TODAY'S SOUNDTRACK - A nationwide hangover and Where The Streets Have No Name (Live in Mexico City) by U2.
...in the sky and on the streets and, alas, from the backside. But more on that later. Bet you can't wait...
I had a brief consultation with Dr Oliver Noronha about my back on Monday. We talked about the pain, its location, severity, etc. He then gave me a tube filled with tiny little pills, covered in some liquid to shove under my tongue, five at a time, hourly. As I limped away, two hundred Rupees worse off, but feeling better for having seen him, I noticed that he's not the osteopath I took him to be, but a homeopath. He might as well have given me mints soaked in water, which I suspect, in fact, that's exactly what the pills were. Still, I must admit that I did feel better about an hour later. A thousand milligrams of paracetamol and eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen. Mind you, things have been improving over the days and I'm now back to my year long, regular and constant low level throbbing.
After visiting the doctor - and then the fucking pharmacy - I made it to Pedro's, where those two stoned fuck faces were involved in a long and detailed discussion about soap. SOAP! I had to leave - the chemicals hadn't kicked in yet and the pain was making me feel nauseous - it was the most stoned conversation I've ever been party to and I can understand why people always walk away from me after I've had a smoke and I'm trying to impart some vital information to them. About my fucking shoes, probably, or the virtues of all seating stadiums.
We've moved flats and we've even got Sky TV in it, which would have been appreciated the afternoon I was in the apartment doing nothing, feeling grumpy and sorry for myself. This new apartment has a bath, a better kitchen, better furniture, better balcony, better view, one less bedroom. Gaz is now on a mattress on the living room floor, but he can't complain to me because I offered him the bedroom.
Now to the fireworks - yes, the perennial joy of travel to India, the wild shites. I watched Titanic the night before and can't help but wonder if there's some kind of correlation there..? Never mind. I went to use the toilet this morning and Gaz was curled up on the floor - both ends, apparently, poor bastard. The other fireworks we've seen were being let off last night after India beat Pakistan in the cricket world cup semi final. Cars drove around last night, beeping their fucking horns until all hours. It was like being in Rome after Italy won the football world cup. God only knows what it's going to be like on Saturday should they win. A billion people with a hangover...
Once again, the changes in Calangute are bothering me. Your friends and mine, the leathery Brits, are a problem. They lie there on their sun loungers, slowly cooking, waving their empty bottles or glasses in the direction of the beach shacks staffs, trying to get their attention and more drinks carried over. I watched this yesterday - some old cunt was waving her empty Kingfisher bottle for at least two minutes before one of Pedro's Boys noticed. I wanted to go over there and wring her scrawny neck and tell her to go and get it her fucking self. I know how incredibly judgemental I'm being, but I can't help it. Anyway, it's my blog, so I'll write what I like, okay? Also, the amount of speedboats dragging groups of people around on inflatables, paraglideers, etc, jet skis and what have you make it hard to fully relax in the water because you're constantly in fear of getting clocked in the head by one of the things, a la Kirsty MacColl. And the stink of diesel's not very attractive, either.
So it was, then, that we went to The Mango Tree in Vagator yesterday afternoon. Ah, that's better... All the way to Vagator, wherever there was a TV, it had a crowd around it. As I mentioned about Saturday, I can only imagine things are going to be even quieter. Getting a taxi anywhere may well prove impossible because no one's going to want to miss the final. Vagator is so quiet, at least in comparison to Candolim/Calangute that you could be in another part of the world rather than just ten miles up the coast. Less traffic, more cows, the vibe is just so much more relaxed that I issued a rebuke to myself for being a cheapskate and booking us a flat in Candolim because it was cheaper. A few beers and then we walked to Chapora, a beautiful little fishing village a short walk away.
