Awoke at 06:15 hrs. to the familiar cry of “chai, chai” and the first light of dawn. We had nearly covered the 225 nautical miles to Panaji in Goa. Panaji is the capital of the Indian state of Goa and the headquarters of North Goa district. It lies on the banks of the Mandovi River estuary in the Ilhas de Goa sub-district (taluka).
We docked there early at 07:00 hrs. and walked quickly along to the International Youth Hostel. Panjim has terraced hills, concrete buildings with balconies and red-tiled roofs, churches, and a riverside promenade. There are avenues lined with gulmohar, acacia and other trees. The baroque Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception Church is located overlooking the main square known as Praça da Igreja.
Panjim was built with stepped streets and a seven-kilometre-long promenade on a planned grid system after the Portuguese relocated the capital from Velha Goa in the 17th century. It was elevated from a town to a city on 22 March 1843 making it the oldest civic institution in Asia (175 years).
Goa appears to be “another country” compared to the rest of India with its brightly coloured Portuguese buildings and its well-tarmacked tree-lined roads. The palm trees and calm environment give it a distinctly holiday camp atmosphere. A dampness in the morning air confirmed that we were in the tropics.
On the way to Panaji the boat steered along a channel between heavily palm-forested banks. We passed a luxurious looking hotel with spacious grounds, basketball courts, and playgrounds. “That must be the Youth Hostel”, I remarked in jest to George, but it turned out to be the truth!
The ex-Indian Army warden booked us efficiently into Dormitory One and we quickly stripped off and patronised the showers, washing away the grime of Bombay and the ferry. Refreshed and attired in shorts and shirts we strolled back to Panaji Central for breakfast.
The sun was blazing already as we strolled passed several sport complexes and stadia (basketball appears to be the favourite). The tree trunks on each side of the road were whitewashed and painted with black stripes. The colonial buildings and statues formed orderly surroundings to this unreal “island” in India.
George squealed with glee on sighting a new Bob Dylan music cassette In a shop window, but the live recording of the Concert supporting Jimmy Carter’s 1980 Presidential Campaign was a cover for a hotch-potch money spinner recording.
We had breakfast in the Olympic Restaurant opposite the Steamer Quay. Leaving the restaurant, we met an Indian who had become a Portuguese citizen. The reason for his amicability became apparent when he asked for financial aid. We walked away abruptly and left him looking sheepish.
A full-blown political meeting was underway in the market square with a rousing, mob-stirring speaker holding forth via a Tannoy speaker. The parked motorcycles and cars around the square sported lion emblem yellow flags (possibly the Maharashtrawadi Gomantak Party).
We found a bicycle hire stall and were looking disgustedly at some old bone-shaking wrecks, when the crowd, now stirred to fever pitch, chased some poor wretch away from the square. Luckily, their anger faded as they increased the distance from their sanctum and the riot petered out.
We eventually found three bicycles with at least one brake working and almost complete tyres to protect the inner tubes from the road and we pedalled off towards Old Goa. Twice Martin ground to a halt with a horrendous grunging noise as his real wheel lock came on.
We stopped at 13:00 hrs. by a statue of the Father of the Indian Nation, Mahatma Ghandi, by artist Harish B. Talim, in Old Goa (Located in Old Goa, the Mahatma Gandhi Circle has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site) for liquid refreshment.
The surrounding buildings were typical square, angular European-type with several Catholic crosses and churches. “This is Portugal for sure”, said George, who had been there, again and again. After a couple of photographs with the Ghandi statue and a statue of Jesus (Statue dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus erected opposite the Cathedral of the Archdiocese of Goa e Damao, on the occasion of 400 years of the establishment of the Archdiocese in 1957) as background, we pedalled back to Panaji.
Today it was George’s turn to cop the puncture and he limped in behind us as we pulled into the Tourist Bureau for a free map and liquid replenishment. As we rode back to the bicycle hire shop Martin gave us the slip and I joined George in wheeling our bicycles through the town.
We got lost and eventually joined Martin at the hire shop as he was beginning to worry about the disappearance of his valiant guides. We popped into a wine shop to purchase a bottle of wine each and met the “leader” of the local Communist Party. “I like you”, he said as he pumped our hands, reluctant to break off from the handshakes. He had just returned from Moscow and said that he liked Westerners for “their honesty”.
We trudged back to the Youth Hostel under a merciless sun and turned in for an afternoon siesta. At dusk we made our way to the Solmar Hotel where the locally-brewed Arlem Pilsner went straight to our heads after a day of scant eating. The Arlem Breweries opened in 1966 in Arlem, Raia, Margao, Goa, India. It closed in 2006.
Our host had lived in England, in the East End docklands of London, for eleven years and we had a pleasant chat about public houses and pub games. Suddenly it dawned on George that it was Sunday so we washed down our weekly anti-malaria pills with pils.
Martin and I put away a delicious steak sizzle while George stuck to the old faithful egg curry. We had a merry dance sorting out our payment as we were refused separate bills. It proved to be an expensive splurge, costing almost 100 Indian Rupees in total.
George headed back to the Youth Hostel and Martin and I hit the beach with our bottles of red vino to watch the sunset. We sat on a hummock and soon demolished the wine, which tasted like sherry. We talked of upping and leaving a good home and a good job for adventuring and agreed that it was worthwhile and that worldly experience was invaluable.
We were both pretty merry when we went to bed, passing out immediately when our heads touched the pillows. Pretty soon though my sleep was interrupted by a short but drastic puking session before passing back into oblivion.
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