Goa
(From March 2011)
We decide to travel out of Kerala to experience a different region. We do some research and this video of Goa I find on on YouTube entices us to choose Goa, specifically Vagator Beach:
We book a room at the hotel this video promotes and will be both charmed and surprised when we get there and witness the rave scene first hand. It is definitely *our* kind of scene, relaxed yet hip. We read that there is a Goa trance party every night from 7 to 10 at the Nine Bar next door to the hotel we have booked. Perfect. Our days of staying up all night to party are few and far between, the older we get (I hate to admit). But after an evening swim we can mosey to the Nine Bar next door and boogie for a couple hours. Fun! We read that many people follow the party and the rave to another scenerio when the bar closes at 10, but to us next door sounds perfect – why go further?
We were hoping to take the famous overnight train from Kochi to Goa, but learn reservations must be made months in advance for this popular train. So we book a flight instead. ¨More time to spend relaxing in Goa¨ we rationalize, though we’re both quietly disappointed.
From our Lonely Planet guide we choose the Vagator Resort Hotel for “a touch of luxury at very reasonable prices”. When we call they are helpful and informative on the phone; we reserve one of the four suites overlooking the beach, and yes, they have Wi Fi internet. Indeed the price is very affordable, cheaper than our Cherai Beach Resort because we have committed to a week. So instead of a romantic train ride up the Arabian Coast, we fly to Goa from Kochi. We arrange to be picked up by a driver who spots us easily when we arrive at the Goa airport.
The hour drive to Vagator from the airport is strangely devoid of temples and mosques. Where are the people? Where are the fruit stands? After 3 weeks of multiple religiosity spilling out through nonstop bustling village after village through Kerala, the drive through Goa seems strange. Every so often we pass an oversized, white Catholic church or compound, but there is no bustle or buzz surrounding them. Interesting.
Our driver informs us that it might be of interest for us to go to downtown Goa on a day excursion while here. We ask him what there is to see or do there, as we are really after a taste of beach and trance music scene. He says that the corpse of St. Francis Xavier is located in Old Goa, which is a place worth visiting in and of itself to take in the Portuguese architecture if we have time. He says that Old Goa was once the “Rome of the East” but after the spread of cholera in in the early 1800’s it has now become a relic, but has its own charm worth taking in if we have a chance, and in his opinion the old cathedral is definitely worth visiting.
I have a feeling St. Xavier is not at all like St. Thomas, who I read about in Kerala and who incorporated the beliefs and rituals of the Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims when he landed in India and began performing miracles that allegedly made converts out of atheists, Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists. I still laugh at the image of nuns being forced by St. Thomas (and future generations of Syrian Catholic priests) to do a snake dance, heh heh heh. But I keep an open mind; I will read up on Francis Xavier et al later, and we can consider a day trip to Old Goa … maybe …
The drive to Vagator is pretty enough but somehow lacks zest, energy, movement, prattle. Instead we pass farmlands accentuated by an oversized white church every so often. There are patches of nicely built houses, British looking, but many are run down. Formerly nice neighborhoods I presume.
But where are the banana stands, the chaotic multiple families aboard single scooters, the flowing, colorful saris I have come to associate with India?
Partners in Rhyme payroll is over, we have no set schedule, and we have only 7 days left in India. We want to enjoy the unique ambiance of the well known Goa rave scene, maybe even shake our booties at the Nine Bar. We don’t know what to expect and this is what appeals to us.
Until now I always thought that Goa was an island, like Ibiza. We learn Goa is a region, not an Island. (There is more to it than we will take in at this village of Vagator.) There is a whole beat movement in Goa that began in the late 60’s but persists to this day. Its all so legendary in our generation, the days of free love and feel good liquids. We wonder if this scene is as active now as it was then.
There is a string of shops and dusty homestays leading to our hotel. We can hear the pump pump pump of music as we pull up and get out. We pass a small kidney shaped pool with a ridiculous bridge over it to the front desk, where a smiling woman greets us and gives us the keys to our room, along with a handful of maps and brochures of things to do while in the area. We are less than impressed with the pool area, but are led past a romantic, scenic restaurant (where we soon learn food is served at almost any hour) and down a few steps to what appears to be the best room in the facility, with a big balcony overlooking the beach below. We are thrilled we didn’t opt for the “pool side” accommodation they originally suggested when we called to book.
