A Mod in Goa

Saturday 16 Feb

Goa oozes Catholicism - the legacy of those Portuguese iconoclasts survives 500 years on. It's the Christian antidote to fondly-remembered Varanasi or Dharamshala. There are roadside shrines, fishing boats named "Jesus", bleeding Sacred Heart cards and devout businesses such as the Our Lady of Sorrows cafe and the Infant Jesus Laundry. This morning I take a bundle of clothes to the latter, hoping they will wash away my stains, but they don't work on Sundays so cannot meet my deadline.

Last night it rained very noisily, and everywhere this morning glistens brilliantly. The Tansy staff are sweeping leaves with besoms and the road outside is steamy with muddy puddles. I determine to hire a bike (or "bicycle" as they are still known here - no concessions to western youth culture), and after my abortive visit to the Infant Jesus I make enquiries. I've left it too late. The only machine available has raised handlebars and a slender, painful-looking saddle. Then I spot a sign for the Mario Fernandez hire service just next to the guesthouse, where the young lady charms me into hiring a motor scooter instead. Of course it's more expensive - a massive £4 per day - but as that would probably buy less than ten minutes on the dodgems at home (a comparable experience, it turns out) I decide to give it a go. Now this is where it gets embarrassing. Mr Fernandez Himself is called and asks me, pertinently, if I can actually ride a scooter. I answer evasively that a) I have a valid international licence, and b) I used to ride a pushbike. He agrees to let me have a go if I take a trial run up the little side lane that leads into coconut groves behind the shop. 

Easy Rider

It is not an auspicious start. Mr F explains the controls (in order of priority, horn, go and stop), but I wobble off far too fast ("Too fast! Too fast" he yells at me), then brake too sharply and almost end up in the ditch. He runs after me, intent upon relieving me of the machine, but I plead for a second chance, and set off this time a little more sedately. "I think you cannot drive," he says, so I show him my licence. "I think you cannot drive in traffic he says." The young lady is on my side, however (she wants me to buy something in her shop), and in the end he relents when I promise to practise up the side lane for as long as it takes. Which is about 15 minutes. Then I launch myself into the traffic and head for the beach. It's not long before I gain a little confidence and lose my initial alarm at vehicles whizzing past, and I even venture to ovrtake a stationary bus. Later in the day, I overtake a moving one.

The sacred and the profane

The beach is dotted with a few little groups of sunbathers and swimmers, and I wonder if the package tourists were deterred by the rain and have gone off to see the Renaisssance churches of Old Goa instead. The Russians are in evidence, identifiable by their traditional beach wear of G-string plus (for women) a pair of little pirate eye-patches (the one in the photo is a bloke, in case you wondered. The boat is called "St. Peter"). I take a dip in the warm surf, dry off in the sun, then head down the coast road.

Mine's a blini and vodka

Riding the scooter is "such fun". I lament my lost youth when, fifty years ago, I might have been a mod. I put on my baseball cap, then twist it backwards when the wind catches the peak and almost blows it away. I always wondered what the reason was. Of course, absolutely no-one here wears a helmet. There is one provided, but it's a green plastic affair that Prince Harry might wear for a Nazi-themed party, and possibly came from a fancy dress shop. I figure it would only fill my skull with plastic shards on impact. It also occurs to me that I hired the scooter with no paperwork, no insurance, no receipt, nothing signed for and no documentation, and no contact details if things go wrong. I hope I can remember the way back.

Why did the buffalo cross the road?

I take the road north for about 20 kms as far as Morbor where the River Sal joins the sea. It is a beautiful spot - the river quayside busy with brightly painted small trawlers, and the beach has a backdrop of cliffs and wooded hills strikingly similar to the South Devon or Cornwall coasts (but a lot hotter). Over a pot of tea, I chat to the waiter who comes from Darjeeling. Apparently a lot of north Indians come south to work here for a six month season, until the monsoon sends everyone packing in June. It's like Shimla in reverse.

River Sal (not Salcombe)

Tasty starter from Dinha's "restaurant with a difference", Benaulin: Prawn and coconut soup served in a (green) coconut. Delicious. I chat briefly to a Sots couple who live here in a guesthouse six months of the every year. The people are lovely, the food (especially Dinah's) always tasty, the climate is perfect, and they can live here on less than at home in Scotland.

Sign of the times