Bikinis, Booze & Bollywood

I leave sunny Mumbai, where I celebrated Rosh Hashanah with the B’nai Israel Jewish Indian community, on a Friday afternoon and land in rainy, cloudy Goa one hour later. The weather’s somewhat disconcerting, as Goa is all about palm trees & beaches, but either way – I am looking forward to a quiet couple of days.



In the car on the way to Anjuna, the driver reassures me that we’re in for a sunny weekend, but it seems he’s just saying as much so as not to disappoint. The Indians don’t like to see you unhappy – as a rule, they’d rather say yes than no, even if the answer really is no. This is ok enough in the context of weather prediction, but you can imagine what a headache this approach can cause at work, or when booking flights, etc. End result: I continue to ask questions but never trust the answers I receive. Perfect, if simplistic example: I ask the driver if it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, he says no, and I don’t believe him. Not particularly productive, but second-guessing seems to be an indispensable survival mechanism out here.

When we arrive in Anjuna an hour and a half later, it seems quiet and deserted – hardly the beach rave town I’d read about. From the friendly folk at Villa Anjuna, we find out that the place is a little quieter in the off-season (of course), but that Saturday night at Club Tito’s is where it’s at.



So we decide to take it easy Friday night and set off to the ‘REALLY nice place’ that the guys at Villa Anjuna recommend for dinner. In the two minutes between our ‘hotel’ and the restaurant (which turns out to be a very casual, outdoor restaurant, with sand floors and a thatch roof), we are caught in monsoon downpour. Our umbrellas do little to shield us from the continuous sheets of rain, and there appear to be loads of little frogs skidding across the road in all directions. I try not to step on them, but Andrew says he doesn’t see them at all – so most likely just another malaria-pill hallucinatory side-effect!

Dripping wet, we sit down and get the evening started with a round of vodka shots. I’m a little disappointed that Anjuna has such a tangibly ‘off’ off-season, but I’m not going to let that stand in the way of my party :)

Saturday is the quintessential lazy beach day. Turns out the driver wasn’t lying after all – the sun in out in full force and I, covered from head to toe in factor 40, can’t wait to hit the beach. Predictably, it’s nothing like Thailand’s pristine shores. As much as Goa is famous for its beautiful beaches, it’s still very much India. The beach is practically deserted (off-season), but it’s strewn with litter, and as we walk down in search of a pleasant spot, we are approached by girl after girl, all beckoning us to look at their wares – ‘just look, you don’t have to buy.’ The girls all have great English, as well as Anglo-Saxon pseudonyms (also a BPO call centre trick), and their sales pitches are well rehearsed. One impresses me with a few Hebrew phrases (gotta love Israeli wanderlust). Not surprisingly, her repertoire includes ‘Lechi mi po’ (Go away)!

Unable to draw us to their stalls, the girls reappear later with choice items wrapped in big bundles of plastic. Nothing quite like being surrounded by sari-clad hawkers when you’re lying out in your bikini, just falling asleep to the pleasant crash of waves. I try to be a good sport and start chatting to one girl, whose Anglo name is tattooed on her arm (Alixandra) – just in case she forgets.

Andrew’s having one of those famous ‘beach massages,’ I am paging through a copy of the New Yorker (little outdated – July 23) and Alexandra is looking intently at all the pictures (all the interest a prelude to selling us junk, mind you). She asks loads of questions about the cartoons, and soon enough, I’m giving her a proper education: strip clubs, g-strings, styrofoam, and stretch marks! And people accuse the New Yorker of being high brow...

I too have a massage, leaving Andrew to fend off the ladies, who only take their leave once we’ve bought a token trinket from each one of them (we are SUCH suckers). As the afternoon wanes, we find ourselves starting to smell like Indians – the coconut oil from the massages seems to be fermenting into that indisputably ‘Indian’ bodily aroma. The bad news – we smell kinda funky. But in terms of silver linings, at least we know it’s not a lack of hygiene that gives Indians their distinct odor!

We’ve reserved Saturday night to ascertain if the Goa party scene really is all that and a bag of chips. As Anjuna’s pretty sleepy until October, we head to Club Tito’s in nearby Calangute. Our taxi driver stops for petrol on the way, purchasing a plastic water bottle full from a street-side vendor and pouring it into his engine! We have serious doubts about [a] getting to Calangute and [b] getting to anywhere that’s less lethargic than Anjuna (judging by the narrow dark roads the driver seems to have a predilection for). But he doesn’t let us down – in 20 minutes we are upon North Goa’s off-season party street (2 club, 3 restaurants). We stake out a dinner table close to Club Tito’s entrance – prime location for calculating the ratio of people going in to people going out. It’s not looking good, so I ‘white girl charm’ my way into the club for free to check it out. Prognosis: not heaving, but respectable.



