I lie on the bed gazing at the spinning ceiling fan.
Goa... Still only in Goa.
Every time I wake up I think I'm going to wake up back in the jungle... When I was home all I could think of was getting back into the jungle.
I'm here a week now... waiting for a train... getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker. Each time I look around the walls moved in a little tighter.
Intro: cue 'the doors'.
Arambol (Saigon/ Goa) is a shock to the senses. Scooters and motorbikes are everywhere, filling the streets, almost nobody walks. The motorbikes are mostly premium Royal Enfield bikes, considered classic in India. These bikes have larger capacity engines 350cc-500cc, and some produce the irritating crack-crack-crack sound that makes bikers such a popular group. The driving feels reckless for the nearly pedestrian town center.
This place is not my native habitat, I end up in a slightly more expensive room (£8/night) that is the height of luxury after my beach life. Attached bathroom, running fresh water, no less than 3 sinks, mirror, food area with a knife, and not a rat in sight. This must truly be a place for a king.
The culture of Goa isn't me, I'm not one for yoga, tantra, massage, drinking or partying. The 150+ restaurants, cafes and bars have little to offer me. With a shaved head I'll never quite fit in with the white dreads, and don't have the appetite to cover myself in beads and tattoos. Give me a thick layer of mud or dust any day.
The trinket sellers are everywhere. In the afternoons there is a hippie market, with an endless row of tat sellers along the beach. Each has claimed a metre or two of sand and laid their collection of beads, jewellery and shiny things on a cloth. The wares are all the same, each stand more identical than the last. At night every seller has a lamp to illuminate their spread of tat. I recognise the sight from lamp fishermen on the shores of Kerala... Fishing for hippie rupees.
This town isn't India, the longer I stay the softer I get.
Goa... Still only in Goa.
Every time I wake up I think I'm going to wake up back in the jungle... When I was home all I could think of was getting back into the jungle.
I'm here a week now... waiting for a train... getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker. Each time I look around the walls moved in a little tighter.
Intro: cue 'the doors'.
Arambol (Saigon/ Goa) is a shock to the senses. Scooters and motorbikes are everywhere, filling the streets, almost nobody walks. The motorbikes are mostly premium Royal Enfield bikes, considered classic in India. These bikes have larger capacity engines 350cc-500cc, and some produce the irritating crack-crack-crack sound that makes bikers such a popular group. The driving feels reckless for the nearly pedestrian town center.
This place is not my native habitat, I end up in a slightly more expensive room (£8/night) that is the height of luxury after my beach life. Attached bathroom, running fresh water, no less than 3 sinks, mirror, food area with a knife, and not a rat in sight. This must truly be a place for a king.
The culture of Goa isn't me, I'm not one for yoga, tantra, massage, drinking or partying. The 150+ restaurants, cafes and bars have little to offer me. With a shaved head I'll never quite fit in with the white dreads, and don't have the appetite to cover myself in beads and tattoos. Give me a thick layer of mud or dust any day.
The trinket sellers are everywhere. In the afternoons there is a hippie market, with an endless row of tat sellers along the beach. Each has claimed a metre or two of sand and laid their collection of beads, jewellery and shiny things on a cloth. The wares are all the same, each stand more identical than the last. At night every seller has a lamp to illuminate their spread of tat. I recognise the sight from lamp fishermen on the shores of Kerala... Fishing for hippie rupees.
This town isn't India, the longer I stay the softer I get.
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