GOA

GOA


We came during the June monsoons
And found a cheap Chapora room
The restaurants and bars and streets
Were half awake or sound asleep


So keen to see Arombal Beach
And reticent so far to hike
One Hundred and fifty Rupees
Acquired us a motorbike


We didn’t mind that we’d be soaked
Its not like ‘Catch-Cold’ rain at home
The ‘Water Bucket’ sweeping storms
Whilst plentiful are freakish warm!


A thumping Enfield would be nice
Although our Yamaha sufficed
Its hundred cc engine smoked
Along the chalky winding roads


So on our way to Siolim
To make a quick ferry crossing
We saw through rural Goan sights
How Goan folk live Goan lives


Their ancient agricultural ways
That one may still behold today
Were decorative on sodden grass
And typified the fields we passed


Lines of ladies kneel and reap
With babies on their backs asleep
And as they bundle crops for miles
Their weathered faces squint and smile


Their brightly coloured saris blow
While cows drag ploughs and seeds are sewn
And palm trees too bend in the breeze
Near chapels of the Portuguese


The wind comes first and then the rain
How hard? How long? No one can say
Compared with next month these are showers
When India wields torrential powers


The ferry reached the island bank
And on we rode with our full tank
Past paradisic palm tree shores
And fruit stall fronted liquor stores


Starving gaunt dishevelled hounds
Blocked the roads by lying down
While long broad cues of holy cows
Trundled slow beneath the showers


Turned left by a peculiar school
Our journey wrapped up by the beach
I parked the bike and asked at once
For ice cold beer and garlic fish.


Both Jackie and myself knew then
We wanted to come here again
Its nautical euphoric air
relieved the soul of Western care


The restaurants here used candle light
Because a monsoon in the night
Had taken out the island’s power
Would beach room renting make us cower?


With no bath or electric light
We still resolved to stay the night
So we could wake to hear the waves
Next morn and in the ocean bathe


In view of the Arabian sea
We chatted with the Europeans
Then strolling back we learned quite soon
We could not relocate our room



The old adobe white stone huts
Were perched upon the jagged rocks
Up which the ocean’s waves were spewed
The black of night made blind our view


And thanks to our Norwegian friends
We regained enough confidence
To climb the rocks and brave the tide
For their room they believed near by


The four of us searched for our rooms
Beach paddling through the sable doom
We found our door then said ‘Good night’
And lit a tiny candle light.


Then Jackie who observed our doors
Had not got locks felt insecure
With our location so remote
She dreaded theft and feared assault


At two a.m the howling wind
Brought my slumber to an end
She told me her anxiety
Which had not yet occurred to me


Because she’d spooked herself with dread
She hadn’t dared to leave the bed
To check for bolts upon our door
I did. Then she was reassured!


Relaxed enough now to enjoy
With only bed bugs to annoy
We listened to the majesty
And roaring of the Goan sea


Its timelessness rang in our ears
And soothed our most subconscious fears
We took that swim at dawn’s first light
And showered in the rain alright!



We saw the tiny beech hole crabs
And striped small fish in the lagoon
And watched the busy fishermen
Work from their hollowed out canoes


They typify the vibrant feel
That makes Arombal hardly real
We feel the resolution burn
In high season we shall return.


TIM SANSOM 13TH JULY 1999