Here’s a shot from our bedroom looking out onto a balcony overlooking the beach, followed by the first photos I take from our comfy balcony:
There is a creaky gate leading to our front door. It is one of the only sounds I actually recorded while in Goa, so here you go:
For the most part, on this last leg of our journey we intend to not be so intensely documenting everything, to have a ‘real’ vacation at the end of our travels (as opposed to constantly either moving or trying to keep our internet business running smoothly.)
There are jaggedy steps which lead down to a tropical beach which brings to mind the setting from Night of the Iguana by Tennessee Williams. The beach below is both funky and awesome. There is a shack immediately below us that’s been turned into a self-styled shop for tourists to buy scarves, trinkets, souvenirs. I immediately see at least 3 scarves blowing in the breeze hanging from a wire attached to the shack. (Most of the images I have described so far can be found in the opening YouTube video which is what lured us to this spot).
It is early afternoon by the time we settle into our new digs, which has a fridge and bathroom downstairs, as well as a few sofas to hang out on. Its a bit of a challenge to open the front door, which is super creaky, and in fact I will record this sound and share it with you later. Downstairs is where I set up the main techno gear recharge station, so its all ready even if we’re too lazy to go out with our gear. It is hot out, hotter than it was in Cherai; about 35C (95 F) when we happily turn on the air conditioner and decide to be lazy for the rest of the day.
I open up my South India guide books to get an idea of what´s nearby that’s worth investigating in the week to come, in case we get restless (unlikely at this stage, but we’ll see….) Somehow the idea of going to Old Goa doesn’t appeal, mostly because its too hot to go on an inland tour.
We watch people scaling the steps from the beach, no easy feat, in that the steps are jagged at best, some of the individual stairs are tall, others short, cracked or broken. People of all ages from all countries eagerly scamper down the steps and later snail their way back up, exhausted from the heat and the daunting goal of climbing to the top. Lots of dreadlock back-packer types of all ages, some of them way older than us, pass by, looking like I remember hippies used to look; blissful, smiling, oblivious, in good shape… I want whatever they’re on! (heh heh heh)
Mark takes the first trip down to the beach once he’s rested up while I continue to people watch and shoot video clips from our balcony. Its generally too hot to consider going out with any techno gear, and I am happy documenting what I see, snapping photos, writing emails to family and friends. I’ll hit the beach tomorrow I figure, and just chill at home today.
I am out of the ganja Mark got me in Vagator, so I need to figure out where to get it here – seems like it should be an easy task, but everyone that looks high looks unapproachable so I forget about that for awhile. I’m here, now, don’t need anything to make here now any better than it is…
I love our balcony: I can see at least 3 scarves hanging below that I want to buy so I decide that I will go down and offer a ridiculously cheap price for one just to see what the deal is. I make my way down and haggle for my first huge tie dyed but hand painted scarf (the first of many more I will buy while we stay here). I go down with 500 rupees in my pocket (less than 8 euros) but in coins, so they won’t know how much I have…
“I’ll give you 300 rupees for your scarf” I say, pointing to the Shiva scarf I have my eye on. “This one is 500 rupees” I am told, because it is hand painted, so I ask which one I can have for 300. They point to a simple tie dyed white fabric with an “Om” theme.
“I’ll give you 500 for the two of them” I reply, knowing I have all week to wear them down on the price.
But to my delight, the vendor says, “OKAY – You can have both for 500 rupees. Today your lucky day!”
I hand over all 500 rupees, am given the 2 scarves, they would like to show me more pretty things “inside” but I reverse my pockets to show them I have no more rupees on me, but maybe I’ll buy more scarves before the week is over. (what a bargain!)
I hoof back up the uneven steps to our room, ecstatic with my acquisitions. These bedspread size, colorful scarves are unique to Goa I believe, in that I hadn’t seen them anywhere in our other travels so far and I can’t imagine them in any other context than this one.
I can see Mark body surfing below. This is totally our scene. I also watch as a tightrope stand is set up, a small female walks back and forth a couple times along the high wire. I have my video camera handy, which is good because I film a few minutes of this before they tear it down. Its as if the performance was for my eyes only. What a charmed life I continue to lead! Later a herd of cattle run by on the beach and I film that as well.
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Vagator has an interesting mix of Russian tourists, semi-feral looking expat Europeans of all ages, and vacationing families from Bombay. The Bombay families stick out more than other people, usually with a loud, bossy man barking orders.
Our balcony gives us visual access to all the characters always headed up or down the Night of the Iguana-esque steps. This is the best people watching location we’ve found this whole trip. Until now we have been staying in the thick of things, here we can sit back and let life go by.