In Chapora, we saw, but didn't speak to - fuck that - the self-appointed Guardian of the Hippies who forced himself upon me, Dad and Jacob last year in The Mango Tree. A Londonder, he goes around Chapora and its environs, looking for and picking up tourists/travellers who've managed to get themselves in trouble in whatever way they've managed. Last year, however, had been rather quiet, for, as he put it himself, "I've 'ad a broken arm, a coupla sprained wrists an' two Ketamine cunts!" I couldn't bear the thought of another conversation with this fucker, so I instead marvelled at his continued existence and we went down to the jetty.
All afternoon, you can watch the small fishing boats from Vagator beach, going round the headland towards the jetty. The boats are small and prettily coloured, but also worn and battered looking - these are working boats and the work is hard. There are boats up on stilts, some still sea worthy, others clearly derelict, but most likely cannibalised and you get the feeling that nothing will be thrown away until it can be certain that there is no further use for it. All the boats, fully operational or otherwise are beautiful - Dad mentioned something about beauty of dereliction and he certainly had something there, I'd say (I ought to get some more photos up, eh?) The boats are all emptied of their catches and those not anchored are immediately refuelled, perhaps restaffed and head straight back out to sea. There is an instant market on the jetty where the catch is transferred to buckets, tubs, whatever receptacle is to hand, and covered in ice which is transported there in the back of a medium sized red van. It was probably a little slower than usual yesterday, though - the TV was on in the office and a large crowd was gathered outside it. But everyone down there seemed to be working - unloading or reloading the boats, lugging the catch, rolling barrels of fuel down the jetty, shovelling ice, making sales, buying fish, haggling. But it's all done relatively quietly, unlike, say, Anjuna Flea Market which we gave a wide berth yesterday. Been before, thank you.
We ate in Vagator, hot, grilled Kingfish and cold, chilled Kingfisher. Divine. Then India won the match and all Hell broke loose, but in a good way. Fireworks, yelling, celebratory lunatics pissed up on their Enfields... A happy bedlam, I think. Roll on Saturday.
And then I woke up this morning with Gaz on my bathroom floor in a pose reminiscent of eleven years ago. You've gotta have constants in life...
...in the sky and on the streets and, alas, from the backside. But more on that later. Bet you can't wait...
I had a brief consultation with Dr Oliver Noronha about my back on Monday. We talked about the pain, its location, severity, etc. He then gave me a tube filled with tiny little pills, covered in some liquid to shove under my tongue, five at a time, hourly. As I limped away, two hundred Rupees worse off, but feeling better for having seen him, I noticed that he's not the osteopath I took him to be, but a homeopath. He might as well have given me mints soaked in water, which I suspect, in fact, that's exactly what the pills were. Still, I must admit that I did feel better about an hour later. A thousand milligrams of paracetamol and eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen. Mind you, things have been improving over the days and I'm now back to my year long, regular and constant low level throbbing.
After visiting the doctor - and then the fucking pharmacy - I made it to Pedro's, where those two stoned fuck faces were involved in a long and detailed discussion about soap. SOAP! I had to leave - the chemicals hadn't kicked in yet and the pain was making me feel nauseous - it was the most stoned conversation I've ever been party to and I can understand why people always walk away from me after I've had a smoke and I'm trying to impart some vital information to them. About my fucking shoes, probably, or the virtues of all seating stadiums.
We've moved flats and we've even got Sky TV in it, which would have been appreciated the afternoon I was in the apartment doing nothing, feeling grumpy and sorry for myself. This new apartment has a bath, a better kitchen, better furniture, better balcony, better view, one less bedroom. Gaz is now on a mattress on the living room floor, but he can't complain to me because I offered him the bedroom.
Now to the fireworks - yes, the perennial joy of travel to India, the wild shites. I watched Titanic the night before and can't help but wonder if there's some kind of correlation there..? Never mind. I went to use the toilet this morning and Gaz was curled up on the floor - both ends, apparently, poor bastard. The other fireworks we've seen were being let off last night after India beat Pakistan in the cricket world cup semi final. Cars drove around last night, beeping their fucking horns until all hours. It was like being in Rome after Italy won the football world cup. God only knows what it's going to be like on Saturday should they win. A billion people with a hangover...
