Insanely Belated Goa Post

We sleep the whole day on the train south, arrive in Margoa by night. We ask for The Blue Corner, and our rickshaw driver drops us off at darkened stretch of sand and grass. There's a dim lone lantern hanging about 100 meters off inside some kind of thatch shed so we lug our bags in that direction. But no need to fear. Beyond a rise, we find a cluster of huts, one of them ours, and beyond that a restaurant and bar stretching out onto the sand.

Goa's a palm tree and sand kind of place where tourists come to burn themselves black and sip beers under umbrellas. Not much to do but eat and read and watch the fishing boats out at sea.

We have our first fresh pineapple juices. We drink it every day afterward as well. Why have we not been drinking these all our lives?

For dinner, I ask about that day's fish and the waiter brings us five dangling fish to inspect, a sea bass, king fish, a small hammer-headed shark--all with that sad fish frown. I pick a pomphret, a local flat fish that I read about. It's cooked whole with butter lemon and garlic. Delicious!

The sari and sarong women descend on you during the day. They all have the same pitch: tell you their name, make you promise to look again later in the day. B finally buys one, and an angry group of other women surround her, "but you promised US."

Later we wonder if there's some confusion when we say, "Sorry, sorry," to them as they show their wares.

The ocean is warm, and mild, and shallow for a long way out.

We stay two nights in the hut, then move to a colorful orange guest house halfway between the beach and the tiny tourist town. Our hosts mostly ignore us. One day we see them setting up seats and decorations in their dirty driveway and they tell us it's a "holy communion." A little gir in a sparkling pink dress, so she must be the one. That night there's singing and machine-gun fireworks.

A rooster wakes us up. LONG before the dawn. Cows wander in street and in the yards between houses. A dog barks and piglets run for cover. B has been scared of dogs since I told her rabies can be spread by a lick from a monkey or dog. At breakfast a small golden dog sneaks up and licks her leg beneath the table, then trots away, quite satisfied with himself.

We rent a motor scooter. I practice in front of the rental shop, a woman's house. B is not impressed. "I'm not getting on that thing." I can't say I blame her. It takes me awhile to get the knack. "Easy," says the scooter woman. "Children drive it." Finally, after a few practice trip up and down the road to the beach, I convince B to climb aboard.

We want to go to Chandor, a nearby town. The scooter rental woman tells us the way: "Straight, straight, just straight down this road. I know. My mother is from Chandor. No left no right, just straight, straight. I know."

Within 500 meters our street run into a larger street. There is no straight. Two girls point us in the right direction. But once we get to Margao we are lost again. People seem to want to help, but a man on a motorcycle with a child sends us one way, and a group of young men at a snack stand send us back. And so it goes. No street signs. Never sure if we're going the right way. Pulling over whenever we see someone to ask for help, but only getting vague waves back. At last we leave the town. The scenery is beautiful. Rice paddies, a winding road like a snake. We DO see children driving scooters, also whole families on scooters, also stacks of boxes on scooters held together somehow by a boy riding on back. "Are we close to Chandor?" we ask again to a woman standing in the shade. She looks confused. "Chandor, Chandor?" we beg. "This is Chandor," she says.

We went to Chandor to see a 400 year old Portuguese mansion that was built divided in half for two brothers long ago. For awhile we can't find anyone and wander in the shadowed outer stairs and walkways. After some knocking, the two massive wooden doors open, and we've given a tour by a portly gassy coughing guide, who, once you get past his accent, actually speaks some of the best English we have encountered. His side of the house is rather shabby. While the ballroom is still impressive with its chandeliers and gleaming tiles, and there are a few interesting antiques, such as a fake-drawer that opens into a chamber pot, the place is also filled with kitsch and trash. The highlight though, inner chapel holding, encased in gold, the fingernail of St. Francis Xavier. Shortly after that, he draws our attention to an old refrigerator that no longer works. Beyond a closed door we hear a child cry, and our guide tells us that is a 16th-generation member of the family.

On the other side we are greeted by an old woman, surely in her eighties who has lived her whole life in this mansion in the middle of nowhere. It is a treasure trove of china, gorgeous furniture inlaid with pearl, sandelwood chairs, ivory, heirlooms and artifacts. She seems to only want to tell us the age of each in a prerecorded voice "three hundred years old, one hundred fifty, two hundred years old..." but I'm more interested in an old photo of a woman in pearls and a fancy dress. "Who's this?" "My mother," the lady says. The dining room seats eighty, all served with matching tableware from China. "We haven't had big dinners for a long time," she says. "You grew up here?" "Yes, but I was not allowed to play inside."

On the way home we particularly enjoy a long stretch of road surrounded by farms and greenery. After awhile it becomes clear to us that we driving the wrong way again.

We are bored of Goa. It is very nice, but we're restless already to move on, see what else India has got.