After his swim Mark returns, takes a nap, wakes up starving. Meanwhile, at around 6:00, as promised. we can hear some great music coming from the Bar Nine next door. I want to go! Mark is also curious, so we have dinner and then wander next door to Bar Nine, where the best DJ in the world is spinning music. Just like in the promo video, the dance floor is filled with casually dressed individuals of all ages, dancing mostly on their own to the music, sometimes side by side with their friends. It is music intended for people to dance to, whatever state they are in, just *move*. The beat is infectious. Mark and I dance like teenagers – with total abandon. This what we hoped for! We fit right in to this scene, as we had hoped we would. The DJ tonight is really brilliant, we agree, with dramatic breaks and enough variety to never get boring.
We dance for several hours, literally shaking our booties non-stop. I can’t remember when the last time was that I danced so hard, I think its been awhile… We are not on drugs or alcohol or anything at this time – the music itself is responsible for our having a blast dancing like young fools. It is liberating to dance, to not think, to just be here now, not trying to be a tourist or a student of life in any way, shape or form.
Later, we sleep, totally spent and gratified. We have chosen the perfect spot for the ‘vacation from our vacation’. It is certain we will experience the charms of India, a different India than that of Kerala.
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In the morning we are having breakfast in the terrace restaurant above our apartment when two British bikers sit at the table next to us. I start up a conversation with them and steer the conversation towards partying and nightlife and end up asking the couple if they know where to get any Ganja.
They look at me sheepishly and don’t really answer. Then the man comes over to our table and says in a whisper, “There is an ice cream parlor at the end of the road in the next village over, go there and look for two Asian guys, they can help you.” He then gets back up and goes to his table and continues his normal conversation with us like nothing had happened.
“You two should check out Chapora” he tells us. It’s an expat biker community but it has its own unique charm. We go there with our bikes every year for a month. Its great! It has a port where the backwaters spill out into the ocean, and all the best fish are caught and then sold right there on the pier.”
“Sounds like a possibility” I say, for I had read that Chapora is really close.
After breakfast we go back to our apartment. Mark enjoys his rums and kingfishers, feels I should party too, its fun here. He decides to go find me some pot.
Based on the tiny bit of information the British biker has given us Mark is nervous about going out in pursuit of ganja based on such skimpy directions. Should he ask the first Asian man he sees if he will sell him drugs? But in the end that is exactly what he does.
First he has to hire a tuk-tuk to get him to the next village, named Ajuna, He has an idea of where the place is and describes it to the tuk-tuk driver who seems to know what Mark is talking about. They set out for the Ajuna. He drops Mark off where the road ends at the ocean. There are a few businesses along the small cliff that rises above the ocean, one of them being a restaurant/tea house/ice cream place, which Mark assumes is the place our Brit friend was referring to.
He goes inside and sits down at a table that is out of the way, so he can just look around and get a feel for the place. The restaurant is really cool, with outside patios and terraces with funky tables, chairs, lounges and even a bed with a mattress and blankets where you can snuggle up with someone and watch the sunset while you drink your tea. The bed is the only other place being occupied (by two girls) other than Mark at his table, except for a table in the covered terrace just above Mark, to the right. There are 4 people around this table, two of which are Asian men.
This is when Mark really starts to get nervous, because until now it was just an abstract idea with dodgy information from a Brit tourist we met at breakfast. Now he is sitting in the restaurant probably looking at the two Asian men he has been referred to.
So, he talks himself into it and calls on all the travel magic that usually follows us around wherever we go. He asks the waiter for a shot of rum and a beer. When he brings it back Mark then nquires if they sell other things there, things to smoke. The waiter replies, “you can smoke if you like”, Mark says, “no, like ganja, I would like to find some ganja”. The waiter looks at Mark and says no, and walks away, Mark is disappointed and drinks his shot and has a swig of his Kingfisher beer. The waiter then walks past Mark again and whispers, “wait here, 5 minutes”. Mark looks up and sees that the two Asian men are still there, but they’re friends are gone.
He waits and a new guy shows up, not Indian, not Asian, some kind of mixture of everything and quite charming. He sits down across from Mark and asks him what he wants. Mark says, “Ganja”. He says “What kind?, I have cheap and very expensive”, proceeding to explain that he could get Mark the type of cheap hemp weed we smoked in Kerala or the local special tar-like resin called Charas and is a happy, cannabis high.
