How to deal

"Getting chased by men in their underwear really creeps me out," I observed when I'd returned to the rickety chaise. Helen laughed in understanding.

Krista had suggested a mid-afternoon dip to cool off, to perk up after a long lazy day at the beach. Virgine and I joined her. They in their bikinis and I in my Baywatch red racing suit walked out into the crashing waves. The surf seemed crowded so we half walked/half swam a little deeper, a little farther north.

The crowd joined us.

In shallow water, fully-dressed women splashed with their families. Toddlers pranced in their underwear as naked babies paddled, and around us, men in sodden briefs closed in.

We moved. They followed. We moved again. They pressed even closer, these men in clinging, damp cotton. Inder, our Sikh leader, joined us but did nothing to deter the men who circled like sharks, reaching for us with every stroke, with every crest and crash.

We soon tired of the threatening game they played and escaped to the beach chairs where so many stopped to ask for photographs, when they bothered to ask. Eventually, we'd escape to an internet cafe and return only for sunset.

Helen asked if I'd fancy a walk on the beach. We looked for starfish as the sun dipped lower in the sky. A trio of women approached and interviewed us for what seemed like a local news channel, microphone and camera catching our beach-blown selves. They wanted to know why we were in Goa, how long we'd stay, what foods we liked and what we bought. It all seemed surreal.

We walked on, still looking for starfish, and witnessed a drowning man pulled from the sea. He wasn't moving. The crowd dropped him on the sand and pumped against his stomach. We looked at each other in panic - former lifeguards, both, but unsure of our role.

When they flipped him, he coughed up water. Vomited. The most beautiful sight I'd seen in days. Our hearts started beating again. Very, very fast.

The starfish search proved fruitless, just one or two of the fish, but the sunset, the fourth in as many days on the Arabian Sea, took our breath away. Eventually, it came back and our hearts slowed.

We walked back to the hotel where a short in the converter blew a ball of flame into the room and scorched the stand. The bitter, acrid smoke left a bitter aftertaste, which we soon washed away with Kingfisher and dal, rice and fish.

A friend said things would go wrong in India, Mark told us that fateful, horrible/wonderful day in Mumbai. The only question was how we'd handle it. At that point, we threw money at the problem and changed our fortune. The last night in Goa, we simply shrugged and made our way to dinner. Everything would be fine.


Tag: Travel India