The hour's taxi ride from Dabolim airport north to Assagao at 8 o'clock in the morning had a surreal air. Baked, dusty red-brown earth, palm trees and jungle, primitive huts protected from the rising sun by lengths of blue plastic tarpaulin, people walking and limping along the poured tarmac roadways, scooters and motorbikes and bicycles swerving in and out of the four-wheeled traffic, the occassional elephant carrying a load across it's broad shoulders, crumbling, stained, concrete buildings, garish advertising hordings.....I stared out of my taxi-van window with a vague sense of disbelief.
Arrived, sweating gently, at 515 Bountavada where Tony, Ricky and James greeted me warmly. James is a convivial Mancunian, with a big smile and a bigger heart, who is in the process of traversing the globe on a motorbike. He and Tony have been here for some weeks now, and both appear bronzed and glowing with a healthy vitality. Ricky, on the other hand, is a fair-skinned Scot who has only been here two days, and by contrast has taken on a red and beetrooty hue. In him I perceive my own fate!
A cup of tea, then a quick guided tour of my accommodation of the next two weeks. It's a block and plaster apartment on one floor, with a narrow front garden leading from the little verandah. There are five rooms, four of which are given over as bedrooms, and a kitchen. My room has a double bed with sheet and pillow, a table (which turns out to be haunted), a metal construct on which to hang my clothes, and a ceiling fan.
The ablutions are basic, housing toilet and cold shower, plus wash-hand basin. I take note of the rather large black ants that appear to live round the toilet rim! I won't be taking a seat!!!
Tony assures me that a scooter has been ordered for me, but in the meantime I clamber onto the back of his, and we speed off to the nearest town, Mapusa. It's a small market town, the capital of northern Goa, and it's teeming with people and traffic. We park up in a street lined with parked scooters, and dodge the slow-moving, honking traffic. The market place is humming with traders pushing their wares at you.....I fall for a tee-shirt with the logo of the local brew emblazoned on the front. It's offered for 600 rupees.....Tony assures me it's not worth 150, but after much to-ing and fro-ing we settle at 200.
The fish market stinks, and we watch in vague horror as squads of wide-eyed children behead fresh sardines in the humid heat of the afternoon.
Tony ushers us into a small, squalid looking cafe....we find seats upstairs, and order brunch of bread pancakes and spiced chutney, washed down with masala chai. The food is simple and tasty, and the staff are friendly and helpful......I begin to feel at ease.
Arrived, sweating gently, at 515 Bountavada where Tony, Ricky and James greeted me warmly. James is a convivial Mancunian, with a big smile and a bigger heart, who is in the process of traversing the globe on a motorbike. He and Tony have been here for some weeks now, and both appear bronzed and glowing with a healthy vitality. Ricky, on the other hand, is a fair-skinned Scot who has only been here two days, and by contrast has taken on a red and beetrooty hue. In him I perceive my own fate!
A cup of tea, then a quick guided tour of my accommodation of the next two weeks. It's a block and plaster apartment on one floor, with a narrow front garden leading from the little verandah. There are five rooms, four of which are given over as bedrooms, and a kitchen. My room has a double bed with sheet and pillow, a table (which turns out to be haunted), a metal construct on which to hang my clothes, and a ceiling fan.
The ablutions are basic, housing toilet and cold shower, plus wash-hand basin. I take note of the rather large black ants that appear to live round the toilet rim! I won't be taking a seat!!!
Tony assures me that a scooter has been ordered for me, but in the meantime I clamber onto the back of his, and we speed off to the nearest town, Mapusa. It's a small market town, the capital of northern Goa, and it's teeming with people and traffic. We park up in a street lined with parked scooters, and dodge the slow-moving, honking traffic. The market place is humming with traders pushing their wares at you.....I fall for a tee-shirt with the logo of the local brew emblazoned on the front. It's offered for 600 rupees.....Tony assures me it's not worth 150, but after much to-ing and fro-ing we settle at 200.
The fish market stinks, and we watch in vague horror as squads of wide-eyed children behead fresh sardines in the humid heat of the afternoon.
Tony ushers us into a small, squalid looking cafe....we find seats upstairs, and order brunch of bread pancakes and spiced chutney, washed down with masala chai. The food is simple and tasty, and the staff are friendly and helpful......I begin to feel at ease.
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