Part 14 Back to Arambol
It had been decided (by me) that our last week would be spent in Arambol before we headed down to Panjim for the two nights just before our flight home. Having once been abandoned by a taxi driver who had indulged his drinking a little too much the night before, causing me to miss my plane, I thought it safer to be nearer the airport for our last night and Panjim has some amazing back street markets if one knows where to look.
First we needed to get from Agonda (in the South) to Arambol (in the far North). A bus from the far side of our little dust track bridge took us to Chaudi. There we jumped on a bus to Margoa just as it edged its way out of the station. In Margoa we boarded another bus to Panjim and from there we were immediately ushered onto a bus to Mapusa. Each bus seemed to be timed to connect with the next with only a minute or two in-between, each bus was full causing bags to be pushed and squeezed into place.
At Mapusa we rested! Our transfer to the small bus that would take us to Arambol had been immediate upon our arrival but the bus was not quite ready to leave. We sat on the back seats as instructed by the conductor, our bags around our ankles, dazed by the sheer scale and speed of our journey.
A man wandered between the various buses selling oranges. As he came close to our bus we waved him over bought four of his thirst quenching fruit, throwing the peelings out of the window to be consumed by the passing cows. The last of our water, now warm and plastic flavoured, was consumed, the last of our biscuits had already disappeared into the children somewhere around Margoa and as yet we had had no time to replace them. We thought about venturing out of the hot bus to find supplies but the bus was rapidly filling up so it was decided it was safer to stay put. One by one people climbed aboard filling first the seats and then the aisle. When the aisle was full they squashed them selves together as more and more bodies stepped aboard.
All the seats plus the aisle were filled to capacity and beyond yet still the bus did not leave. The temperature rose further, the crushing body heat adding to the hot sun blasted air that tried to enter from outside. And still our conductor continued to call to the arriving buses “Arambolarambolarambol!” seemingly oblivious to the crush now inside the bus as even more people tried to get on.
At last the cab door at the front of the bus slammed shut as the driver climbed aboard. His arrival was quickly followed by the thunderous throb of the engine as it shook its way through the framework of the bus. The engine roared as his foot crushed the pedal to the floor building up the pressure before he released it, allowing the roar to fade to a deep rumble. Conversations aboard hushed in anticipation of our departure, the last few bodies were shoe horned through the door as we edged our way out of the station. I confess to seeing nothing of the passing scenery from Mapusa to Arambol but I did view an amazing assortment of backs, bums, bags and arm-pits!
By the time we reached Arambol village we were sweat soaked, dust covered and exhausted. The ATM was raided, the bags were loaded upon our backs for the last 1km stretch to the beach and four very sorry looking travellers marched single file down the long road and onto Classic Huts. We had thought about moving locations upon our return, of treating ourselves to huts with internet but the cost, even this late in the season was stupid so we returned via the Olive Garden (with free Wifi) walking slowly around the back of the restaurant to the awaiting huts.
We moved into two huts opposite each other, hung the hammock,
showered and headed back to the restaurant for dinner. A Thali for 130 rupees, fried rice and noodles for the kids, paneer masala and roti for Peter with a large Kingfisher and sodas all round.
We were home, the travels themselves were over in a way but we were content.
A few hours later, as Peter paid the bill, he glanced up at the bottles on the shelves along the back wall of the restaurant. There, in pride of place were the two metal goblets I had 'lost' when we had moved from Arambol to Aswen all those weeks ago. The owner seeing Peter standing there came over, thrilled that we had returned and asking if he could buy the goblets from us. He had nurtured them knowing we would return to Arambol and hopefully to his restaurant and had kept them safe for us. Over the weeks however he had become quite attached to the beautiful mugs and now wanted to keep them as part of his restaurant!
I was absolutely thrilled upon seeing their return and was loathed to part with them again. We stood at the bar chatting and laughing until I promised to get him some similar ones upon my return to the UK. These I promised to post out to him. He asked if I could deliver them by hand and my eyes fell to Peter. “Maybe,” I murmured but if not by hand then definitely by post I promised.
That night, despite the barking dogs of Arambol, we slept well. A rat decided to join us inside the mosquito net causing a brief awakening but apart from him nothing woke us until late the next morning.
Our morning routine was resumed. Ten minutes of yoga followed by a long walk along the beach and finished with 20 minutes of water exercises. Fruit and bread was bought from the supermarket and veg stall on the main street at the end of our lane for our breakfast at 10 o'clock, afternoon naps that has been compulsory when we first arrived were no longer needed as both children had adapted to the heat and the rhythm of our days well.
