My temperature’s soaring. Sweat is pouring from almost every orifice. My sleeping bag is saturated, my pillow a wet sponge. I’m falling in and out of a delirious sleep, my dreams unconnected and abstract except the constant, sadistic echo of ‘Malaria’ throughout. My fever’s clinging to me like molten metal. But yet I’m shivering, I’ve never felt so cold – my fleece lining and sleeping bag, equipped to stand minus 10 degree nights up in the Himalayas is doing nothing to bring me the warmth I desperately need…
Things are looking bad.
And home has never felt so far away.
We had arrived in Anjuna on the Saturday. And I vowed to take it all back.
Looking back, Palolem beach is an untouched, virginal tropical paradise compared to the seasoned prostitute of Anjuna Beach.
After our 4 days in South Goa, we headed north – Mai, Aliss (I know I’ve spelt your name wrong but consistency is key), Caroline and myself. Crammed into a taxi we bumped and throttled for over 2 hours to our new destination – one of the old flagship hippy hang outs before savvinness and dubious exploitation took its grip. Its essentially what Palolem would be like – now observed in retrospect – if there wasn’t so much of a reasoned mentality to keep it chilled, harmonious, safe and amenable; everything a middle class 30 something like me appreciates.
To be fair, we went north in search of Goa trance raves and its associated debauched affiliates, so we had no excuse to be critical of what we found. From the second we arrived there was a seediness that told us we’d found what we were looking for.
Grouping resources we found cheap accommodation (looking back at the prices I was paying elsewhere to what I got, I’ve learnt a valuable lesson in cheap is just as cheerful), and headed straight to the beach. Our first stop was the patch of sand in front of Shore Bar, where the clientele openly smoke Charrus on beds and cushions while listening to trance and beats. To get there we crossed a half mile of beach littered with dead fish, overflow pipes, cow and dog turds, and the usual ensemble of girls attempting to sell us jewellery and knick-knacks.
Just like in Palolem, these girls would ridiculously give themselves English pseudonyms like ‘Julie, Tiffany, Sara’ in vain attempts to make themselves more appealing. What was more disturbing in Anjuna however was the way they had awfully rehearsed posh British accents, as if they were products of St Trinians left to fend for themselves on Goan beaches.
Lovely Kerry who was there in Mumbai with me, joined us late on, and on our way to dinner we bumped into Irish Drummer Barry. And so it was the 6 of us who went in search of our long awaited rave at Curlies – Anjuna’s legendary Beach bar where ‘every night is a party’. As long as, it seemed from what Barry told us, your idea of a party is a handful people swaying drunkenly in a living room to A-ha, while even fewer stay in the kitchen drunkenly defending the virtues of the latest X Factor reject.
We needn’t have worried. It was Saturday night. And even that holds some kudos in day-less Goa.
Curlies was rammed, and true to form blasting out Goa Trance, across a UV lit dancefloor, illuminating psychedelic drapes and imagery. It was Uni days all over again. Except with less Indians. Made me realise that Goa to young affluent natives is what Newquay is to English school leavers.
It was a wicked night, with the rum and coke along with shots of feny (a retch inducing Goan liquor made from Coconut) flowing like the water we should have been downing instead.
We stumbled back – me and Caroline especially pleased with our successful trance mission – to sleep and wake up fighting fit for another day.
‘Cept that I didn’t. Something was creeping over me on that Sunday morning. Initially I thought it was just lack of sleep, or lack of food – but as the sun shone, and bore down on us in our usual spot outside Shore Bar, it dawned on me it could be something a lot worse. After heading back to grab showers and head for dinner, I started to feel really weak and feverish – I’ll fight through it though. Surely?
I let everyone go to dinner early while I slept and did some work, but couldn’t shake off what I was feeling. Mai had even uttered the words ‘Malaria’ which didn’t help my already fragile constitution. Managing to get some food down me an hour later, I headed straight back to bed, with the full intention of a world record sleep and some internal fixing.
Also, the prospect of an overnight sleeper train to Mumbai the next night was laying on me like a burden of Bella Emberg proportions on my shoulders.
Then came the sleep from hell. Next morning bought nothing but panic, and though I felt I appeared calm on the outside, I was fearing the worse.
And this where that instant bond of your new travelling companions really goes to work. Caroline went off to get the doctor, Mai stayed by bedside. I was still in and out of sleep, struggling to concentrate, move let alone go to the toilet – which was often I may add – but everything I needed (except my mom) was being catered for by these wonderful friends who I’d only just met mere days before.
When the doctor finally came, with his big friendly face and trusting eyes – I was still a little delirious but I could have hugged him – he calmed me down, went through the symptons, took in everything and in a measured, professional manner, went about trying to cure me.
So he stuck a big fat needle in my arse.
‘You’ve got a bacterial infection. Its very common to foreigners in Goa. You may have eaten, consumed something [fucking feny], drank sea water – can happen in many ways. But with this magic injection you’ll be fine in 6 hours.’
Crack on. (No pun intended)
He also armed me with anti-biotics, told me what I could and couldn’t eat for 3 days and left me to rest.
And in 10 hours I was well enough to travel overnight to Mumbai. I know he was only doing his job, and it cost me £30, but that man is my hero. And as we pulled away from Margao for the 12 hour trip up north, my relief and gratitude to him – and the friends I left behind – was tangible.
Thank you all x
And so back to Mumbai.
Its incredible how a place can so quickly come to feel like home. I knew I had to make my way to Varanasi on another marathon trip soon, but my second 2 days in Mumbai was a happy re-acquaintance that made me fall in love with the city more.
I strolled, I ate incredible street food, I watched games of cricket in the Oval Maiden, I watched a dire but fun Bollywood move. I reveled in Bombay’s hospitality.
It also made me think back to the terrorist shootings 2 years previously. Its weird when you hear of terrorist incidents in other countries how you distance yourself from them, because of the alien geography and culture they attack.
But now knowing Leopolds, the stunning Taj Palace Hotel and the streets of Colaba – walking between and betwixt with the strutting confidence of an established resident, you picture the carnage of gunmen running round, firing indiscriminately affecting the places you’ve grown to love, the fear of those avoiding the bullets, the bloody, tragic scenes they produced…
…it may be 2 years, but the wounds of Mumbai now to me seem as deep as those of London and New York.
It hits you, as Muslims, Hindu, Sikh speaking Urdu, Hindi, Marathi all around you that terrorism is far more global than the arrogant and ‘persecuted’ West like to think.
But I say goodbye to Mumbai – one of my favourite cities.
A 28 hour train journey awaited to Varanasi, one of the holiest cities in India’s pretty extensive portfolio of holy cities. And with it another landmark moment in my Indian travelling evolution. I suffered during my first 8 hour trip on track, I’ve even upgraded and taken the more lucrative AC class for other journeys – but 3 weeks in and this mammoth train journey, in standard sleeper class was nothing more than a memorable, sociable and more importantly comfortable day in my itinerary.
And so I finish this chapter, looking over the Ganges in Varanasi...
...at a place where religious Hindus (though not exclusively) burn their loved ones on funeral pyres, with these thoughts of my mini-sickness, the Mumbai memories and its tragic recent past, and India’s fascination with death and I feel one thing very clearly…
I’ve never felt so alive
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