Benemma

It is appropriate to leave a place of significant swiftly – or slowly – but never in between. The exit should be as grand as the place. That sounds nice and excuses the discomfort of our two-and-a-half thousand kilometre train journey from Rajasthan to Goa. We loved Rajasthan so it was right that our departure should have taken three days (starting on 12 November, for reference), albeit with a day spent transferring in Delhi en-route. But I cannot leap straight into such a different world as Goa, I want to take you with us down that train line first. This will be a long post, as it covers eight intense days until we left Goa on 20th November, aimed at Australia. But I hope you’ll hold until the end. Now, let’s go…

Keep pressing the fast-forward button until it maxes-out and we make the jump to hyperspace, see the sandstone fortress of Jaisalmer blink out to a dot and the Thar desert warp into streaming lines of gold; watch us hit Delhi like old pros, blasting through the shops and hotels in half a second, then we’re gone, pounding south, 2,000 kms down the coast in a trance rush of light, chomping through how many degrees of latitude – 15?, 20? – mountains, tunnels, passing in a stroboscopic flicker, palm trees now filling our eyes; go, go, go, screeeeech, stop, Goa! Decrease to cruising speed and roll into the lanes, leaning out the passenger window of a cab, overtaking long-haired locals on their scooters in Bob Marley T-shirts, squeezing between endless curbs of grey palm trunks, past the darker, rounder people of the south, tiled homes blackened at the corners by the havoc of monsoon damp, white colonial churches and primary-coloured beer shacks; then out of town over lush plateaux scattered with long-horned cows and bright egrets, down a back road into the trees, past the blue gate and stop here, no here, right here; walking now up a path to the last house before the impregnable jungle wall ahead. We’ve arrived, follow us onto the veranda where the two spaniels are fitting with joy at our return, leave your sandals by the door, dump your bag wherever and sprawl yourself – we’ve arrived.

Emma’s first words were, “So, I guess I finally don’t have to worry too much about covering my shoulders around here?”

To which Matt replied, “Not in the slightest! You don’t have to worry about aaanything in Goa!”

Matt and Pubali’s rented home in Anjuna is a blessed little bungalow with cracked white walls, a red tiled roof and patterned stone floors. It comprises a central dining room off which kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and spacious living room lay open, filled with eclectic lounging furniture, fairy lights and graphic art posters. A house, a real house where one can cook food, wash clothes and kick back in the absence of hotel bills or staff intrusion. The garden goes from the ramshackle to the verdant, with modern litter such as mopeds and CDs being eaten by flourishing plant life, stippled by spots of colour from butterflies, dragonflies and blossoming flora. Reaching high above are smooth grey poles with swaying palm leaves at their summits, which create refraction waves of light against the cobalt sky. Our number had grown too, as we were joined for the entire Goan chapter by our elusive old friend Rachel, captured en-route through her own solo Indian tour, who had always been sneaking a few steps ahead of us.

Things couldn’t have been more different than before. This was not India to us but some other jungle nation by the the sea. And that, indeed, is where you have to start with Goa, by accepting the obvious: it may be in India but it sure ain’t India. Goa was made by the Portugese, captured by Hippies, and is now in the antagonistic grips of the Indian government, the tourism industry, and the party scene. Ask any old-timer and he’ll tell you, “Man, you should have been here [enter arbitrary number between 5 and 40] years ago”. Yeh? Well we weren’t. We were there in 2009 and we still rocked it.

After two months’ exploring new territory we had come to a place well known to our expert guides so we could have slipped in unnoticed from the start. But in such a tribal culture as Goa’s it was was amusing to look on as transitory voyeurs. We didn’t try too hard to get under the skin of the place because we didn’t need to, Goa wears its quirks like full-colour tattoos, on the outside. Goa’s heart beats 120 times a minute and sucks you into its coursing bloodstream. But we held back at first, sneaking off to Arambol in the northern extremity of the state, to pamper ourselves and rid our pores of a month in the desert.

