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Going to Goa.

By: Green Fuz on the 15th July 2009 at 12:29pm

Short story - Travel

 I was told that when I got to India I would have to wash my balls in a bucket. That statement wasn’t far wrong, I reflected as I poured a bucket of well water over my head. I kept my mouth shut tight to make sure I didn’t swallow any of the tepid grey water and ended up with the drizzling shits again. I was giving myself a whore’s bath, a quick rinse of the nugget and nads in a little concrete box, the size, shape and smell of a London telephone box. Through the decorative air holes I could see the swamp of rubbish that lay at the back, and beyond that fishing boats and the sea. The mound of refuse smelt dreadful, and the last few days it had begun to smell even worse, this was due to the rotting corpse of a dead dog lying on top of it, who one presumes, crawled up there and died of pleasure. The shower box doubled as the WC. There was a sign on the door that stated WC, but there was no water and there was no closet, just a hole in the floor. The hole led to a chute, leading directly to the pile of rubbish. Sometimes you’d be crouched over the hole squeezing one out and hear snorting outside, this was the sound of a pig waiting to eat your little brown gift for lunch. Waste not want not. Pigs weren’t the only uninvited guests that would intrude on your private time, since arriving in India I had been forced to share the toilet with dogs, spiders, snakes and frogs. No shit, a big green frog lived down the crap hole. The WC was situated a short walk from my hut in Chapora village in North Goa. The hut contained nothing but an iron bed, and a table and chair, which had been there since the days of the Raj, and not cleaned since. Everything in the room was covered in sand, which was blown in through the glassless window nightly. When I first arrived I had spent hours sweeping the room thoroughly, only to wake up the following morning under a foot of sand.


I went for a leisurely stroll down to Little Vagator beach. The golden sands were truly beautiful, surrounded with towering coconut trees, which had cracked more than a few skulls in their time. A few people were wandering around the beach, locals, back packers, pot heads and hippies, some of whom, you could tell by their tans and smell, had been there a long, long time. Some of the old hippies had arrived here in the late seventies and never left, and who could blame them, this place was paradise for the short of budget. I tried to dodge the demon hawkers with their bags of tat as I walked on down the sand and manoeuvre my way around the cows, which wandered freely all over India , from the countryside, to the shopping malls, and even at the airport. It was strange when I thought about it, millions of starving people and all that good steak wandering around nonchalantly. I had once come to a head on collision with a cow in Varanasi, there wasn’t enough room for both of us on a narrow path so the cow head butted me out of the way and I learnt a valuable lesson, don’t play chicken with a cow. Further down the beach a gang of middle-aged ex-pats were playing a good-humoured game of cricket with a gang of local kids who were running circles round the old men. One of the fat old geezers was naked apart from a tiny gold thong that his enormous belly hung over. I’ve seen some frightening things in my time, but none so frightful as that.

I reached the edge of the beach to where the rocks started and where there was a magnificent carving of Shiva’s head, it slowly emerged from the sea like magic every time the tide went out. The carving was in full view meaning the tide was out, so I decided to climb the rocks to see what was on the other side, maybe another more secluded beach? I had only got five minutes across the rocks when I came across a strange sight. Washed up on the rocks in front of me was a human skeleton wearing blue shorts. At first I thought it was a dummy one might find in a joke shop or medical supply store, the bones were bright white, but on closer inspection I could see it was real, bits of dried flesh hung off the bones. I gawped at it for a while, I had my camera on me and couldn’t decided whether to take a photo or not, somehow it didn’t feel right. I wondered if the body had fallen off the cliffs and had been decomposing there a long time, but surely someone else would have spotted it before? So it must have been washed up by the sea quite recently, maybe a sailor fallen overboard, nibbled by sharks and fish in the ocean, maybe a trippy traveller who had gone for a midnight swim off his bollocks, that had never returned until now. I walked back to the beach and saw an Indian boy, I shouted at him, 
“Hey! Come quick, there’s a body!”
It raised his curiosity and he followed me to where the skeleton lay facedown on the rocks. He looked at the skeleton then turned to me,
“He is dead.” He stated matter of fact, nodding his head from side to side in that pleasing Indian way.
“Yes. It’s quite likely.” I said.
“You must tell the police, come I will take you” he said more excited now.
“All right.”
We walked back across the beach and past the vulgar cricket match.
“He find body on beach!” Shouted the boy at everyone, pointing at me.
“Another dead hippy on the beach? Welcome to Goa mate.” One of the fat old buggers said.
The English abroad, I thought in self pity.

We got to the other side of Little Vagator to where a little wooden hut stood. Inside were a couple of policemen not much older than the boy that had led me there. One was reading a newspaper, his feet on the desk next to a cup of chai. The other was smoking a bidi cigarette, slung over his shoulder was an ancient blunder buster shotgun with a funnel barrel.
“Bagged a Tiger old boy?” I enquired.
“He find body on beach” said the boy, nodding at me.
“A body?” said the policeman, looking at me wisely.
“A dead body” I said.
“Well. More of a skeleton really.”
He looked confused now. “Where is this body?” He asked, easing down the newspaper.
“On the rocks.”
“The rocks?” He sounded disappointed. He then yawned, scratched his nuts and farted. “Oh. I find later.” He got back to his paper, apparently having nothing more to say on the matter.

That evening I went down the Yak Café for a few glasses of fenny, a local made coconut liquor which you could fuel a nuclear missile with. I started up a conversation with Mike, a backpacker and fellow Brit. He was telling me the story of a friend of his who had being partying in Goa for years,
“He liked his drugs, and whenever he was in Goa, he would gobble down the pills like multi-coloured Smarties, he ingested enough to down a fat fucking elephant every day he was here. Last year he totally lost his mind, started eating driftwood and bumming chickens, he could no longer function in a normal social parameter, his mother came out here and took him back to England and put him into care. Anyway this year he tried to convince everyone he was well enough to come back to Goa for the party season, but he arrived at the airport with three tickets, one for him, one for Cindy Crawford and one for Sam Becket from Quantum Leap. Needless to say they didn’t let him fly, Sam Becket is a fictional character.”
There’s no answer to that.
“But seriously,” warned Mike, “Don’t buy any party pills out here, you’ll get sold shit stolen from a pharmacy and told it’s an E, I heard of a guy who popped a pill and had a boner for two days solid, he had to piss up the wall and sleep on his back, no amount of wanking would tame his beast. He could no longer wear a thong in public. He had to take another pill to make him floppy and now he can’t get a boner anymore. Tragic”

The following day I headed back down to Vagator beach. The Tourist Police hut was closed, so I decided to walk down to the rocks to see if the skeleton was still there. The beach was empty apart from a few cows, the waves made a soothing sound as they rolled in. I climbed the rocks to where the body had been and came across a surreal sight. The skeleton was gone and in its place was a dead pig. A large black crow sat on top the pigs head picking out an eyeball. I stood there gawping and wondered to myself, what the hell is going to be here tomorrow?


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  • City of London, United Kingdom

    Anthony on the 15th July 2009 at 1:00pm

    That is absolutely crazy. Sounds a bit of a lost paradise.