After a sweaty early morning trek, me and Lisa arrive at the Sea Horse beach bar and check ourselves in to one of the bamboo huts they have there. Right by the ocean and free from creepy crawlies (mostly). Perfect! We ditch our bags and head for an early morning paddle (bliss!) then settle beach-side for some breakfast. We've barely started eating though, when a small boy, no more than 2 or 3, comes over to our table and dances to the beat of a drum being played by this mother (who is also carrying a new born baby), then literally climbs through a tiny metal hoop. Afterwards, his mother sends him round all the tables to collect money. Easily the saddest thing I've seen in a long time, but simply a way of life here. Something we quickly discover is the immense sadness of the lives of a lot of Indian women. At the flea-market, for example, we speak to one stall holder called Gita, who is only 24. Married at 15 (an arranged marriage) she is now 8 months pregnant with her 2nd child, and out working ridiculously long days in the blistering heat. When asked where her husband was, she just laughed and said that he lies at home all day watching cricket on the TV. In her next life, she hopes to be reincarnated as a western woman, because of all the freedoms that we enjoy. Another girl (Anita, aged 12) wishes that she could go to school, but instead she has to sell bangles and beads on the beach. School, she says, is preferential for boys. She has no choice but to work. Despite their circumstances though, none of the women or girls that we meet are particularly downtrodden or downbeat. They are resilient, strong and hopeful of something better for their own children. As cliched as it may sounds, I have never appreciated my freedom so much.
And deciding that we need to make the most of our freedom, me and Lisa rent out scooters, at the cost of about 2 pounds per day. Goa is the perfect place to explore on a scooter; OK, so the traffic is still typically Indian (ie mental), but the roads and long and wide and the scooters easy to use. We drive all over the Goa, exploring all the other beaches - Baga, Calangute, Arambol and even a lovely deserted beach on the far north called Keri, where we stop and sunbathe in total isolation. So far so stunning, until the bloated and absolutely rancid-smelling corpse of a dead cow washes up on the shore. Of course, Lisa whips her camera out, so I's sure pictures will follow. Needless to say, we don't stick around there long, both of us wretching and heaving as we zoom off on our scooters.
We decide to keep the scooters for the duration of our stay in Goa - they're too much fun and far too cheap not too. Back in Anjuna we decide to end our day with a few beers on the beach, and end up drinking with a couple of Swiss guys (more Swiss! Nice but dull...). They invite us to a Goa trance party at the far end of the beach. And oh-dear-god is is horrific. I can hardly find the words to describe how terrible the music was, how many fuckwits were there and how overpriced the whole thing was. I can't think of a single person I know that would enjoy it.
So we make our excuses and leave (the music isn't the only problem....the Swiss political and economic chat doesn't exactly enthrall either of us!), ready for bed and more exploring. We only have a couple more days in North Goa, and definitely do not want to waste them sleeping....
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