BENGALURU: It is surprising how just three days of bone-warming sun, soft sand, towering palm trees and chilled breezers with friends who have shared over a decade of my life, can expunge a couple of years of world-weariness. This is also the reason why after a long hiatus, the first thing I felt compelled to write was a story of those three days. It was a story of five friends, one shanty-like cottage, one missing iPhone, a crate of breezers, numerous plastic cups of coconut rum, plates of fried fish, a few dozen liqueur chocolates and endless chatter.
With a year’s worth of planning, coordinating and dreaming behind us, we were fairly confident that nothing could possibly ruin our perfectly laid plans. After all, hours had been spent over long-distance phone calls, Skype and Google hangout sessions and Whatsapp chat rallies to chalk out the awesomeness that we intended to pack into these 72 hours. Our plans seemed watertight and as I boarded the first of many flights that were to mark my trip, I wore a smile so wide that I am certain it made me look rather demented.
In our naiveté, we had clearly forgotten that the best-laid schemes of mice and (wo)men oft go awry. As our travel date fast approached, the intent of some of our most confident co-conspirators started wobbling precariously, much like bowling pins that had been struck. After much dwindling and a close shave with ‘delayed-flights-and-missed-connecting-flights’ later, I landed on Goan soil. As luck would have it, a friend’s flight had landed moments ago and the sight of that familiar elfin face was enough to make me believe that this trip was going to be fantastic.
A metallic voice on the GPS chimed – “You have reached your destination.” As we resurfaced from a haze of banter, it dawned on us that our cab driver had offloaded us in the middle of what looked like a dense forest with nothing but thick green foliage, zig-zag trails in the sand resembling snake tracks and a bunch of stray dogs lounging in the shade. A signboard with two arrows pointing in opposite directions made it quite impossible to figure out the exact location of our lodging.
Much scouting brought us to our 'resort' at the end of the dirt track. It was an insipid version of what we had approved and reserved online. We also found the other members of our group with their hands on their hips and imaginary smoke curling out of their nostrils and ears.
Instantly it felt like we had regressed 10 years in time to our days in the hostel. Funny how some things never change and how happy their permanence makes me especially when our lives today are so full of unsettling changes.
A lady at the front desk also turned out to be the co-owner of the establishment, a yoga instructor and an erstwhile Dutch architect, the possessor of a weird clipped accent with a penchant for duping marijuana-pumped foreigners. That she might have posted misleading, air-brushed pictures of her little ‘yoga-resort’ online did not seem so unbelievable once we had actually met her. This is not to say that I was entirely unhappy about the rickety, two-floor, one bathroom, zero air conditioner hovel that we had ended up in. It was going to be an experience and it did not quite matter how luxurious the room was as long as we were all in it together. Over chilly prawns, fish fried rice and Cabo — the local coconut liqueur — we fell right back into excited conversations.
Plans for the evening were made. We were headed to a fancy restaurant called La Plage on Ashvem beach where the prices were sky-high, the clientèle was fashionably bohemian and the portions were minuscule. Sheer white curtains floated like delicate fairies around us as we sat on wicker chairs waiting for our food. To be honest, I do not remember what we ate that night but I do remember the delicious chocolate sampler at the end of our meal which included a dense dark chocolate mousse, a sliver of a decadent seven-layer chocolate cake, chocolate truffles and so on. On our way back, we stumbled upon a flea market of sorts which looked like a fairy-light laced dream. Its purpose was clear – to provide a trendier version of common rummage sales to the crème de la crème. We, the hoi-polloi, on the other hand could only afford a few very pretty selfies against a backdrop of shimmering mirrors and lanterns.
We scoured the beaches of Mandrem the next morning for a cup of tea and finally found a scrawny beach shack owner who agreed to provide the desired cuppa with some greasy omelettes. Soon after this, some of my group immediately plunged into the water. I, on the other hand, was perfectly content in lying on a beach chair, sipping chai, and watching eastern European fitness freaks striking gravity-defying yoga poses. More fish, prawns, breezers and chat sessions followed as we got ourselves a cushioned spot in a shack overlooking the sea. Having turned a perfect shade of crisp bacon, we managed to pull ourselves together to explore one of Goa’s largest flea markets held at Arpora. And our trip had only just begun!
—Preeti Sharma blogs at www.preetisharma84.blogspot.com