We had 10 days ahead of us and life was perfect …. until we discovered that the Olive Garden was closing in two days!!!
The Olive Garden is simply the most amazing restaurant in all of Arambol. The fact that it lies between our huts and the sea and offers free Wifi is incidental. It serves the best thali in town, has a menu of exquisite dishes, all at a fraction of the price of other restaurants plus it plays some of the best old style music at a volume that is just right.
The staff are happy for you to laze on large communal bench seating all day with out ordering a thing, it has comfortable easy chairs that can be taken out into the evening sun and hammocks in which you can sleep or read.
It also lies on the site once held by the Jai Kingdom, owned by Kush, who's sign I painted in exchange for banoffee pie way back in 2002.
The boys who worked there were apologetic, the owner sympathetic but the season was ending and places were closing all around the town. We spent the next two days and nights working our way through the menu!
The day the restaurant closed was a sad one, we moved next door to the Buddha Village but it wasn't the same. We tried the Buddha's Eye at the far end of the beach, Cocks Town and half a dozen others but no where matched the comfort, the food quality and the atmosphere of the Olive Garden.
Evenings were now spent working our way through the shops on the main street. I had promised myself a huge shopping spree upon my return to Arambol. I had no idea how long it would be before I was able to return to the exquisite shops with their hippy designs and fabulous fabrics and I planned to stock up for a few years!!
Silk trousers and dressed were discovered and bought. Tibetian tops were packed away as store after store closed down offering amazing last day deals and prices. Two for one, everything 100 rupees, half price sales abounded and if I had had a bigger bag I might have bought even more.
We hired bikes to explore the very North of Goa, travelling up to Keri beach where Mark, the children and I had walked back in 2004.
Back then only two beach huts had stood on the shore,
now a dozen lay side by side and a huge shore defence barrier was under construction with the rumour that the whole beach had been bought up by an oversea consortium.
For now it was safe, the distant rumble of machinery drowned out by the waves that crashed upon the shores.
Out in the bay dolphins rounded up shoals of splashing fish, circling and feeding before disappearing from view.
We travelled further north, passing out of Goa and into Maharashtra.
We toured down tiny coastal lanes stopping only to buy some bread rolls from a cycling bread boy travelling in the opposite direction.
The heat grew as the sun burnt down on us but we were now hardened travellers and relished the hot wind that blew past us even when it stung our eyes with its dust and slammed large bugs against our skin.
We eventually stopped by a beach at the end of a long track. A small turn around had a sign asking people to take their 'belongings' home when they left. An even smaller sign announced that this was Paradise Beach.
I grabbed my bag holding my camera, as did Angharad, and walked the 100m to the deserted beach.
I took photos of the children and Peter as they bound into the sea,
I took photos of the empty beach, I stowed the bags on the sand in the lee of a boat and joined the family in the cool refreshing sea.
15 minutes later we returned to the bikes only to discover that Peter and Cians money were gone. Their money had been in their clothing that they had locked under the seat of their bike before they had raced into the sea. In the 15 minutes we had been missing someone had appeared in the deserted place, picked the seat lock, gone through their pockets leaving the clothes virtually undisturbed. If Peter had not remembered putting his wallet in his right pocket and not his left we would possible not discovered the robbery until we had tried to pay for something later in the day.
Cursing ourselves for our stupidity and hoping that the person who had robbed us would at least eat well that evening, we resumed our explorations before calling at a tiny drinks stall for refreshments. My purse had luckily been in my camera bag so the drinks were on me!
That evening we rode the bikes out of Arambol to dined on the hill over looking the beach on the way to Aswem.
We sat in the open air our sun kissed faces glowing in the evening sun.
I took a photo that turned into something SiFi when a flying bug got caught in the flash (well I think that is what it is!!) the food was wonderful, the service exquisitely helpful but it wasn't the Olive Garden.
We returned in darkness, the headlights of the bikes barely illuminating the floor in front of us. Our bikes were parked up by the rooms before we walked up the lane to our local supermarket for four 30 rupee ice cream cones. The bikes had been hired for two days, today had been our practice run for tomorrow we planned to ride to Anjuna Market.
Our rat returned to keep us company in our room that evening, this time content to sit on the side table and simply watch us as we slept. We closed our eyes and left him to his guard duty, happy in the fact that we had eaten all the food, so he ate my orange peel and melon seed necklace instead!
