Bike Ride to Agonda and Back

Part 12 of our Trip around Goa 

Morning tends to come abruptly in India. Dogs, woken by the cockerels, who in turn were woken by the late night/early morning guests returning to their rooms, join the morning chorus of birds, pot washing and throat clearing. Voices mumble to each other in surrounding rooms, sweepers shwoosh their way around the area gathering the fallen leaves into piles as the world comes to life.

Blurry eyed, the children sat on our porch writing up the details of the previous day in their journals as Peter and I began the negotiations with our taxi driver. The assured 300 rupees for the entire trip quickly turned into 300Rps just to Agonda, 500Rps if we wanted to go to Cola and No he couldn't wait. 500 there and 500 back, the day was getting expensive!

We smiled, we nodded, we shook our heads and turned away. Instantly the price became lower but it was still more than we were willing to pay. During our discussions the evening before, Plan B had been briefly aired before being put away for future discussion. In light of the costs involved in exploring the immediate area, Plan B was enthusiastically brought back out and given a good shaking. Plan B involved motor bikes!!

For 400 rupee high season, 200 rupee low season you can hire a bike for the day, if you hire for a week or more the price is even less and for a little more money you can hire yourself an Enfield, some of which come complete with army style heavy duty side cages to carry your bags.

Tourists are not actually allowed to ride bikes in India, there is no insurance to cover them, there are no checks to see if you have a licence, the roads are manic, helmets non existent and any accident, whether caused by you or the other party, will always be your fault yet is is still such a simple way to get around.

We settled on two mopeds, big enough to get us from A to B, small enough for us to potter through the countryside enjoying the view. One of our chosen mopeds unfortunately had a flat tyre, “No problem” beamed our bike man and giving Peter the Enfield to ride he jumped onto the flat tyred bike and sped off down the road with us in hot pursuit! The tyre was pumped, the tanks were filled and with sad eyes Peter handed back the Enfield and got onto his little bike.

The busy National Highway was left to the Express Buses and overloaded trucks while we headed North along the coast road. The occasional vehicle, most of which looked like they were on a serious mission, raced past us as we meandering along the quiet road, past paddy fields flowing with ripening rice and trees full of Guava.

Agonda was actually found more by luck than by judgement as we gazed this way and that, paying only scant attention to the road. A small sign by a bus stop said 'Beach' and pointed down a narrow dusty track that led over an even smaller bridge and onto an assortment of huts and buildings hidden amongst the trees. Brakes were squeezed, gravel was scattered as we slid to a stop, the dust of the track throwing up clouds of fine red powder in my wake.

We parked the bikes in a small clearing stunned at the noise coming from the trees around us. Looking up we discovered branches filled with large fruit bats, wings gently fanning back and forth as the heat rose around them. Squabbles over space erupted every now and again sending an occasional huge expanse of wing soaring overhead to settle in another part of the tree where the chittering complaints would start afresh.

We watched fascinated as the territories within the trees were declared or shared.

Between the trees and huts, golden sand beckoned. We left the bikes in the shade well out of the reach of falling bat debris and went to explore.

Agonda beach is a wonderful example of what Palolem once was. Huts nestle amongst the trees, beach restaurants lie spaced along the shore, fishing boats are pulled up onto the sand, their nets piled high beside them. In high season the sands would have been covered with people coming and going but now only two Indian couples ventured towards the sea and the restaurants lay mainly empty.

We walked to the sea to wash our dust covered feet before walking back towards the trees lining the shore and home to the only tree house in the area. At the restaurant next door three long term residents lounged happily on the sun beds and asked if they could help. We asked if the tree house was empty. A debate started as to whether the people had left last night or this morning, a debate that was both interesting and pointless as no one knew for certain! In the end it was decided that as the door was open and no one had come out to see what all the noise was about, it must be empty!

“How much” we asked. Another debate began about the price, the owners were away celebrating Holi and again no one knew for certain when they would be back or even how much they would charge at this time of the year. We settled for drinks causing yet another round of debates as they tried to decide what they had available. Peter, one of the long term residents who had arrived some time last autumn, volunteered to make coffee having emptied the fridge of the one bottle of Limca for Cian and given the only bottle of slightly warm Miranda to Angharad.

We settled and shared the home life that had been forged between these people. Ann came from London, Rebecca was born in Bridgend, all had been here before, all stayed for at least 4 months a year in the same huts with the same neighbours caring for any new arrivals like hosts rather than guests. By the time we were ready to move on, a price of 600Rupees per night for the tree house had been decided and we booked ourselves in for two nights starting the next day.

The sun was now high in the sky and hot. The air rushing past us on the tarmacked road was even hotter. Waves of oven like heat blew across my face and arms as Angharad sheltered in the lee of my back. The road wound up into hills, seemingly far from the coast, before turning down into sheltered avenues full of trees laden with cashew fruit and nuts.

The sign to Cola beach was large and impressive and not one that could be easily missed although it didn't state a distance. We turned back on ourselves to slowly bump our way along the red dust road. Large rocks lay strewn along the way, rain eroded potholes jabbed at our wheels causing Angharad to bounce out of her seat behind me.

The track twisted and turned through sun baked brush and thorn bushes until I began to wonder if we were indeed going the right way. Peter took up the lead, picking a trail through the holes and ridges as Angharad and I wiggled back into our seats after a particular big bump! The track began to lead down at an alarming rate, the soft dusty earth doing nothing for my confidence as my wheels lost traction again and again. Unaware of any danger Angharad laughed and called out as each jarring stone knocked my front wheel out of line.