At Arambol Matt walked us out onto one of those dream beaches that make you roll out your mental wish-list and whisper, “Tick!” The crescent sand, backed by lush hills, is dissected by a narrow estuary which opens out into a lagoon behind the beach. At either end are beach shacks for rent and bamboo shops selling hippy gear. Matt led us stooping up a jungle path to see the famous old baba who lives under a banyan tree higher up. But the tree was populated by a ring of young travellers, drinking beer and playing ukulele, so we left Baba and his gang for a solitary spot in the stream higher still. Matt showed us how to break chunks of chalky rock off the stream-banks, grind them up and cover ourselves with the white mud they give off. The mud then lifts off and clouds the lagoon back by the beach, where spectral mud-covered people bathe in the warm currents circulating in the water. Then in the sea, we tossed ourselves in the waves, unbelieving of our luck. After, while shopping for sarongs, we could feel ourselves sliding into Goa’s lazy pull, letting ourselves go.

MUSSET, MATT, BEN AND EMMA, CHALKING UP ANOTHER EXPERIENCE

When the sun set we walked the beach southwards, following the throb of distant dance music, slowly learning how far sound carries over open coastline but pushing on anyway, eventually finding the source to be a Russian fashion show which had run down to its last drinks. We had just missed that party but no doubt others were springing up elsewhere nearby. That seems to be part of Goa’s constitution, a population of revellers always looking for “The Party”. You’re cool if you know where It is. That one was a Russian scene, aimed at the Russian tribe, but the Russians are one of many groupings. It may be unspoken but, like a dog wandering into a foreign pack, I could smell hierarchical orders everywhere we went. Even just amongst the western travellers it gets complicated. We seemed to be the tolerable type of Uninitiated, who were experienced travellers but wetbacks to the Goa scene; harmless but useless to those more deeply entrenched. One stratum above us were the Seasonaires who had already got a pad for the next few months, some tatoos, hook-ups to the next big parties – and the signature vehicle, a growling Royal Enfield bike. The Trance Ravers passed by in neon and dreadlocks, barely noticing us, turtle-skin elbows hanging from pin thin arms, made from years of drug-fuelled dancing in the sun. Then there were the Lifers, like Matt’s old Hippy mate Greg who I met for a coffee at his home. He was a Brummy who moved to Goa 12 years ago, had his 60th birthday there in recent years and goes strong yet. He looked well under 60 but, if you follow me, somehow like a 40 year-old who looked older than he was. He was an incongruous jumble of sun-creased skin and long blonde locks. He was a care-free charmer who had found his dream and remembered still not to take it for granted.

Goa’s tribes are a kaleidoscope of overlapping social pyramids, accounting for the package-holiday Lager Lobsters, the beefy Russians with their own subsets; the divisions are vague and innumerate and we haven’t even started on the Locals yet, or the gangs of pushers and fixers from West Africa, Portugal… It goes on. I would place Matt and Pubali somewhere in the Seasonaire/Lifer boundary zone, while bridging them to their local Shack Boy friends, although it’s not easy to ascribe them to one spot as they hold such eclectic company. They keep their identities well in all that noise and I hope they hold onto that virtue. We were able to follow them from one scene to the next as if we were journalists safely attached to a special forces squad in a war zone.

Matt fixed us with transport early on, a couple of TVS scooters – basic old things with pedals to start the engine – for under a quid a day. I’d never ridden, rarely even sat on a motorbike before so I bounced out of the hire shop (no license check, no ID, no payment, no problem!), snaking from tree root to pothole with my tentacular legs flailing on either side. I got the hang of it quickly by forcing myself to use the throttle more than I felt comfortable to do, and soon Emma joined me on the seat to complete our mobile team. One evening we were cruising in convoy down the footpaths, my teeth collecting mosquitoes as I beamed into what resembled the best video game I’d ever played (New Extension Pack, Now Comes With Realistic Damage Feature!!!). We burst onto the main lane to find a white SUV lurking ahead at the roadside amidst a gang of uniformed men. They flagged Matt down but, after feigning an effort to stop, he dodged past them and floored it. I had to do the same, surely? No time to think, gun the throttle and go! But one of the officers blocked our path. His eyes were fire, and locked down on mine. He screamed at me, “Why you not STOP? WE ARE POLICE! You not see our car? YOU STOP WHEN POLICE TELL YOU! Where is your license?” I didn’t have one with me. “You have no helmet, you pay fine!”

