La Hippy Playa
Adjustment period is now commencing. I arrive on a Saturday morning at day break weary eyed, ready and excited. As I’m stumbling into the baggage claim a bright smiling handsome beautiful man in waiting. Tony is there sun kissed and dressed in customary green. We unboxed my bike, partially assemble and throw it into the back of cab and haul ass to the beach. It’s my first taste of India air; a noxious ensemble of raw sewage, the sweet smell of burning garbage, biddy cigarettes, cloves, curry spices, cooking fires and dry dusty dirt. We make our way dipping and diving through hills and valleys at lightning speed. Upon closer arrival, the cabbie pulls off the side of the road to urinate. Tony joins and I’m compelled as well. We are still standing on the side of the road, no rest stop, and so no cover. Just open air. But what a view it is. I can almost smell the pungent saltwater, and my skin yearns for the warmth of the sunshine.
We arrive along a dusty road into arable goa. The beach is chill. Very chill, scattered with hippies far and wide and hailing from all nations. It’s a costal paradise. This is going to be a great transition from NYC to India. It so far part India, part beach holiday. Café and bakeries are scattered far and wide, menus boasting of American, English or Israeli breakfast specials, including coffee and fresh fruit juice. 100 rupees. Yes rupee the official Indian currency and from now I will gaze at a glorious Mahatma Handy before making any purchase during my time here.
We make it back to our room which is actually a hut, a quaint hut close to the beach with flowing pink curtains tacked over the window cutout and its perfect. There is running water, a shower, and most importantly a mosquito net. I take a quick refresher and we walk along the beach to a hilltop café and I indulge in the most decadent fruit and yogurt salad I can remember. It is fresh and juicy; this is what fruit is supposed to taste like, unlike the magnitude of perfectly unblemished waxed tasteless fruit we are accustomed to. My taste buds are jumping for joy, my sight senses are lazily floating upon the sea and I learn to swat the insistent swarm of flies with the greatest of elegance and nonchalance. Ah India. We walk back to the hut retracing our footprints in the sand. It’s still early and the beaches are quiet. I can smell a bakery in full operation with baguettes, pastries, and cakes already in production, awaiting the early afternoon rush. This is a haven for hippies therefore very late to rise, except for few yogis and early birds the place is a ghost town. But like the sleeping dragon I imagine it to be, the few, the strong begin to wander about. I notice heaps of shops, markets and stalls erecting along the dirt paths and soon and wondrous community erupts. I can t help but grin the whole way back to the hut.
We find Jamey and promptly, yet regretfully boot him out; luckily into the adjacent hut. I feel guilty immediately, but it’s been a long time coming and the honeymoon suite is ready for action. So long Jamey, hello honey. We engage in a little afternoon delight and after a strenuous workout I want to hit the ocean. We had some time to make up for and let’s not forget I’m a Scorpio woman full of vengeance and sexuality. I can tell it us already gonna be a hot one as the sun begins to soar overhead. The beach is unbearably hot to walk on, and it’s swarming with merchants, backpackers, sunbathers, and locals. The ocean is crisp clean and cool and refreshing splash is all I need to rejuvenate. I think I’m going to like it here.
Its in arambol that we meet some fellow travelers; Juan and Julia- a married couple from Canada, Estr- a grad student from Germany, Sol- an Indian American from Gainesville Fl, etcS
After a few days of lounging around on the beach and eating great food, we decide to take a ride out into the countryside. For starters I’m ready for a taste of real India, and I want to get out of my safety zone of foot transport and into my soon to be world of cycling. The journey is arduous and it’s already pushing my limits. I forget to eat a hearty breakfast in my excitement and within 2o minutes I’m exhausted. These are the hills and valleys we swarmed through earlier in the week and are severely more elaborate to traverse on a cycle in blistering heat, than in the comfort of a speeding taxi. We stop over at a small roadside eatery to grab some meager food and water. I somehow manifest the courage and energy to continue and we are off another 5ks. We slip down to the waterside and wait for a ferry. India is so beautiful and impoverished; they are two words I begin to link synonymously with mother India. We stop again for samosas and coffee without direction and feeling the burn. We take a small dirt path down a slight decline and already I’m concerned with the struggle of making in back up, when the road turns sharply and we arrive at a stunning beach paradise, however just out of reach. We are in the backwaters and see a bright white crystal beach in the distance. We convince or bribe some locals to haul us over in their boat lets be serious it was a win/win situation. It’s a private beach with clear blue seas, white sand and empty, a welcome change to the beehive of arambol. The time to make a move is upon us.
