Tag Archives: beach

Photos From India: Goa – The Beach

They all told me that the water wasn’t that nice.

“Honestly mate, it looks a lot warmer than it is” they said. But I saw them splashing around. I had been in a couple of days ago. I remembered that it was like a warm bath. But I didn’t say anything.

The doctor said it would be six months before I could run around again. I would just sit in the sun, trying to tell myself that the water was a lot colder than I remembered.

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5. Leavin’ Goa – Part Two

So I bored a wee Mechano bus to Panajim and had tae stand fir the whole fuckin’ journey. An hour and a half cramped up against the door in a bus with about forty-thousand people crammed in beside me. It was an arduous voyage brethren, let me tell you that. When I got to Panajim I planned to get the next sleeper bus going to Bombay. I didn’t really know what I would do when I got there but I figured I would read the Lonely Planet and work something out. That fuckin’ Lonely Planet man. As soon as my pasty, arctic white hands pull that book out of ma massive brand-new, shiny rucksack, I might as well have a sign above my head saving “Rape my bank account”.

As luck would have it I met a couple of wee Chilean lassies on the bus. They were looking pretty sure of what they were up to and I obviously didn’t really have a clue what I was up to. I saw them walk out of a travel agent’s so I crossed the road looking for a bus ticket somewhere. But I was promptly blind-sided by this shifty little Indian guy who looked like Mr. Bean. He starts tryin’ tae bring me to a ‘better’ travel agents and kicks off by trying to sell me some hash. I show a little bit of interest out of habit but I actually want him to just get to fuck so I can get a bus ticket a get out of Goa. No more salesmen please! But he’s goin’ on and on and I’m getting really pissed off because we’ve walked past about four travel agents in search of his travel agents. He moves on from hash and starts trying to punt Ketamine onto me. I say no thank you. He goes into his pants and pulls oot a wee baggy with two mental lookin’ pills that were as big as Alka-Seltzers.

“What the fuck are they?”

“These are the thing crazy mother-fucks take before they kill every mother-fuck in sight. Terrorists, Paki bastards, take this fuck pill before exploding. “

I just looked blankly at the guy, not really knowin’ how I should react.

“700 rupees” he said.

I just started laughin’ in the wee guy’s face.

“If you like this things, I can find weapons.”

I promptly stopped laughing.

“What weapons can you get?” I said, in a tone which expressed genuine curiosity but absolutely no desire to buy a rocket launcher.

I could see that the wee man had started thinkin’ that he was the big man. This sneaky wee smile spread across his stubbly wee face.

“Well,” he starts all nonchalantly, like an Italian looking at a menu, “machine gun, hand gun, grenade. As you like.”

“Aye, put me doon for one handgun.” I says, just playin’ around with him, thinkin’ he’s full of shite. But Mr. Bean the Drug Machine just lifts his shirt up and flashes this mad old rusty gun at me!

“You like?” he says, grinin’ at me with his big toenail teeth.

“Whit?! Fuckin’ put that away man, jesus!” I shouted and whispered at the same time. “No man, I was only jokin’! Do I look like the sort of guy who’s going to start a fuckin’ insurgency at the Pakistan border? No!? Look at me man?! Just take me to this travel agent’s!”

“Okay, some hash?”

“….Okay, but just the hash please” I answered.

