I was up early and cleaning up the vomit which was all over my bedsheet, my jumper, my bag and all over the floor. I cleaned up pretty well and went on to do my laundry in the shower. Martin joined me and George went down for a political chat with an Indian in the Common Room.
I hung my washing out to dry on the line by the immaculate basketball court and we walked into town. We were all three, feeling sorry for ourselves and talked little as we slouched along miserably. The beer and wine had made their mark and we were all feeling bleary with hangovers.
Our condition reminded me of a favourite joke often told by George’s brother “Larry”. “They give me a right pasting/kicking last night”, he would say, awaiting the question “who?” “Fuller, Smith & Turner”, he would chortle merrily. He referred to drinking too much Fuller’s beer. Fuller, Smith & Turner is a public limited company based in London, England. Its origins lie in John Fuller's Griffin Brewery, which dates from 1816. In 1845, John Fuller's son, John Bird Fuller, was joined by Henry Smith and John Turner to form the current company.
We took a side road through a lively and colourful fruit and vegetable market. George bought a water bottle and some asprins which he lost immediately. We had breakfast in the Olympic Restaurant where they had bread and a cooker but toast was “not possible”.
We wrote a couple of postcards and set of in search of the Post Office. The cards were quickly despatched and we chased the proverbial wild geese around the town looking for the correct branch of the State Bank of India to handle foreign exchange.
We eventually tracked it down and I changed a £100 sterling travellers cheque after a long wait and a great deal of bureaucratic wrangling. The pound was falling rapidly in value during our tour of India and it was now down to 14.90 Indian Rupees per pound.
As we had decided to spend a few more days in Goa, and as the Youth Hostel was ousting us for a sailing event, we also sussed out a hotel for tomorrow and paid for the night in advance. Returning to said Youth Hostel we stocked up on water and reading matter for a spell on the beach just along from the hostel.
Martin furthered his bright red “suntan”, but I gave myself short exposure to the sizzling rays. A few local fishermen spread out their nets on the sand and groups of Goans stopped to stare at us as they sauntered passed.
At least Miramar Beach is free from the accursed hippies, many of which we had seen earlier swanning about the town. Situated at the confluence of the Mandovi River and the Arabian Sea, Miramar is the beach area of the Goan capital of Panjim, also known as Panaji, and is one of the most visited beaches of Goa.
It is one of the two only beaches in Panjim, other being Caranzalem beach. Many people, mostly tourists, come to this beach every day. Originally named Porta de Gaspar Dias by the Portuguese, the name was then changed to Miramar.
As usual, we quickly got bored and returned to wait outside the Youth Hostel until it reopened at 16:00 hrs. We had our siesta and walked wearily back into Panaji for supper. We had a bland egg curry in the New Punjab Restaurant and moved on to the Olympic Restaurant.
“Can I have a pot of coffee”? asked Pillsbury McCormack (by now we had nicknamed Martin after Pillsbury the Doughboy - Poppin' Fresh, more widely known as the Pillsbury Doughboy, is an advertising mascot for the Pillsbury Company, appearing in many of their commercials. Many commercials from 1965 until 2005 concluded with a human finger poking the Doughboy's stomach. The Doughboy responds when his stomach is poked by giggling).
“No”, said the young Willis lookalike waiter that our Mart had rubbed up the wrong way this morning. Graham Willis was the brother of our friend and fellow Swagman, Richard Willis. He was a surly looking teenage skinhead.
We moved on through the balmy heat to the Tourist Hostel where we found a pleasant first floor balcony overlooking the street and sat sipping coffee to the strains of the Indian songs that we had been indoctrinated to like by repeated playing on a music cassette on our bus trip to Srinagar.
Motorbikes and taxis buzzed along the promenade under the strings of coloured bulbs. The cassette tape was changed for a bootleg version of the Rolling Stones and then Suzi Quatro as we finished off lovely Nescafé instant coffee and I had a lovely curd. Curd and yogurt: the two terms have often been synonymous, but curd or dahi is a dairy product which is made by curdling milk with edible acidic substance like lemon juice, vinegar and even curd itself.
Martin began to make impatient noises about getting back to the Youth Hostel before it closed at 22:00 hrs. This we did, and as it was too hot to sleep immediately, George and I chuckled with mirth and disbelief at a Soviet “news” magazine.
Every article, no matter how seemingly innocuous the subject contained damning statements on the West. Stock phrases such as “Western Imperialism”, “United States aggression” and “N.A.T.O. aggression” were to be found on every page.
We learned of crippling unemployment in Great Britain, mass drug addiction in the West, the struggle for World Peace by the Soviets in spite of the U.S. “insane space program”, and the growing friendship between Russia and Afghanistan.
Martin tossed, turned and grizzled as we went on to discuss Australia and our financial position. If we arrived with what Immigration Officials deemed to be “insufficient funds” for our stay (although I had a working visa I still had to show that I could support myself without working in Australia) we could be “repatriated at our own expense”. This means being flown back to England with our passports held ransom for repayment of the costs.
George paused now and again to take surreptitious swigs from his wine bottle. Meanwhile a dozen locals were having a noisy shindig outside our door. At 01:00 hrs. Martin sighed heavily and gave the merrymakers a verbal broadside which sent them packing.
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