Arriving in Goa blew me away, not immediately, only when I
got out the cab. Yeah, decadent bastard that I am, I got a taxi from the
airport to the furthest beach away. The plan was to skip Goa itself, head
straight on through and stamp my mark on Maharashtra. When you hear of a beach
called Paradise it’s got to be worth checking out, it also came well
recommended. Largely due to flight times there was no way I would make it in
one day from Chennai, so at least one night in Goa was on the cards. And that
actually turned into one week, how I’ll never know. I came to Arambol, the
north most beach in Goa, renowned as one of the quietest beached in the state.
Aren’t I damned glad I didn’t try one of the others, by my standards it’s
heaving. According to the locals and regulars, numbers have dropped off
drastically in the last couple of weeks. So what have I got to complain about? (Photo: Sunset on Arambol Beach - Goa, India)
Not the variety of food available anyway, that is probably
the single biggest bonus for being here. But for a wide choice there must be a
high number of cafes/restaurants, and the beach is filled from one end to the
other, as well as the roads into and out of the beach area. Sun loungers are
laid out throughout the day, with sun umbrellas for shade, so you can sit back
and watch the world go by. And just what is the world you behold? Actually I
think it’s a suburb of Moscow, there are that many Russians here. Pardon me
comrade in case I offend, I’ve heard more Russian spoken in the last week than
I did crossing mother Russia. I won’t go into details, but the locals have a
very dim view of them as a nation. I think the most noticeable difficulty they
face is having poor English, a high percentage anyway. In my eyes tourists from
nations rising out of poverty are all quite bad. They love to flash their cash,
they don’t deal well with cultural differences, and they often show little
respect for anything or anyone other than themselves. 
As Brits we used to be the same, probably having to give
everybody’s territory back to them humbled us slightly, some of us anyway. As a
nation we are no longer high in the tourist stakes, I’ve met more Austrians
than Brits in the last three months. We used to have a bad rap abroad, when the
average Brit was either staggering around drunk, or stoned in a heap in the
corner. The party scene is still going strong at choice destinations around the
tropics, but the clientele are much more cosmopolitan nowadays. To say the
average tourists are looking very young is testament to my advanced years.
There are plenty of old farts doing the Goa scene, some are eccentric in the
extreme, others just plain crazy. There is no shortage of characters to amuse
yourself by watching, I can do it all day. But for all I know I could be
earmarked as one of the weird old ones. (Photo: Evening entertainment - Arambol Beach, Goa)
In my own mind I’ve failed to settle or feel comfortable in
Arambol. There’s too many people, too much noise, it’s too polluted and way too
developed. The local Goans are nice people, friendly and accommodating, which
is why their state was turned into the party centre of the planet for quite a
few years. Recent years have seen a crackdown on the beach parties, the week
long free for all’s are now a thing of the past. Goa is now mainstream tourism,
but still with a heavy blend of neo-hippies remaining faithful to the area. So
I should fit in, right? You know, with the sun-bleached dreads, bronze tan,
emblazoned with tattoos. I may do in appearance, but it’s not where I’m at in
life. At least not at this moment in time, I’d go as far as claiming to be
introverted. Maybe I should stumble into another pal like Rudy, in Kuala
Lumpur, whose indomitable mood would always end up where there was alcohol,
music and a good time in the offing. 
It’s mayhem here, which is what makes me withdraw. The beach
is crowded, guesthouses are crammed together, cafes are wall to wall along the
whole of the beach, the tables and sun-loungers are almost elbow to elbow; there
is no personal space. I can’t sit quietly and think straight, every establishment
plays music loudly, competing for the airwaves, every waking hour. If I sit in
the open air my ears are bombarded from all directions. And I guess this is not
what I’m after, so why have I stayed here so long? Apart from a little business
at home to administer to, there is nothing here I need. But it gave me time to
realise it, that I do actually want to be away from it all. So it has been
useful having a glut of facilities to pander to my every whim, but my demands
are simple. I want all the facilities as well as some peace and quiet, so I’ve
utilised what facilities I need and now it’s time to depart once more. Paradise
calls! 
The big thing for me here was an easy rental of a motorbike,
and it had to be a Royal Enfield. At £6 a day they aren’t expensive, but on an
Indian budget it makes a heavy dent in expenditure, so I used it to both
sightsee and find the elusive Paradise Beach. I had a good day, being on a bike
again was lovely. What did surprise me was feeling nervous of hiring a bike,
that’s a first for me. It was fine though, before many miles I was loving
throttling the poor throbbing beast for all it was worth. Two trips to Paradise
were made, one to find somewhere to stay, and then to take my bag over with the
bike. The beach looks as nice, despite the tide line of flotsam. At least on
Paradise the litter is washed up, not semi-buried as it is in Arambol. Here
they dig a shallow hole and bury the litter, only just beneath surface level.
The effect is a constant uncovering of old waste, the sand is forever strewn
with discarded plastic wrappings. Yeah, it’s gonna be good to move on today.
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