It was with relief that we passed two bikes coming in the opposite direction. “You have done the easy bit” they laughed as they passed. Their clean white faces grinned at our red dust covered bodies “not far now!”. 400m later we came to a small clearing containing two bikes and a car and gratefully stopped. Steps led their way down through swaying palm trees, their huge leaves rustling in the breeze, while in the distance we could hear the sound of waves beating upon a shore.

“Steps Again!” sighed Peter, shouldering the bags full of water and swim wear. I smiled. “Think of the calories” I murmured tapping his shrinking belly as I passed. In the past 4 weeks Peter had lost a stone in weight, a feat that had proved quite elusive in the UK. Between the heat, the healthy vegetarian diet, our daily walks and swims he was at last becoming the man he was when we first met. He grinned back and followed me down.

Cola is a strange beach compared to the ones we had seen so far. A long extremely narrow sandy beach at the base of a cliff like ridge, drops rapidly into the sea causing the huge swells to pound the shore with a ferocious force. A life guard sat at a rocky point and I asked his advice before venturing in with the children. “Just be careful” he nodded back, picking up his rescue float as he spoke. Not totally reassured we stepped into the cooling sea noting how the beach went from ankle depth to neck in a single stride.

The good thing was the fact that the rollers pushed you inwards, the bad news was that to get past the first 10 foot of huge crushing waves you needed to be out of your depth. The children bobbed beside us at arms reach washing the grim and dust of the trip away. Peter and I abandoned any form of exercise as our life guard watched us attentively until we returned to the shore refreshed and still alive.

Further along the shore from the steps, the beach opened up to a fresh water lagoon separated from the sea by a large drift of sand. The waterway winds itself away from the beach, running along the valley floor to disappear around a corner and out of sight.

Tall coconut trees grow on terraced ledges, beneath which large stiff ridged tents complete with decking and chairs lie in lines.

The white of the tents has become darkened in the humid environment but there is still something not quite right to the eye as they line the waterfront. I have seen and stayed in tree houses, wood huts, stone huts, woven huts, wall to wall huts and isolated huts during my visits along the coast but these dwellings looked regimental in some way. Impersonal with their identical ropes and seats, armyfied in their orderly lines. 

The lagoon was refreshing and cleansing after the beating of the sea and despite the orderly formation of the tents, the setting was idyllic and picturesque. I was glad we had come but I didn't want to stay here. 

Peter and I gathered up the children and our bags and headed back up the sheer sides on the cliff counting steps once more as we worked our way to the top.

The sun had moved during our foray onto the beach and bikes that had once been in the shade now stood in the blazing sunshine. Children were told to walk as Peter and I skidded our bikes over the 200m of gravel and ridges to the top of the cliff. There the children were allowed to mount and with Peter once more picking the path through the rough track, we headed back to the main road. We rewarded ourselves with ice cream from a tiny store by the big Cola beach sign and decided what to do next. We didn't really want to go any further North so we decided to explore more fully our route back to Palolem

.

Time and again we stopped to gaze up at trees full of nuts or fruit, time and again we were passed by trucks full of people holding balloons on their way back from Holi celebrations. As I passed one such truck a loud Bang was heard and it ground to a sudden halt.

Peter, just behind me, stopped as person after person began to dismount from the back. The axle had broken or something and they now needed to walk. 30 or 40 people clambered down onto the tarmac from the tiny space at the back of the cab as Peter and Cian watched fascinated. Indian people, it was surmised, can pack a truck even better than they can pack a bus!!!!

It was nearly 2pm when we passed a large turning to our right. It was too early to go back so I pulled to the side of the road to allow Peter to draw level. “Shall we see where it goes?” I asked, “Why not” he grinned turning his bike as he spoke.

The road was sign posted with something about a Dentist Mission (?), no other clue could be gleamed from the arrows as we started down the solid tarmac road. 2K later the road branched at a T junction that ran parallel to a sweeping beach and in large print a sign said AGONDA BEACH!

If this was Agonda, where had we been before??

We followed the road past the familiar tourist shops, sarongs, carvings, cash credit and money exchange, fruit stalls, barbers and of course the huts and restaurants. The road eventually turned into a red dust track, the sign at the last restaurant stating Free Wifi and happy hour. We parked up and went inside for drinks and snacks.

While the children settled in the cool and comfortable restaurant with their Fantas and pakoras, I walked out onto the beach to try to see where we were. The beach swept left and right as far as I could see yet up in the distance I recognised the colourful beach huts we had visited before. Some how we had managed to enter Agonda through the back door and on our way home we had stumbled upon her main entrance. Free Wifi was a good sign, great food confirmed the restaurant in our minds and a plan for the morrow began to take root.

One of the joys of travelling, as opposed to holidaying in one particular spot, is the flexibility of decision making. Some places are purposefully sought out following the recommendation of people you meet along the way. Other places are stumbled across as you journey from one area to another. Tiny gems in a journey of discovery.

I had come to Palolem in search of the tree houses I had lived in years before. As Palolem had developed the simple tree houses had gone, replaced by expensive en-suite palaces. In Agonda I found my tree house, I also discovered a place similar to the Palolem of old but with all the creature comforts of our modern day internet and ATMs.

We journeyed back on the bikes as the sun dipped down behind the trees, the shadowed coolness a welcome change for my sun baked arms and head. We passed through villages on the edge of town celebrating Holi, the coloured dust being thrown high into the air as we passed.

We explored other side roads, discovered other small beaches, other tiny settlements. Bikes give you the freedom to get off the bus routes, to explore dead ends, to venture down tracks that lead only to a cluster of huts full of barking dogs and curious smiling children.

Back at our rooms the children celebrated Holi in their own way with the coloured powder they had bought back in Gokarna. Tomorrow the celebrations would begin in earnest, but tomorrow we would be in Agonda!