The Goa Times

The Goa Times
11th April 2006

There’s something about Goa I can’t quite describe.

Every time I go there, it takes three deep breaths of the fresh, clean Goan air to start the stress relief.

Every time I go there, I drink in excess. Yet, I never feel drunk.

Every time I go there, my body aches on the first day as it releases the accumulated toxins. And by the time I leave, my muscles feel like butter.

And every time I go there, a three-day holiday seems like so much longer. And yet, it seems not long enough.

I was there last week, with Slappy, Doc, the Nag, the Drunken Painting Poet, Underwater Man, Minty, Beedie and Aaay, a friend of Minty’s.

It had been seven months of hard work. Seven months of working weekends. Seven months of labelling script revisions according to time rather than date. Seven months in which I’d written a baby calendar, flown to Australia to shoot films for 5 different countries (the numbers are still going up though), shot one film in India and scripted and sold another.

It was time to take a break. And one I had to fight for.

Slappy, Doc, the Nag and I landed in the afternoon. Were picked up by the hotel’s air-conditioned bus. Which was very disappointing. One comes to Goa to get away from the air-conditioning, not to live in it.

The rest of the gang had already arrived, by train. They were staying in a hotel a few minutes walk away.

There was no time to waste. The first thing we did was put on our swimsuits and dive into the pool. Where Doc and I spent a memorable hour introducing the girls to the joys of dunking.

And the exhilaration only increased when I took my first sip of King’s Pilsner beer. Sadly, only available in Goa.

The rest of the bunch landed up at our place. And from there, we headed to Calangute beach in the late evening. Dipped our feet into the sea. For Minty, the Drunken Painting Poet, Underwater Man and Aaay, they dipped rather more. All of them took turns falling into the sea.

We started eating at a little shack on the beach. Then decided to move on to somewhere where we could find some music.

Asked for vodka shots at Seagull Restaurant, and were served what the waiter called ‘a local brewed vodka’. Took our shots, and nearly gagged. The ‘local brewed vodka’ was nothing but strong, stinking cashew feni.

But anything will do for a bunch of alcoholics on vacation. So we shot the feni – repeatedly – till the bottle was drained. And the Nag and Underwater Man puked their guts out later in their rooms.

By morning, we were all sober. So the four of us hit the pool for some more dunking. Where Slappy discovered her alter ego. Birdy.

To ‘go Birdy’, one needs to be extremely vela. Not to mention, slightly short of a full deck.

So we had Slappy flapping her hands at her sides, walking horizontally in the water, chanting, “I’m a Birdy. Birdy, Birdy, Birdy, Birdy…” Eyes fluttering in classic ‘dumb blonde’ style.

And we had the three of us gasping hysterically at the sight.

The Birdy act was to be replayed throughout the trip. And reactions all around mirrored ours.

I’d set out to get a tattoo in Goa. So, at lunch, we called up Herr, the tattoo artist my friends had visited last time around.

Now, my folks are dead set against me getting a tattoo. Mom was calling up Slappy and begging her to convince me not to get one. And Slappy agreed. I’m sure the two of them were praying really hard.

Because, when we visited Herr, he insisted that I get it done then and there. No swimming for the next two days. I asked for an appointment on the next day, and told him I’d call him in the morning.

So I call at 1130, and the dude says, in his thick German accent, “I be up for long time waiting for your call. You say you call in morning. You no call. So now, no is possible.”

Damn failed German schoolteacher! Billions of blistering blue barnacles!

We even found a Japanese tattoo artist on Baga. But every time I went to visit, she was closed.

All I’ve got to show for my efforts is unmistakable proof that God listens to prayers.

We’d hired two Gypsys to drive around in. Open top vehicles that looked like cars, but were trucks in reality.

We drove to South Goa that night, to Martin’s Corner. This is a really cool restaurant with great food and live entertainment and really cheap prices.

And that night was the highlight of the trip.

As the one-man-band shifted to a slow number, I picked up Slappy and dragged her to the floor. We were joined a moment later by Doc and the Nag, and Underwater Man and the Drunken Painting Poet. Three couples on the floor.

The moment was beautiful, ethereal. Holding Slappy in my arms, looking into each other’s eyes, trying not to step on each other’s toes – a dance never to be forgotten.

And later, when he moved to rock and roll, I led Slappy into a waltz. Throwing her around, moving to the beat. Her face an expression of shocked delight.

“Unbelievable!” was the word, she used, I think.

The thing is, Slappy believes I’m 78 years old. That night, she thought I was 20.

It’s Goa, I said. It brings out this side of me.

No, she said. It brings out the real you.

She might be right.

Heading back that night, about 0045. Four of us in one Gypsy, the others in the second, a few minutes behind. We were stopped by cops who insisted we’d hired the car. We had – but we’d been told to pretend it was a friend’s car. Apparently, hiring private cars is not allowed.

It was a little tense. Showed the cops the car papers, tried to reason with them, gave them the owner’s number. Doc whipped out his visiting card, telling them that a doctor wouldn’t do anything wrong.

We were a few minutes from being allowed to go. Then the other Gypsy pulled up, and Underwater Man hopped out. Stormed up to the cop, pulled out his Navy card, and said, “I’m a Navy Officer. THERE IS NO PROBLEM HERE!”

A minute later, we were on our way again.

Must figure how to get one of those cards for myself.

We spent Saturday morning in the other hotel pool. Spent a good three hours there, got a huge bunch of photos. Then went out loafing again.

Minty and Aaay left that evening, by train. Their train was delayed 7 hours, but they refused to come back. Stupidityy, I say. They could have just left the next evening.

We spent Saturday night at Ingo’s Bazaar. Where the girls shopped, and Doc bargained. I came away with a kurta and cotton pants for myself.

And the next day was a shitty one. Because the food we’d eaten obviously caught up with us. Doc and I went thrice before lunch.

Beedie drove us down to the airport, and took the car back. He was taking a bus at 2000 hrs. Six of us were flying back.

And at the airport we met our two lady colleagues who’d sneaked away together. No, they’re not lesbians, they just work together. But they didn’t want their boss to know.

And as our plane soared away from Goa, there was the usual lump in my throat. I wanted to dash to the pilot’s cabin, hijack the aircraft and turn it around.

I landed in Bombay, and joined work on Monday. And found that I couldn’t quite type. My fingers just kept slipping off the keyboard.

And this episode was full of typos as well.

Like I said, there’s something about Goa I can’t quite explain.