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5. Leavin’ Goa – Part One

So I made it to India ladies and gentlemen! It was a twenty-four hour journey which started in Glasgow, then to Heathrow, then to Istanbul and finally to Delhi. That’s what you get when you fly with Turkish Airlines. I thought I was gonna be buried underneath a heap of molten airplane somewhere in the Afgan desert. So I got to Delhi and fuck all noteworthy happened. Hated it man. Far too chaotic and It felt like every cunt was tryin’ tae penetrate me via ma wallet. I lost a lot of money in a day in Dehli, but I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first. I opted to take the plane to Goa and kept to the original promise I made to myself.  Get to a beach and not think for about three weeks. But Goa, I don’t know man. It feels like I asked for a Jimi Hendrix record but got a Kula Shaker tape. Not quite the hippy groove I was imagining, just a sort of tragic attempt tae cling on. It’s quieter than I thought which is both good and bad, but it’s a hoor of a lot more expensive than I thought it would be. There were lots more inappropriately G-strung German men playin’ beach tennis than I thought there would be and I saw a Cow eatin’ a bike tire. Mental man. Like I said, not quite what I was expectin’ but I guess that was the whole point of comin’ here in the first place. Escaping predictability.

Beaches, relaxin’ tae the max, cocktail in a half coconut, blah blah blah. Beach paradise in the sun, you know how it is darlings. But I will say one thing about Goa, I’ve never bin hassled to buy so much shit I didn’t want in my entire life. Honestly man, the sandy beaches of Goa are strewn with about half a million sunglasses salesmen. Nothin’ you can possibly say to them will deter them from huddlin’around you like drunken tramps around an oil drum fire. Their fuckin’ relentless man and a pure nightmare to get rid of. The followin’ exchange of words was it for me. No more Goa.

“Hello my friend, your cuntree?”


“Oh ho! Scot-o-land! Capital city: Edinburgh. President: David Cameron!”

“Ha ha, aye that’s right aye. He’s a prick though.”


“It doesn’t matter.”

“You want buy sunglasses? I give you nice price!”

“No thanks man.”

“Scot-o-land price!”

“Mate, if ah want any price it’s the fuckin’ Indian price.”

“Ha ha! You is funny guy!”


“Just looking, no have buy. 500 rupees only.”


“Okay 100 rupees.”


“100 rupees, India price.”

“And 500 rupees is Scotland price?”


“Nothing, no. No sunglasses please.”



“This is nice price, nice sunglass, your sunglass not so nice as much these.”

“Cunt, these are Ray Bans. Real fuckin’ Ray Bans.”

“No. Is fake.”

“Look at them! They’re real!”


“Don’t fuckin’ bend them! Here gimme them back.”

“Is fake.”

“They just look fake to you because you’ve never seen a real pair.”

“I is see real pair. These thing. Yours fake I think.”

“No. Expensive.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“How many Rupees?”

“I dunno, about 5000.”

I didn’t bother explainin’ tae him that ma cousin Sandy’s mate Mental Gerry had been on the way to my 21st and realized he hadn’t bought me a present, so he nicked a pair a Ray Bans fae some flashy cunt’s BMW. I promised that I would make an effort tae be more truthful with people but tryin’ to explain all of that tae this guy seemed like a pointless gesture of honesty.

“5000 rupees?! From her?” he pointed at a woman selling jewelry and sunglasses a bit further down the beach.

“No. I got them in Glasgow. Mate, I wouldn’t pay £70 for a pair a sunglasses from a woman on a beach in India.”


“It doesn’t matter. No. No Sunglasses today.”

“Please. Two pairs. Nice price.”

“Brother. I don’t need two pairs of sunglasses!”

“Yes! Two eyes, two sunglasses!”

“No cunt!?! Two eyes, one sunglasses!?!”

I couldn’t do it any longer. I just walked off. I don’t think doing that to this guy was as bad as walkin’ away from that cunt at the party. I still felt kind of bad about that. Doesn’t matter now though. This was different. This guy was going to chip away at me all fuckin’ afternoon until I bought something to make him go away. You know his stuff’s shit, he knows his stuff’s shit, you both know that he’s selling you silence. So I walked away from him and kept walking, all the way to my beach hut made oot of banana boxes, packed my bag and left Vagator beach with the compass set for north.

That exchange had been the second last of that kind in Goa. I had spent ten days goin’ up and doon the coast oan these rickety buses that sounded like football studs in a tumble dryer, searching for the one thing the hippies all failed to get; a bit of fuckin’ peace man.


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