Mark opts for the charas but when told the price he realizes he didn’t bring enough money. Once again he would have to make a trip back to the hotel, grab money and head back to the village. As he is getting up to leave, his new friend asks if he wants anything else. Mark asks “what do you have?” he replies “everything” and proceeds to list all of the drugs he has available including speed, MDA, Special K plus a bunch of drugs Mark had never heard of. He says for now we would stick with the ganja, leaves the restaurant, hires another tuk-tuk and heads back to the hotel, grabs some cash, tells me about the connection he made, grabs another tuk-tuk to the restaurant in the next village, walks in and again orders a shot of rum and a beer and waits.
His new charming friend soon shows and they make the exchange, Mark looks at what he’s received and it looks more like heroin than pot so he asks him several times if this was pot and how were we supposed to smoke it? He explains, says to use a chillum pipe (I actually travel with a tiny one of these) then they sit while Mark finishes his drink. His new friend starts telling Mark stories of his life there in the village, of the time when his friend spiked his drink with special K and he spent a horrible night hallucinating in his bedroom while his Mom pounded on the door.
Mark finishes his drink, gets up and finds another tuk-tuk home.
While Mark is out on his mini adventure I read up on Chapora. I am intrigued by this one sentence, which I literally copy and paste here for your amusement:
Chapora is also home to the infamous ‘Doctor Death’ – a pharmacy where you can’t even get a headache tablet. You can however get liquid amphetamine, ketamine and a variety of morphine-based products. Subsequently, the night time scene here can get a bit muddy with the 24 hour drinkers and the junkies on a bad comedown.
This one paragraph has me fantasizing about our Mayakki yagé quest again; even though I’ve had my fill of Toddy, its as good an excuse as any to perhaps investigate Chapora one afternoon. We could try to find the famous Dr. Death pharmacy and take photos in front of it…
While Mark is on his big adventure I take a long walk along Vagator beach and snap photos. We have truly chosen a pristine spot to spend the week:
When I return from my walk Mark is not back yet. I try not to worry about him by reading up on St. Francis Xavier, who proves to be the worst kind of Catholic Saint from what I can tell. With a heavy hand, he arrived from Portugal on a mission to bring the raucous Portuguese army, known in Goa for pillaging and raping local women, back into the Catholic Church. He baptized the illegitimate offspring and blamed the local culture for luring the Portuguese soldiers away from Christianity, and approached the situation with a heavy hand. No wonder there were no temples along the road to Vagator; St. Francis Xavier had them all razed and constructed oversized, square, white churches in their place when he passed through to convert the natives. Wikipedia says Xavier’s legacy in India is controversial because his presence in Goa led to the Goa Inquisition. Wow!
I decide that it is Xavier who is responsible for the “anything goes” vibe of this region of India – if you destroy the true soul of a region, it will grow a new one organically from what’s left behind. Centuries after his death, Goa has become the capital of drugs and non-stop party. It makes sense to me. We have found the true Interzone of India.
Lots of Russians stay here, and duh, I guess I would too if I were from Russia, which is not far away when you look at a map. Freezing winters in Russia are best escaped by those who can afford to get away, by vacationing here in Goa. It is at first strange to stay somewhere with so many Eastern European tourists, but the novelty wears off. I become more aware of the very tanned European and/ or Americans that seem to belong here, that look like they have spent more than a summer here, that have blissful expressions at all times. What are they taking, I wonder, to always look so mellow and blissful? Maybe they’re just happy – that’s possible too.
A couple hours later Mark comes home with a cannabis product called “charas” with the crazy story of how he scored.
The charas looks like gummy hash but is “more of a marijuana high” he is told, which proves to be true. Fortunately I always travel with a tiny pipe in my make-up bag, with screens in a separate pouch. I am not sure how to smoke this charas, but get the hang of it and later see other people openly smoking it the way I do; with their pipe sticking straight up in the air and the charas in it, so it can’t fall out. In fact, we begin to notice these “chiillums” being passed around amongst friends, openly, both on the beach and at the really good Italian restaurant we find, just a short walk from our hotel.
The charas is good, if only for the novelty. Mark shares some with me and we sit on the balcony, recounting our respective adventures of the day. I go on a rant about St. Thomas being a good guy and St. Xavier being a bad guy, and Mark humors me in the way he would humor my dad when he was alive. “Yes, Roy,” he says when I make a sweeping statements about the state of spirituality in this neck of the woods.
