I'm getting the impression the locals see me coming. Tony takes us to the Shore Bar on Anjuna beach, which has become his Rover's Return, so to speak, over the course of the last 6 weeks or so. It's basically a number of deck chairs and tables set out on the sands, protected from the sun by a tented canopy of bamboo and matting. There are chilled sounds on the sound system, and a perfect view of the Arabian Sea, fruit juices and beers, and simple food.
On passing through the bar, you descend onto the beach itself via a series of stone steps, where we nab a couple of sun loungers. Unbeknownst to me, we are only a matter of feet from some tented shops, selling shirts and sarongs etc. I haven't been there ten seconds when the beguiling Gita introduces herself, asking my name with fluttering eyelashes, and taking hold of my hand (so I can't escape). She says I look like a ghost......which I suppose I do. She is a dark and burnished brown, her white teeth flashing when she smiles....I am smitten.
She takes my sunglasses from my nose, and puts them on (so I can't escape!), and before I know it I have been dragged through the burning sand and into her little shop. I soon find myself cornered, not just by Gita, but by half-a-dozen women, who all turn out to have a shop nearby. Each in turn implores me to come see their wares.....I'm having enough trouble with Gita, frankly! Ricky passes by the opening to the shop, and I beg his assistance in plaintive tones.....he grins a Glaswegian grin and hurries past.
I eventually succumb to Gita's hard sell, and agree to purchase a cheese-cloth shirt and a sarong to sit on the sand with. Gita's neighbouring shop owner grasps the said sarong, and disappears next door, on the assumption I'll follow her into her shop. But Gita hasn't quite got the money off me, and I still owe her 100 rupees.....I walk calmly back to my sun-lounger, saying that she will get her final instalment when she's rescued my sarong from her comrade-in-arms. After a fifteen minute stalemate, she eventually comes up with the goods, and I run, traumatised, for the cover of the Shore Bar.....and don't set foot on that stretch of beach for the rest of the holiday!
On passing through the bar, you descend onto the beach itself via a series of stone steps, where we nab a couple of sun loungers. Unbeknownst to me, we are only a matter of feet from some tented shops, selling shirts and sarongs etc. I haven't been there ten seconds when the beguiling Gita introduces herself, asking my name with fluttering eyelashes, and taking hold of my hand (so I can't escape). She says I look like a ghost......which I suppose I do. She is a dark and burnished brown, her white teeth flashing when she smiles....I am smitten.
She takes my sunglasses from my nose, and puts them on (so I can't escape!), and before I know it I have been dragged through the burning sand and into her little shop. I soon find myself cornered, not just by Gita, but by half-a-dozen women, who all turn out to have a shop nearby. Each in turn implores me to come see their wares.....I'm having enough trouble with Gita, frankly! Ricky passes by the opening to the shop, and I beg his assistance in plaintive tones.....he grins a Glaswegian grin and hurries past.
I eventually succumb to Gita's hard sell, and agree to purchase a cheese-cloth shirt and a sarong to sit on the sand with. Gita's neighbouring shop owner grasps the said sarong, and disappears next door, on the assumption I'll follow her into her shop. But Gita hasn't quite got the money off me, and I still owe her 100 rupees.....I walk calmly back to my sun-lounger, saying that she will get her final instalment when she's rescued my sarong from her comrade-in-arms. After a fifteen minute stalemate, she eventually comes up with the goods, and I run, traumatised, for the cover of the Shore Bar.....and don't set foot on that stretch of beach for the rest of the holiday!
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