After 48 hours of traisping the local and tendentiously unreliable wifi scene hearing intermittent tidings of JetAiways' utter incompetency, which provided a good test for my yogic serenity, Jack finally crested the ramshackle doorway of Dabolim Goa's hectic airport and we were reunited for a rambunktious embrace - to the delight and applause of bystanders.
We made our way happily back to the solitude of Agonda, to a beautiful little hut I'd fortuitously secured on the North side. Our beach shacķ was so wonderfully secluded from the hustle and bustle of the main beach that only fishermen in the early hours, and a few inquisitive cows disturbed our peace. The only advantge of the atrocious airport affliction was that I was able to spend a few extra hoursseriously kitting out the room with decorations, gifts and a fridge full of beers. Thus, we spent the final sunset of 2013 swinging serenely in our surrupticious hammock, supping beers and slipping into subtle inebration. Midnight arrived with an onslaught of fireworks and we watched the symphony of erratic explosions unfold until we reclined into lazy slumber on the beach.
We rented a bike and headed North, hugging the coast navigating the long and quiet roads which are framed by vast expanses of lush green jungle. Venturing along a shaded tributary, we met the sea and two tiny ladies heading out into the shallows with buckets in hand and dilapidated flip flop underfoot, and accepted a cheerful invitation to accompany them to work. Much to Jack's delight, he had been hankering to bother the locals and find out what they were upto from the word go. We waded through the water to meet a gathering of other gatheres churning up the silty sea bed for clams. We were fed several fresh oysters to the delight of the women and children, who then racously introduced us to their friends with what seemed like pride, but since they declined offers of oysters themselves vowing to only eat them cooked, these exclamations may have been Hindi mockery, but c'et la vie. Falling into line and descending to my haunches, I quickly became consumed by an obsessive compulsive combing for clams, and Jack was only able to prize me and my muddy claws away after half and hour.
The different species of bats had been capturing my attention since arriving in Mumbai, and we received a tip off from Sam that there was a cave on the far side of Palolem beach in which reems of them would stirring from sleep at any moment. So in the blink of an eye we were back on the bike, tripod in tow, heading for the rocks. After half an hour of scrambling around aimlessly, we were guided to our sunset destination by a friendly man from Belarus, which incidentally, is the last country under dictatorship rule in Europe; an unsavoury place for a prosperous business man or reluctant tax payer. We stationed ourselves on the edge of a large crevice (now there's a dirty word) which was emitting flurries of tiny, furry flashes. Within seconds we were encased in bats, they were swarming all around us, repeatedly beelining dangerously for our faces before skillfully ducking out at the last millisecond. One poor bat wasnt quite so lucky and collided with Jack's back in a violent flap. This sent the tripod into a slow-motion and gut-wrenching tumble into the depths of the the rocky declivity, but was saved by a seriously heroic grasp, millimeters away from certain destruction.
The following day, we took a long and languid drive with a taxi driver who spoke not a word of english but harboured a quiet yet melliflous singing voice. Passing through dissipating landscapes of leafy green jungle which carpeted rolling hills dissappearing off into the distance, and past golden expanses of sandy scrub broken by the occasional shambolic solitary hut, we enjoyed the lazy cruise to Dudsuhgar Falls, Goa's largest and India's second largest waterfall, However the serenity of our journey was shattered when we arrived at the bustling centre of tourist activity, where I was practically torn from the car by an unacceptably overzealous tout hell bent on herding tourists like cattle with a severe tongue lashing and a helping of physical pressure. After reasonably reprimanding the grabby gentleman, we found a jeep to take us on a perilous path up dicey muddy inclines and through rickety rocky fjords. Another half kilometer walk or so brought us to the 600 metre waterfalls which we utterly breathtaking. As was the freezing water in the pools beneath. After spending an adequate amount of time topping up our serotonin levels admidst the celestial mists of the falls, we descended into town and chanced across a game of Carrom, an Indian form of billiards played with wooden disks on an archaic chalky board. Being paired with a local champion was good news for me, but decidedly less for him as it turned out.
The various gregarious individuals I'd befriended along Agonda road were keen to meet Jack and so before dinner we meandered down the 2km stretch, a short journey which ended up taking just over two and a half hours... Goodbyes were brief and tearless as I staunchly exersised the practice of non-attachment, and my heart only really trembled in Sam's embrace, and during my final moment hand in hand with Denash, Dirtg D, who gallantly accepted Jack warmly after their introduction, thus sadly ending my brief but torrid Indian romance and the alluring promise of an authentic five day wedding at the end of January.
Oh well. Onwards and upwards, and off to Hampi.
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