The bar’s dodge and the vodka shots are quite possibly the worst I’ve EVER had, but the party’s hopping. There’s an especially rowdy group of army boys who are totally breaking out the Bollywood moves. Having spent the former half of the evening watching all the latest Bollywood music videos on Video Patrol (Indian MTV), I am all about getting jiggy with them. I pretend that in a previous life I was a Bollywood heroine.



At about 2am, the club clears out cause the army boys break into a fight. So lame.

Sunday morning is all about the lie-in, followed by a quick dip in the hotel pool. Bit of shopping, bit of shooting (pics, obvi). Andrew gives a cute 6 yr old a ten rupee note, and then all of a sudden 5 kids run after us, clamouring, ‘Give me money’ ‘Give me money.’ That’s my cue to hit the road.





I’m booked on an Air Deccan flight home. Three months in, and I’m finally braving the most ‘no frills’ of the budget airlines in India (also, the only one offering direct service from Goa to Hyderabad). Air Deccan boasts so few frills that the details on my boarding card are hand-written! So while Andrew heads off to Bangalore on 1st class (white skin upgrade), I am stuck behind a whiny baby on a refrigerator of a propeller plane. But I get to Hyderabad in one piece (despite Deccan’s rep) and stop to pick up a Domino’s pizza on the way home from the airport (this is becoming somewhat of a weekend-end tradition).

It’s been a good couple of days: booze, buzz, beach, boys and Bollywood. Can’t complain.

I Heart Thailand

Bangkok may be easier to get to from Hyderabad than many an Indian city, but that’s only after you’ve made it into Hyderabad’s international departure terminal. With our flight due to leave at midnight, Eimer and I arrive at the airport at ten and quickly realise that getting inside is going to be a challenge. The place is heaving with people and after rolling our cases over countless of their toes, back and forth, trying to ascertain how to get IN through the dense crowd, it dawns on us that the unruly, disorganised mass of bodies and bags is actually a queue. Because I’ve no idea where it begins or ends, I simply attach myself to the its side and push with the best of them. I tell someone off for repeatedly shoving his trolley stacked high with mammoth cases into my ass, and he is genuinely apologetic. Does he not realise that there’s a good reason his luggage isn’t gliding along every time he gives it another shove?

Eimer points out that Indians do not travel light. Mom on her own with three young children? No less than 6 king-size suitcases – though probably for a 6-month visit to the cousins in the US.

Once inside, we are rewarded for our efforts with an unsolicited upgrade to first class. Score! Of course, I pick the absolute SLOWEST line at passport control, though on the back end of our trip we find that a slow check isn’t necessarily a thorough one…



Just past security, we run into Bret, who’s on his way to Mountain View for a week. He seems to be drinking his way to California and is a little upset we’re not willing to join him in a swig of whiskey.

I sleep through my upgrade – including the cheese & fruit platter (sniff) – but it’s been a long week of visits to college campuses in Delhi, and I’m well in need of the 3-hour power nap.

Getting to Ko Samet (i.e. Samet Island) turns out to be quite the mission: bus from the airport to the bus terminal, from the bus terminal to Pattaya, from Pattaya to Rayong, from Rayong to Ban Phe (in an open-back truck), where, 5 hours and 4 buses later, we (finally!) get on a boat to the island. Besides the boat, the best part of the trip is walking up and down the aisles of the 7-Eleven at the bus terminal in Bangkok: shiny floors, well-stocked shelves, goodies from home and then some, and all the usual toiletries. I am all smiles even though it is only 6am.

As the speedboat approaches Ao Prow, a tractor reverses a makeshift dock into the water, and once our luggage, Eimer and I are safely on the mobile platform, the tractor deposits us on the shore.



Our room isn’t ready for another hour, so we lunch on the beachfront terrace, drinking to two blissful days in island paradise. Although the afternoon is overcast, the clouds can hardly mar my mellow mood – I’m intent on putting the 1,000 page Shantaram to rest and really enjoy digging into a complimentary basket of fruit I’ve never seen before and need a Google images search to name (rambutan, longan, and my new fave: dragon fruit).



We greet the evening with a round of cocktails that are as heavenly as our island and then head off to the east coast, where the kids go to boogie. The entire island is a nature preserve and our taxi - a lime green pick-up truck with open-air benches in the back - bumps us slowly along the packed earth road that connects the two sides of the island.



The east side is HAPPENING (well, as happening as a tropical island’s going to get): candlelit dinner on the beach and fire throwers for entertainment, with hookah pipes, pitchers of Singha and live music to follow. Eimer makes a friend – another 30-yr old with braces (!) and we have a wild time playing connect four and dancing it UP.



I’ve dusted off my denim miniskirt for the occasion – it feels good to be in a place where I’m not made to feel naked for not covering up my knees and elbows. Having been in India for almost 3 months, I can’t help comparing: Thailand seems to be streets ahead and India, well, India seems hopelessly backwards: depressively conservative, dangerously unhygienic and happy to settle for mediocrity. It’s not the best way to think, and I reprimand these thoughts, but they creep back: “Why can’t they just pull their socks up?” If the rest of the Asian world can do it, why not India?



