Failing Curmudgeon

Agonda Beach, Goa, India
The waves are rolling in through the haze and I can just make out where the sand gives up and the rocks, shrubs and trees take over. The few brave souls that have lounged in the sand are being pushed into the shade by the sun and the advancing tide. My hammock, slung under the eaves of our beach-side hut, has saved me the trouble of migrating with the advancing heat and sea.

Yesterday was just like today though I think that the tide started coming in just a little sooner, it’s hard to tell these things for sure. Finding the energy to look at my watch (still strapped to my wrist) is a rare accomplishment. We have been here like this for a week and a small concern has started to fester in the back of my mind. What if I am losing my Cynicism? What if all this lax idyllic beach living has corroded the lens through which I see the world? When we arrived here in Goa only a sliver of the moon bothered to show itself in the evening. Last night after a dinner of chicken vindaloo and Kingfisher beer I watched a miniature me follow each of my foot steps in the sand back to the hut. It was my moon shadow that got me wondering if I could still look on the dark side.

In an effort to promote my own sense of security and self respect I give you my list of complaints:
1. At around lunch time the sun has been up long enough to make the sand hot under my feet.
2. The ocean waves are too small to body surf in and too big for a serious swim.
3. Every other evening the sun fails to put on any kind of a show and instead slips uneventfully into a bank of haze on the horizon.
4. In the late afternoon the sun has moved low enough in the sky to make my feet hot as I lie in the hammock and I have to drape them over the sides to keep the bottoms from getting burned. 5. For reasons I cannot explain the people here like to put salt into watermelon juice.
6. Our hut came with a mosquito net. The net is an ugly shade of blue and is invariable the first thing I see each morning. This is all the more troubling since the bugs here are rare, harmless and seldom annoying.
7. After walking in the surf the sand gets stuck to my feet and it’s hard to keep it out of the hut. It seems that we are always sweeping the floor. If I could remember to use the bucket of water at the entrance I could probably fix this problem.
8. Though there are coconut palms everywhere no one seems to understand the beauty of a coconut shake and try as I might I cannot find one.
9. I am told that dolphins are common around here but they refuse to come around when I am looking.
10. It took the kitchen a long time to grill our fish dinner last night. Though even I could not complain about the resulting meal.
11. The biryanis are not quite big enough to cure the munchies.
12. The roosters make a lot of noise in the mornings. Though since I have started to eat more chicken this problem has gotten a bit better.

Fleas

There is probably nothing like travel to drive home either an overwhelming sense of good fortune or an oppressive sense of self pity.

After a 12-hour bus ride, Suzanne and I came to a welcome halt in Hampi. The landscape here is a study in contrast between glowing green rice paddies and barren fields of granite boulders. Tucked into this landscape like croutons in a salad are temples both large and small. When it comes to these temples nothing is centralized, organized, prioritized or even a little westernized. The task of getting from one to the next lay before us like one of the monolithic boulders unmoved since the dawn of time. But as I have been driven to recall so many times my life is full of good fortune.

The owner of our guest house just happened to have a side business renting mo-peds. With a little bit of internal combustion to work with Suzanne and I would certainly be able to enjoy the wonders of Hampi while keeping to a minimum the arduous bits in between the various sights. Best of all, this mo-ped could be had for a mere 150 rupees. (There are about 45 rupees to the dollar.) Our good fortune kept in step with us when the little issue of gas for the mo-ped came came up. For 140 rupees our hotel owner would also give us two litres of gas.

In a cloud of exhaust and dust we were off!

Twenty minutes, one wrong turn and a flat front tire later it appeared that our good fortune had passed us by. A pedestrian saw the problem and pointed down the road, "Just one minute my friend." and sure enough good fortune gave us the village flat tire specialist. After a bucket of water, glue, two patches a cup of chai and another 40 rupees we were off again. This time though, we had directions and our previous wrong turn might have been fixed with ease had the back tire not gone flat.

Good fortune said that we had not traveled far though and again we pushed our mo-ped back to the mechanic's house/shop. With another three patches and 60 rupees we were off again.

Perhaps we would have been able to drive smoothly from place to place were it not for the fact that our bike did not float and the bridge did not yet span the river. Beneath the unfinished pylons good fortune gave us a boat of sorts, complete with ferry man and 'special tourist price.' 60 rupees later we and 12 of our new friends had crossed the river. Again we set our bike to the road and began to enjoy the breeze and the now relentless sun.

The bike wobbled, shook and once again the rim instead of the rubber hit the road. Another flat tire and the outskirts of another village.

In India anything can happen and after fifteen minutes of pushing the bike we came to yet another specialist in flat tires. My faith in serendipity soared only to crash when our new mechanic showed us the broken valve stem on our well patched inner tub. "No fix. New tube."

"Where can I get a new tube?" I felt that at last India had come crashing down like an anvil from the sky.

"Just there sir."

Following the outstretched finger I could see a small shop where the road turned into the dust and haze.

"You mean that I can buy an inner tube at that shop just down the road?"

"Yes sir. You pay 90 rupees."

100 rupees later I had a new tube and held it before me hoping that it might jump from my hands and land full of air back on the bike.

It almost did. The mechanic smiled, "20 rupees OK?"

And, of course, it was OK. With a new tube and lots of new patches it was time to take a serious look at how long all this good luck might continue.

Between us and 'home' stood the river and another chance to subsidise local transport. This time however our luck improved and a different boat man generously discounted our fair to 40 rupees a mere 100% markup over the local price.

I like to think that I am no fool, a bike for 150 rupees and 440 rupees in operating costs, the next day we leisurely traveled using the most natural and reliable form of transportation available. We walked.

And so we found ourselves standing on the side of the road sipping a coconut when our our good luck ended. Fleas stuck. Within moments I could feel the maddening bits traveling up my leg. It was a long walk back to the hotel shower as I furiously and without shame stuck my hand down my pants and wished for the return of our bike.