Betalbatim, Goa
The other day I ate lunch in Nando's (Portuguese-style chicken, for the unacquainted). And they had on this great music which took me right back to a day a few months back...
Betalbatim, Goa
Goa is a former Portuguese colony on the west coast of India, south of Mumbai. It's well-known for its wild, beachy holiday vibe, and is popular with travellers for that reason. When we were there, however, we stayed well away from the tourist traps, and instead found ourselves in a quaint, sleepy little village called Betalbatim located next to Majorda beach. It was one of those places where every single person you passed would greet you with an outrageously huge smile on their face.
One day we took the local bus from Betelbatim to Margao, a town nearby. The bus - more a mini-bus - was old and rusted, and each small pothole in the uneven ground made the bus jerk erratically. Public transport in general in India makes our rollercoaster rides feel like walks in the park. Rather than stopping at designated stops for a certain amount of time, buses will often simply slow down, as passengers scramble to jump aboard before the bus speeds up again. Portuguese music blared from the bus speakers, and Raph and I took the last two empty seats. Later, two elderly women boarded, and we offered them our seats. In an every-man-for-himself society like India's, small courtesies such as this are rarely shown, and the women took the seats with a mixture of bemusement and relief marking their faces. Raph and I stood in the centre of the bus for the remainder of the trip as more and more passengers boarded. It was full to overflowing before we were even half-way there. Each pair of eyes bore into us, not out of any sort of malice, but rather sheer curiosity. They didn't get many foreigners around these parts compared to further north.
The air catapaulting through the open windows as the bus hurtled along was a welcome relief on such a humid, sticky day. Sweat dripped off us, and every bump and swerve tossed us around like ping pong balls, but now it was us with the outrageously huge smiles on our faces. The two women thanked us again and again in their excitable broken English. The sultry Portuguese rhythms (almost) drowned out the sound of the sputtering engine, and the exhaust mingled with that very Indian smell that defies description (manure and spices?). It was one of those experiences which may now sound mundane, but at the time it was everything we had hoped to experience. Our surroundings attacked then seduced our every sense. What more is there than that?
Betalbatim, Goa
Goa is a former Portuguese colony on the west coast of India, south of Mumbai. It's well-known for its wild, beachy holiday vibe, and is popular with travellers for that reason. When we were there, however, we stayed well away from the tourist traps, and instead found ourselves in a quaint, sleepy little village called Betalbatim located next to Majorda beach. It was one of those places where every single person you passed would greet you with an outrageously huge smile on their face.
One day we took the local bus from Betelbatim to Margao, a town nearby. The bus - more a mini-bus - was old and rusted, and each small pothole in the uneven ground made the bus jerk erratically. Public transport in general in India makes our rollercoaster rides feel like walks in the park. Rather than stopping at designated stops for a certain amount of time, buses will often simply slow down, as passengers scramble to jump aboard before the bus speeds up again. Portuguese music blared from the bus speakers, and Raph and I took the last two empty seats. Later, two elderly women boarded, and we offered them our seats. In an every-man-for-himself society like India's, small courtesies such as this are rarely shown, and the women took the seats with a mixture of bemusement and relief marking their faces. Raph and I stood in the centre of the bus for the remainder of the trip as more and more passengers boarded. It was full to overflowing before we were even half-way there. Each pair of eyes bore into us, not out of any sort of malice, but rather sheer curiosity. They didn't get many foreigners around these parts compared to further north.
The air catapaulting through the open windows as the bus hurtled along was a welcome relief on such a humid, sticky day. Sweat dripped off us, and every bump and swerve tossed us around like ping pong balls, but now it was us with the outrageously huge smiles on our faces. The two women thanked us again and again in their excitable broken English. The sultry Portuguese rhythms (almost) drowned out the sound of the sputtering engine, and the exhaust mingled with that very Indian smell that defies description (manure and spices?). It was one of those experiences which may now sound mundane, but at the time it was everything we had hoped to experience. Our surroundings attacked then seduced our every sense. What more is there than that?