ravements' are numerous souvenir shops, selling anything from stone carved deities to angry bird t-shirts, pubs and numerous eateries, again ranging from fine dining to street tandoori cooked in an improvised oil drum, prices set accordingly.

The beach is about a 3 mile stretch, packed with beach huts and their associated sunbeds, laden with frying tourists. The occasional fishing boat breaks up the ranks of loungers and once you reach Calangute steps the place is rammed with Indian nationals, they come for the weekend from miles around and get dropped off here and rather than disperse they all descend on the same 100m stretch of beach, as I arrived the day after Republic day, commemorating the day on which the constitution of India came into force, the number of nationals crammed into this patch would have well outnumbered that of the Brit/Russo contingency. 

The beach huts are all pretty alike, serving the same old food and drink, an average beer coming in at about 45p and a chicken biryani about a pound, the shack toilets seem to be rather infamous but I won't go into details why. One hack that did stand out was Pete's, for anyone coming this way, the food was cooked fresh and they had a selection of carrot cake which was a surprise, but a tasty one, the toilet shack was also i better knick than the majority of their competitors (which included; Weather Spoons, Rovers Return and Fawlty Towers to name but a few!)