Smoking charas, I can hear the thump thump thump begin at Bar Nine again. Its fun to simply dance on the balcony. Mark tells me more of the story of how and what went down at the Adjuna restaurant, how “The Asian” told him they have *everything* there, that he recommends we come back and try their herbal @¥@. We’ve done @¥@ in the past, not often, but the few times we did we had a blast. So this becomes an insidious thought – I (or we) must return to the Asians to try their @¥@. Mark is less than enthusiastic about the idea, so I let it rest a couple days. Its more the *idea* of doing hip drugs while in Goa that appeals to me than the ideé fixe to go buy them, but herbal @¥@ lures…
Meanwhile, we take life as it comes; I take early morning walks before it gets too hot, we both take daily swims, Mark checks into our website to make sure all is still running smoothly, he hires an ex-hacker in Hyderabad to comb through our websites and seal any security holes. (For Mark this activity is relaxing).
While Mark works with our new ex-hacker employee, I pull the images of Goa taken with my iPhone and my little Canon camera into a slide show which I share with you so you don’t get bored with all my writing.
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CHAPORA
CHAPORA
Our third evening in Vagador we are ready to see something different, so we take a cab to nearby Chapora. The place is so teeming with bikers that I don’t take many photos of the town itself, as I am afraid of motorcycles, especially on funky streets. The place is very unique. We make a feeble effort to locate the famed Dr. Death Pharmacy, just to see how it compares to our imagination.
We see some pretty seedy medical facilities with people in line, but why bother? The truth is we are happy; me with my chara, Mark with his occasional rum coke.
I am at a loss of words to describe Chapora, we only spend a few hours there; My impression is of the restless energy of bikers zooming by on all the streets; (pedestrians and cars are much more rare). We pass some funky self-styled businesses, some abandoned, overgrown buildings with Christian theme detail in the architecture, and walk towards the port, past a beach full of uninterested feral dogs.
We are told we’ve arrived a the time of day the fishermen return with their booty and there’s a spot where they sell their catch on the pier. So we walk to the port, which is an unusual scene; a combination of fishermen returning with their booty, shoppers who come there to bargain for good deals on fresh fish, and wild dogs. Its the dogs that really impress me, for they seem to roam free and enjoy the same privileges as cows and goats, only these dogs look to be on a fish diet.
Rather than trying to describe an afternoon spent in Chapora I give you a slide show. In fact, we only spend a couple of hours there and I only snap a hand full of photos. We are there long enough to get a feeling for this completely different scene, and long enough to crave a return to our peaceful stay in Vagator. Not including tonight, we have another 3 full nights plus a half day to go.
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Back from Chapora. we wander to Bar 9 for about a half hour but the DJ isn’t nearly as happening as we expect, so we go back to people watching and smoking Chara on our Tennesee WIlliams-esque balcony.
We both have kindles, and have read the book named “India Calling” which is a humorous, subjective tale of a second generation Indian born and raised in USA who decides to go live in the country his parents left; India. We can relate to many of the stories and characters he encounters, and we discuss them.
But my mind keeps returning to the Asian restaurant, the modern day “Alice’s Restaurant” of Ajuni. Mark’s story has me intrigued. I want to see first hand the cots with blissful middle aged blonde women just hanging out there. I want to see what Ajuna looks like. And I want to try whatever bliss they prescribe there. So the next morning I announce: “This evening I’m going to try to find those Asians and get something that goes well with rave/dance/DJ… This is probably our last chance to rave in Goa, so I’m going”.
Mark is surprised, but says nothing. “We have several more full days here,” I proclaim, “and I want to get silly on the dance floor, experience for myself the implicit high most people seem to be enjoying here.”
A classic, very tanned duo crawl up the uneven steps from the tropical scene below. They are holding on to the handrail as if this is what was keeping them upright. Slowly they wobble uphill past us. They look to be our age (in our 50’s) but are probably older. Hard to tell. They have relaxed faces on wrinkly necks, take their time climbing to the top. Once they reach it they sit down on the step and laugh for quite awhile. Meanwhile a trio of pink, youthful girls descend, laughing and holding hands as they go down to the beach. They could be 15 or they could be 25 – I can’t tell ages anymore.
Although Mark would have been happy to never leave the grounds again and simply drink rum and swim, he agrees to accompany me to Ajuna to see what kind of mischief 50 euros can buy.