Once again, the changes in Calangute are bothering me. Your friends and mine, the leathery Brits, are a problem. They lie there on their sun loungers, slowly cooking, waving their empty bottles or glasses in the direction of the beach shacks staffs, trying to get their attention and more drinks carried over. I watched this yesterday - some old cunt was waving her empty Kingfisher bottle for at least two minutes before one of Pedro's Boys noticed. I wanted to go over there and wring her scrawny neck and tell her to go and get it her fucking self. I know how incredibly judgemental I'm being, but I can't help it. Anyway, it's my blog, so I'll write what I like, okay? Also, the amount of speedboats dragging groups of people around on inflatables, paraglideers, etc, jet skis and what have you make it hard to fully relax in the water because you're constantly in fear of getting clocked in the head by one of the things, a la Kirsty MacColl. And the stink of diesel's not very attractive, either.
So it was, then, that we went to The Mango Tree in Vagator yesterday afternoon. Ah, that's better... All the way to Vagator, wherever there was a TV, it had a crowd around it. As I mentioned about Saturday, I can only imagine things are going to be even quieter. Getting a taxi anywhere may well prove impossible because no one's going to want to miss the final. Vagator is so quiet, at least in comparison to Candolim/Calangute that you could be in another part of the world rather than just ten miles up the coast. Less traffic, more cows, the vibe is just so much more relaxed that I issued a rebuke to myself for being a cheapskate and booking us a flat in Candolim because it was cheaper. A few beers and then we walked to Chapora, a beautiful little fishing village a short walk away.
In Chapora, we saw, but didn't speak to - fuck that - the self-appointed Guardian of the Hippies who forced himself upon me, Dad and Jacob last year in The Mango Tree. A Londonder, he goes around Chapora and its environs, looking for and picking up tourists/travellers who've managed to get themselves in trouble in whatever way they've managed. Last year, however, had been rather quiet, for, as he put it himself, "I've 'ad a broken arm, a coupla sprained wrists an' two Ketamine cunts!" I couldn't bear the thought of another conversation with this fucker, so I instead marvelled at his continued existence and we went down to the jetty.
All afternoon, you can watch the small fishing boats from Vagator beach, going round the headland towards the jetty. The boats are small and prettily coloured, but also worn and battered looking - these are working boats and the work is hard. There are boats up on stilts, some still sea worthy, others clearly derelict, but most likely cannibalised and you get the feeling that nothing will be thrown away until it can be certain that there is no further use for it. All the boats, fully operational or otherwise are beautiful - Dad mentioned something about beauty of dereliction and he certainly had something there, I'd say (I ought to get some more photos up, eh?) The boats are all emptied of their catches and those not anchored are immediately refuelled, perhaps restaffed and head straight back out to sea. There is an instant market on the jetty where the catch is transferred to buckets, tubs, whatever receptacle is to hand, and covered in ice which is transported there in the back of a medium sized red van. It was probably a little slower than usual yesterday, though - the TV was on in the office and a large crowd was gathered outside it. But everyone down there seemed to be working - unloading or reloading the boats, lugging the catch, rolling barrels of fuel down the jetty, shovelling ice, making sales, buying fish, haggling. But it's all done relatively quietly, unlike, say, Anjuna Flea Market which we gave a wide berth yesterday. Been before, thank you.
We ate in Vagator, hot, grilled Kingfish and cold, chilled Kingfisher. Divine. Then India won the match and all Hell broke loose, but in a good way. Fireworks, yelling, celebratory lunatics pissed up on their Enfields... A happy bedlam, I think. Roll on Saturday.
And then I woke up this morning with Gaz on my bathroom floor in a pose reminiscent of eleven years ago. You've gotta have constants in life...
Not to be rude, but who are you, exactly? Also, how did you come across this - year old - blog? Chennai's great, by the way.
ReplyDeleteI actually enjoyed reading through this posting.Many thanks.
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