I also start to wonder what Indians think of the state of their own country when they travel to places like Thailand. It’s a perspective I can’t fathom.

The following morning is a lovely, sunny one – all lounging on the beach and frolicking in the turquoise water. Eimer and I discover that Indian sunscreen is a different kettle of fish as we both get burnt, despite slopping on the factor 30.



Lunch is grand – ocean views, fresh green papaya salad and one very fine Italian man within eye’s reach – yum.


At 5 o’clock we reluctantly take the last boat to Ban Phe, where we catch a (direct!) bus to Bangkok. Monsoon hits Thailand Sunday evening, and the bus journey is painfully slow, especially for Eimer, whose singed skin makes her shiver uncontrollably. I plug in my ipod and nodding in and out of sleep, I watch the rain splatter the bus windows and wonder what it will be like to return to London.

The sky’s been wrung pretty much dry by the time we hit Bangkok, and both Eimer and I stare with wide eyes and open jaws at the modernity of everything around us: lights, buildings, designer brands, massive McDonalds…even Starbucks (I’d developed a terrible fondness for tall skim lattes in London.)

We take a taxi from the Ekumai bus terminal to Khao San Road – tourist CENTRAL – but a good base for less than 24 hours in Bangkok. About 5 minutes into the 45-minute drive, I realise our driver’s got a disconcerting full-body nervous tick. Every time he jerks, I cringe, thinking we’re about to veer into a tuk tuk or an overladen scooter. To make matters worse, the driver decides one piece of gum isn’t sufficient and proceeds to shove about 4 pieces in his mouth, chewing louder than a bloody cow on speed. The intermittent jerking is not too funny on its own, but coupled with the wide-open mouth gum smacking, and I spend the rest of the ride trying (rather unsuccessfully) to stifle my laughter. Eimer and I almost piss ourselves laughing when back in Hyderabad, we try to convey to Andrew just how idiosyncratic Bangkok drivers can be.

Although a world apart from island bliss, Bangkok has its own magic. For one, the street food is not only edible, but also damn good. The food you get in restaurants is damn good too. I love the iridescent pink taxis, the golden Buddhas that sparkle in the hot hot sun, the jewel-encrusted temples, the stylish outfits of the petite Thai girls, and of course, the shopping!



I have cause to think of London yet again as in one of the many temples we step into on our whirlwind tuk tuk tour of Bangkok’s Buddhas, I meet Andy, originally from Malaysia, but lives and works in London Victoria. What does he do in London? He’s a chef. Where? At the Mango Tree – the Thai restaurant just around the corner from the London office, which I love. Small world.





On a high from how much we love Thailand, it’s a long way down when the Thai Airways agent who’s checking us in wants to know how Eimer intends to get BACK into India on her single entry visa. Crap. An honest oversight – she had understood ‘SINGLE’ to mean her marital status. It’s touch and go for a while; the agent fully expects Eimer to stay in Thailand, pay a trip to the Indian embassy in Bangkok, get another visa and only then go back to India. Given my own experience with the Indian embassy in London, I estimate that would take a good week or two to sort.

Fortunately, though, Eimer’s flight back to Dublin is due to leave about 30 hours after our plane’s scheduled arrival in Hyderabad. We convince the agent she’s not going to leave the airport – she’s not really going back into India, you see. A lot of reading of the rules later, he explains that any layover greater than 24 hours requires a valid entry visa. Eimer’s damn lucky Thai people are so nice – he considers it, converses in hushed tones with his manager…and issues our boarding passes.

We are relieved but not in the clear – we have no idea what will happen at Indian immigration – especially as we learn that two terrorist bombs went off in Hyderabad on Saturday – dozens are dead and security is tight. It’s a tense flight – I think on the one hand that the officials in India are renowned for being very bribe-able but at the other extreme – is this a jail-able offense? Eimer and I say very little to each other on the way back to Hyderabad – I do try to reassure her, though: “Worst case scenario, they don’t let you leave the airport. I take your keys, pack your stuff, bring it back to the airport tomorrow night, and you’re home free.” Of course, I keep thoughts of Indian prisons to myself.

At immigration, Eimer studies the counters before picking a line – who’s got the friendlier face? We get in one queue but then she changes her mind. I stay put while she goes to another line – when I see where she’s settled, I think, fuck, she’s screwed. She’s gone and chosen the same slow guy who scrutinised our passports on the way out! I’m through ages before of her, and I wait, trying not to keep track of where she is in the queue because it’s making me anxious. A good twenty minutes later, I see her at the desk, out of the corner of my eye, and my heart races in empathy…here we go.

But then she’s through! Such immense relief. In retrospect, if the guy lets her leave on a roundtrip ticket and a single entry visa, it’s only fair that he let her come back in as well…