MUSSETT POSES W2IT THE SEXY TVS SCOOTER

The officer hauled us before his C.O., who was slouching in the back of the car. He threatened us with a 2,000 rupee fine (about £25) and a night in the cells, but it was obvious his boys were just out stealing bribes of an evening. I felt my guts drop for a second and a little fart escaped from a panicked sphincter. But then this reminiscence of school-age bullying instantly resolved me not to give these bastards a single paisa. I played the super-dumb new guy, jabbering on, slipping in a mention of it being our honeymoon, and how it must be a tough job he has with all these nasty types about. The spiel was interrupted by our Seasonaire friend Andy, who had been riding at the back of the convoy with Rachel on his Enfield. He gave the C.O. a sneaky handshake containing 500 rupees, to pacify him. The original officer took me to one side and told me straight out to bribe him but it was clear his confidence had been diluted in the prolonged confusion.

“Oh, err, okay,” I bumbled, “Is that how we do it? I’m so sorry, no problem, I’ll just ask my wife, she has our cash, is that okay? One minute now…” Bumble, bumble.

I’ll just ask my wife? Surely that’s the only time I’ll ever say that to a police officer.

All four us walked back to our rides, as the officer stood there dumbly in his ill-fitting uniform. Andy whispered, “Go, just go!” I jumped on the kick-starter, lurched forward, Emma rushing up to jump on behind, headlights blinding the power-blinkered cops… And stalled the motor. Scrambled to restart it but stalled it again… And again. But it was okay, they’d played their inquisition act and the spark had faded out so they let us go. I admit, I whooped louder than I should have as we rounded the corner, like one of those kids who taunts back after escaping a fight just to cause more trouble. Emma shut me up, rightly. The yell wasn’t intentional, I was overcome by the reappearance of that traveller’s wish-list in my head – I was scoring another tick against it.

PUBALI AND EMMA HAVING A DRINK AT CURLIES (courtesy Mussett)

When the DJs finished at 22:00 we sat on the periphery of this stage-lit circus and watched the actors change character. The Lager crowd, all sunburn, sweat and snogging, drifted back to their all-inclusive resorts, to be replaced by Seasonaires and several degrees of Locals. I already felt loaded and dizzy but our team were holding strong. Matt, quiet as usual, quieter than usual, freshly shaven and clothed, quietly assumed leadership, standing tall at our group’s centre. Preceded by their raucous vocal trumpet call, and followed by the entourage they had collected on Goa’s beaches in the last few days, entered Nicky and Nicole, stage right. Pubali’s good friends – one Punjabi, Nicole, and one English, Nicky – had spent the last five years in Mumbai, successfully forging their fame as a pop duo. They’d got their act down and it never faltered, dusk ’til dawn they bubbled away, bouncing off each other and anyone else within shouting distance. It’s an endearing act which drifts towards annoyance before you get used to it and find yourself adoring them. With their arrival our supergroup was finally complete. The music was dying, cue the next scene. To help with the set-change we hailed a trusted member of one of Goa’s most connected and lucrative tribes, the Cabbies.

The venue, Primrose (“Prrime Rrrose” as our Mexican friend Enrique so beautifully called it), was a drive away, somewhere a little inland, lost in the jungle, who knows, it could have been next door. But as the cab door opened at the gates we were mugged by spot-lit dust clouds and the lion roar of Enfield engines. I squinted through blurring eyes into the entranceway to see hundreds of bikes at the foot of a white building resembling a hacienda in a wild west show. The interior was two rooms, one a backward old Rotary-Club-style bar overrun with pissheads and party animals, while the main room was for dancing and resembled an explosives testing centre, with windowless concrete walls and a low ceiling. At one end of the dance room a DJ was commanding the love of the throbbing crowd. The walls were daubed with chaotic UV patterns such that the room resembled a bunker in which some poor souls had once been sealed-in to die, leaving only the legacy of their desperate art for someone to find. That room, that crowd, was this the dark centre of Goa’s soul?

