I am renting a beautiful lilac bicycle for 30 rupees a day from Gupi, a young Indian girl who lives in the village. It thrills me that all money will go to her and she will be accumulating something of a small fortune during my stay here. Her brother undertook a number of technical checks and inflated the tyres with great vigour and dedication. Gupi set about cleaning fastidiously, evacuating the dust from every possible crevice with a small paintbrush. We agreed that I would pass by every Saturday to pay my fees and allow for servicing and maintenance.
I took a long ride out this morning intending to visit Mandrem, a small beach village a little way along the coast. I fantasised a peaceful village of well mannered yogis and spiritual seekers. Here, I would experience and express peace, serenity and holistic living, in contrast to chaotic and boisterous rough edged Arambol, where beer and spliff for breakfast is completely normal and tribes of tourist rock the beach from dawn ‘til dusk.
Liberated from ‘town’ I enjoyed my peaceful meanderings along quiet back roads. revelling in the psychedelic Goan colourscape of candy painted houses and bling bling temples. After a good while I realised that I was well out of range, I was lost. It was ok, I was rather enjoying the mild adventure of it all. Noticing an auto rickshaw resting in front of a grand double fronted home, I thanked the Universe for placing it there and headed eagerly inside to locate the driver.
‘ Hallo!’ I announced myself brightly, slipping off sandals and stepping into the hallway. A dog materialised from nowhere, snarling and gnashing with an aggression incompatible with its diminutive size and lapdog looks. I took a sharp bite to the ankle, Ouch! Snatching up my sandals I made for the gate. The owner duly appeared and organised my driver who obediently lashed ‘Miss India’ to his auto and thus we buzzed and bumped slowly along the road to Mandrem.
We doubled back almost the entire distance I had travelled. Pausing at the cliff top Mandrem beach lay below; rows of coconut huts fronting the shoreline. The driver suggested a return to Arambol to drop off the bicycle. I could then walk into Mandrem later. I surrendered. It was hot, I was hungry and as it was approaching midday my main concern was avoiding sunburn and sunstroke. A return to Arambol it was to be. A circular journey of this kind is a classic Indian experience. From a certain point of view is quite normal to have cycled 10km and be transported home in order to subsequently retake the journey on foot.
Arambol in its now familiarity was comforting and welcoming. I headed straight for the coconut stall I have been frequenting daily since my arrival. The vendor seemed impressed by the bicycle, he spun the pedals admiringly. Commenting that the chain was dry, he reached for a grubby can of oil and lubricated the chain with characteristic Indian attentiveness. It was a heart melt moment of spontaneous caring and that felt good! In that instant I committed myself to a long season stay in Arambol, for better or for worse; a leap of faith. Now I would need somewhere to live...