The Asian ice cream parlor restaurant is on a beautiful setting. “Play it cool” he says, this *is* a restaurant. I take a look at the menu while Mark gets our waiter to request the service of his new charismatic friend. Hamburgers are on the menu. Wow! I haven’t eaten meat (other than the occasional chicken fried whatever) this whole trip. It almost feels sacrilegious to order a meal made from a cow, but hey, we’re in Goa and this is the Alice’s Restaurant of India, so I order a hamburger while Mark orders something lighter. I shoot some photos of the immediate surroundings – Ajuna is pretty. In fact, I could easily imagine staying here next time we come to Goa – its less touristy, more of a real village.
While waiting for our food the charismatic go-between young man comes to our table, introduces himself to me, asks what we *really* want. I ask what he recommends and he hands me a plastic pouch with powder in it and says, “try this”. I ask “What is it?” and he replies “herbal @¥@, all natural” and points to a blonde lady all blissed out on a lounge chair, presumably having consumed some.
“Is it good for dancing?” I ask and he replies, “Yes. The best way is to put some in a bottle of water and sip it. That is how it’s done.”
“How much”
“3800 rupees” (about 60 euros)
“We’ll give you 3200 rupees, (about 50 euros) – that’s all we have, unless you accept credit cards.
His face screws into an unexpected grin. “You are a return customer, so okay” and slides the plastic pouch to Mark, who puts it in his wallet, as I hand over the 3200 rupees.
The regular waiter brings us our food as Mr. Charisma bids us farewell. It is the best hamburger I’ve eaten all month, heh heh heh.
Once home we open the packet – “It looks harmless enough” says Mark.
“It doesn’t smell weird” I observe, as I have a very discerning nose.
Our first mistake was to not follow the directions that our drug dealer friend gave us when we purchases the “herbal @¥@” He told us to put small amounts in liters of water and drink it throughout the night.
Since Mark and I are both from Hollywood we disregard this wise advice and chop up two rails of the stuff and have a big snort each just before heading out the door to the dance club next door. But we never make it to the door, actually we do, but by the time we get there we are both in a different universe, we are both in the same universe together but not the same as everybody else around us. The effect comes on like getting run over by a steamroller made out of cotton candy. It is scary but not too scary because it feels as if your real self is sitting outside somewhere watching everything that is going on as our bodies completely lose balance and coordination.
We do make it out the door but we keep having to hang onto things to keep our balance. It feels as if we can feel the Earth spinning and that we need to hold on to avoid being thrown off out into space. Time seems to stretch and it takes forever to make it downstairs, not to mention out the door.
Through pure will power we make it up the cliff stairway to the trail that leads to the dance club. It feels like walking in one of those bouncy bubble rooms that kids have for their birthday parties. Mark looks back at me to see if I am all right and realizes I am having trouble with reality as well. I am hanging on to the fence to help me stand.
Mark looks behind me – what in reality is a family of tourists, in his altered state looks like a pack of upright walking lizard people. He starts waving at me to get out of the way of the lizard people.
I have the feeling like we are climbing Mt Everest and he’s waving down the mountain at me to warn me some kind of emergency when I am probably only five feet behind him. The lizard people pass without incident. Mark realizes that he is having trouble simply standing and would not be able to dance should we even make it to the club. He decides to turn around and make the trek back to our apartment. I follow.
I mentioned earlier that our door lock is loud, and this is where I share the sound with you; it seems to takes forever to open that lock…
In our room we can let this high burn itself out in relative safety away from the packs of lizard people. Mark feels like a bag of jelly but I manage to get my sea legs and force myself to walk to the Nine Bar, just to prove I am stronger than the drug. It would have been a climactic moment if the DJ were any good and if the club was full of dancing people and I jumped into a happening event. As it were, the music was pretty boring; I forced myself to sway back and forth to about 3 indistinguishable songs, was joined by a few dancers (literally) so I bought a bottle of water and went home. Mark and I rolled around on the bed, watched a bit of a goofy tv show and laughed at how silly we are.
The next morning I poured the rest of the herbal mda into our 2 water bottles, giving Mark the opt out option. Before my swim I took a few swigs off my magic bottle, and brought it down to the beach with me. Soon Mark joined me. We both enjoyed the sensation of the warm waves, of playing in the froth, we were high!
We continued to moderately sip magic water and frolic in the water all day, and ended up at the Nine Bar in top form, dancing for a couple hours until the music got boring. We could have danced another 2 hours if the music had more variety, but the perfect rave was not meant to be.
We sure had fun trying though.
I’m afraid this is where I end my tales of our adventures in India. To tie all 10 blogs together I share with you an edit we did of the Beaches of South India, which includes many of the images I’ve described here in Goa, as well as highlights from the various Kerala beaches described in earlier blogs.
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