We were bustled into a corner by the crowd, an oily mass of tattooed skin, slick with sweat. Clusters of all the roughest tribesmen, the warrior classes, were writhing around each other and convulsing to minimalist beats. Was it a bad vibe? Was it ready to blow? I guessed not but I couldn’t escape the notion. I couldn’t relax, couldn’t hold onto it. This was too much. People were shouting in each other’s ears, jostling other groups to make space, and drifting in and out of the room as if they were up to something. The paintwork began to shift into a display resembling soup on the boil, colours overlapping others, roiling to the front then slipping back behind. The crowd squirmed like a pit full of cobras, in synchronisation with the wall patterns. We danced off The Fear but the stifling, airless heat checked us every few minutes until we stood there and stared on incapacitated. A scream ripped out behind me. A lanky, skeletal black girl with a short bleached afro, gaunt face and torchlight eyes, was standing on a plinth, pointing over our heads and screaming obscenities at me. Lost in the scene I must have offended her somehow so I tried to calm things down before they kicked-off.

“Hi, what’s your name?”
“F***ING ASSHOLE BASTARD F*CK! ASSHOLE BASTARD F**KER!” Her E.T.-like proboscis finger was right in my face. Before I could try again to appease her a local friend of Matt’s drifted past me, calling into my ear, “She not with us my friend. I think this girl crazy, you know?”

I backed away and she yelled on. When I sidestepped she persisted. Then I realised she was shouting at the DJ, not me. The DJ was on the other side of the room, way out of earshot. She was shouting nonsense into the void, unaware of anyone. Escaped, time to go.

We never returned to the dance room, it was way too heavy in there. Outside we could lounge around our own table and restart the vibrant banter of our supergroup. The Evil bleached One wandered out from time to time, tripping over herself and screaming at someone, no-one or everyone. A man told us she’d been like that for years.

I leaned my chair back on two legs and craned my neck to the stars. There was Orion, standing firmly between the shifting leaves of the palm trees way above, the supergroup bubbling away around me, Nicky and Nicole entertaining everyone, Emma nattering effortlessly, the entourage telling tales and ordering cocktail rounds, Pubali and Rachel bathing quietly in the group’s energy, and Matt slouching, brooding, holding alpha status simply by staying cool throughout it all. The stars bristled as they watched over us, sliding languidly across the blue-black dome above. In that moment it became obvious how I would try to portray Goa in text – as this confused, anarchic muddle of overlapping collectives. Maybe in the 60s the Hippies created a Goa which was easily understood, maybe soon it will settle again on a new personality. But in 2009 I sensed a society with an identity crisis, ripe for collapse, either into explosive catastrophe or charmless stability. It still felt like a place outside the law, from which one could look to The West and sniff at all its regulation and conformity. Goa is blessed chaos incarnate, teetering on the edge of a systemic shift into a new state of being. Mathematicians call this a perturbation. The government and the cops are pushing on one side to perturb Goa into a tame holiday hotspot, the tribes are fighting to maintain beloved disorder, while grinding against each other as they do. We had slipped into the seething hedonism, and slipped back out inspired.

A final piece of imagery came to me as a taxi took us to the bus stand, when we finally left Goa the next afternoon. The sun was low, spewing burnished gold over the landscape as Magic Hour began, catching the long grass on a marsh beside us. The state flag takes its red, yellow and green colours from its Portugese heritage but those colours are, too, the face of Goa. Deep green the jungle, golden the pampas and the sunlight, red the earth, bricks and tiles. It’s a tangential point to finish on, maybe, but I want you to visualise it and see the rich tones of that face which is worn by so complex, so edgy, the character within. I want you to be there, at The Party perhaps, with us.