The ex and I are in Goa for a week over the New Years.
With my parents and the neighbors (also Bawas).
I’ve always gone with the family, and really never been to Goa with a jing styled a lá Riddhi and her court. The only other friend I’ve gone to Goa with is Leo. We visited Riddhi and her jing at the slum they were living in Anjuna once to pick up our mal. I say slum, because there were 8 people (including her current and ex-boyfriend) to a double bedroom. The thought of it frankly terrifies me. I like the mal and all that, but 8 to a room is dreadful. I can’t do it anymore, even if I was hammered out of my skull I couldn’t do it. I’m too old.
I haven’t been blogging as often for obvious reasons.
One being that the hotel we are staying at turns off the wi-fi at night. Which is a typically Indian notion. Like the wi-fi will run out or something.
The other reason is that it’s Goa. I’m too busy lazing around, eating and drinking.
Right now I’m sitting outside our wooden hut rooms, with a watermelon juice and my laptop, which only has about 1:30 mins of battery time left. Fucking macs batteries.
So I’ll re-cap the last few days as briefly as possible.
We took the morning flight out from Bombay on the 26th. My mother, using her usual tactics didn’t stop nagging until we were in the car and on the way to the airport.
My god that’s an exhausting way to wake up. Seriously, how are you supposed to drink your tea in peace with constant yakking?
By the end of day one even the ex was exhausted with the friendly familial bickering that is common among bawas and semi-loudish Indians and my family in particular.
Back in our designer huts – Yes, designer huts. Ac, Wifi & 24 Hour room service provided! (No telephone in the room, if you want room service you need to go to reception.) – we are a little thrown to find a tiny frog perched on a step in our loo. We try to find someone who will remove it for us.
Later a boy who seems highly amused by our request, comes with a mop and bucket to take the little fellow out. I tell him to be careful not to hurt it. Once the froggie has been safely dispatched, the ex, in triumph, promptly confiscates his mop.
I am them made to mop the loo and floor where I’ve tracked in sand and mud. Even on holiday there is no respite from this hateful cleaning, a fact which I mournfully complain about. The ex is unrepentant.
We all went off on our own. Thank fucking god.
I needed to lie down and read my Poirot in peace.
The ex and I were having a post-swim shower, and I demand the full use of the shower to wash my hair. Communal bathing is so annoying, especially when you are forced to wait in the sidelines to use the shower.
I like constant flowing water. (Sorry eco-friendly, bucket-bath type people.)
“Can I please use the shower now?”
(I ask the ex)
“NO! You have to bathe with me!”
My mother pipes in suddenly from outside the hut,
“I can hear you, you know.”
The ex and start giggling and promptly dispatch my mother on a shopping errand for Shampoo. (Since she is so conveniently near by.)
We made the colossal mistake of trying to sight-see in Old Goa.
I hadn’t been there in so long I had forgotten what an utter waste of time it was.
So really the entire day was lost in commuting to see St. Xaviers’s or St. Francis’s or whatever his name is, embalmed remains.
Like we gave a shit. And the worst part of it all was that we had absolutely no mal whatsoever.
None! I was so angry.
I discovered the ex has a highly entertaining posh habit of asking the waiters, no matter where we are, their food recommendations and serving suggestions.
So while we are lounging on our sun-beds and ordering lunch, the ex asks our shack waiter (in English), dead seriously;
“How do you serve your masala papad?”
As though this little shack is 4 star restaurant.
The waiter looks puzzled. There is a pause. He nods and says
and walks away. So I respond on his behalf to he ex;
We then spent the rest of the time napping and ‘Gay spotting’. The ex was convinced this heavily beefed up guy in tight red shorts playing ball with a weedy looking boy was a homo.
I thought it was more likely he was not, even though the size of this thighs and the tightness of his pants were highly suspicious. The ex cited the dubious fact that his rugby ball matched his shorts exactly. It was assumed to be some sort of clear sign.
By day 4 I had succumbed to sheer beach-bum laziness and was using the sea as my personal toilet.
Look I know, I know it’s bad, it’s wrong. Haw haw thapad thapad.
But one Shandy down plus a dirty shack loo with no toilet paper is my excuse.
I try to rationalize that the salt in the sea would sterilize it. (Eventually)
And I only did it once… (Twice).
And I’m sure I won’t do it again… (Probably).
You’ll be happy to know I got my comeuppance when, just as I was mid-pee, a huge poo casually floated by me! I squealed and quickly waded in the other direction and hoped the sea would eventually wash it up on the beach.
I ran out to tell the ex immediately of this horrible event. The ex and I set about analyzing the poo based on my description.
Was it a dog poo or human? I ruled out women right away – It’s too hard for a woman to do a poo in a swimsuit.
It also seemed too big a poo for a child, but god knows some repellent brat could possibly push out big one.
Let’s just think it was a dog’s. It’s easier.
On that auspicious note I think we shall end the re-cap so far.