It was still dark when Fish and I stumbled to the train station, tired and slightly hungover.We were on our way to Goa. After finding our train we entered our compartment and sat down, wishing for a pillow and some peace. The train began its slow march towards Goa, and the train was quickly filling up. I had just fallen asleep when a man showed up waving his ticket and yelling. It turned out we were in the wrong compartment, so after getting nice and comfortable we collected our things and trudged down the traincar to our rightful place. In our seats sat a trio of Germans and an Englishman who sounded just like a character in a David Firth cartoon (a incredibly bizarre internet phenomenon that only the most twisted would enjoy). No matter, we sat next to them with a smile and a nod, and as time passed and I felt more human, we began to talk amongst each other. The usual 'where ya been? how long? where ya from?' kind of stuff that usual fills the silences between travelers who are just meeting each other. Later on, I met a danish cat named Martin and an American couple, Graham and Jenny. They were all nice to talk to and it turned out we were heading to the same beach, Anjuna. With that came the fast friendship that arises when traveling, and which is one of my favorite things about it.
In the middle of our journey the train stopped, and stayed stopped, for quite some time. As we were standing outside on the platform, unclear as to the reason of the delay, I realized I had no idea the names of the Germans, so I asked. "Alex" he said, and I replied "Oh nice, me too". He looked at me with a grin that suggested there was more to this story, and he said "Yeah we have the same name, exactly the same name, I am Alexander Meyer, nice to meet you". And so it was that the first Alex Meyer I meet that isn't me is a German man who had been sitting in my seat, on a train in the middle of India. Serendipity, I love you.
The night we arrived Martin, Fish and I walked down to the beach. It was quite late and the beach was empty. We walked to the edge of the water, the tide splashing at our feet. Then we went in a bit more, then a bit more, and then when Fish suddenly shoved Martin into the water it was on. The three of us fought and tussled, getting soaking wet. I felt alive. After we found some Indian guy's and drank whiskey.
The is my second time in Goa, and I spent it primarily drinking, dancing, and sitting around swapping stories and good times. Mota Matchi and I met a load of good people. And while some of the parties there were really great, other ones lacked the necessary volume of people needed to create the right ambiance. The venues themselves, however, were beautiful; gorgeous open air dance floors ringed in palm trees that looked down to the beach. In part, I felt I missed out, the busy season had come and gone and police were shutting places down as early as 9:30pm. Ah well, such is life. What I enjoyed more was the camraderie between the people we met and at our guesthouse. There was Noel, a jolly Goan man who had sailed the world on an oil tanker and has been to ports in every continent. He had a big, infectious laugh and an easy smile, he taught me how to play Backgammon and then proceeded to win 50 rupees off me, the bastard. He was also convinced that there were some big things coming, the Japanese earthquake was more than enough proof for him. He's convinced we humans have only 9 months left before the Earth finally chews us up and spits us out, permanently. There was Martin, a Danish Columbian who is a DJ and told me endless stories of the music festivals in Denmark and the rest of Europe. Roskilde, Glastonbury, Melt, on and on. He'll get me a job at Roskilde which will get me in for free ... nice, my ass is going to Denmark. There was Aicha, an older scottish woman who has been the frontwoman for a punk band for the past 25 years. I loved her because of her gentleness, her easy smile, and her voracious appetite of books. And while she does carry a deep sense of serenity about her, you can tell while on stage she's an angry Scottish punk witch and noone would dare cross her path. We spent lots of time discussing favorite authors, and life as a punk rocking gypsy. There was Anna, a mysterious German girl who walked everywhere barefoot and had a rainbow in here hair. Of course there was Mr. Tony, a British hippie who'd been everywhere and seen everything, he was very wise and very funny. I liked to listen to him talk and enjoyed the way he would say words like RajaSTHAN and Rupeee.
When Fish and I finally left Goa for the north, a day before the infamous Holi festival, it was with the 5 of them sitting at the gate of the guesthouse, hugs and goodbyes and smiles. Easily the most pleasant farewell I've had the pleasure to experience. It like I was saying farewell to family, and that I would return and they would be there, waiting, with a cold beer and a pot of hot tea, and we'd all play backgammon and discuss old times. Heh, Life is Good.
And so are my intestines (wish the same could be said for ol' Mota Matchi, I think he still hates me a bit for getting him on that plane in the state he was in).
In the middle of our journey the train stopped, and stayed stopped, for quite some time. As we were standing outside on the platform, unclear as to the reason of the delay, I realized I had no idea the names of the Germans, so I asked. "Alex" he said, and I replied "Oh nice, me too". He looked at me with a grin that suggested there was more to this story, and he said "Yeah we have the same name, exactly the same name, I am Alexander Meyer, nice to meet you". And so it was that the first Alex Meyer I meet that isn't me is a German man who had been sitting in my seat, on a train in the middle of India. Serendipity, I love you.
The night we arrived Martin, Fish and I walked down to the beach. It was quite late and the beach was empty. We walked to the edge of the water, the tide splashing at our feet. Then we went in a bit more, then a bit more, and then when Fish suddenly shoved Martin into the water it was on. The three of us fought and tussled, getting soaking wet. I felt alive. After we found some Indian guy's and drank whiskey.
The is my second time in Goa, and I spent it primarily drinking, dancing, and sitting around swapping stories and good times. Mota Matchi and I met a load of good people. And while some of the parties there were really great, other ones lacked the necessary volume of people needed to create the right ambiance. The venues themselves, however, were beautiful; gorgeous open air dance floors ringed in palm trees that looked down to the beach. In part, I felt I missed out, the busy season had come and gone and police were shutting places down as early as 9:30pm. Ah well, such is life. What I enjoyed more was the camraderie between the people we met and at our guesthouse. There was Noel, a jolly Goan man who had sailed the world on an oil tanker and has been to ports in every continent. He had a big, infectious laugh and an easy smile, he taught me how to play Backgammon and then proceeded to win 50 rupees off me, the bastard. He was also convinced that there were some big things coming, the Japanese earthquake was more than enough proof for him. He's convinced we humans have only 9 months left before the Earth finally chews us up and spits us out, permanently. There was Martin, a Danish Columbian who is a DJ and told me endless stories of the music festivals in Denmark and the rest of Europe. Roskilde, Glastonbury, Melt, on and on. He'll get me a job at Roskilde which will get me in for free ... nice, my ass is going to Denmark. There was Aicha, an older scottish woman who has been the frontwoman for a punk band for the past 25 years. I loved her because of her gentleness, her easy smile, and her voracious appetite of books. And while she does carry a deep sense of serenity about her, you can tell while on stage she's an angry Scottish punk witch and noone would dare cross her path. We spent lots of time discussing favorite authors, and life as a punk rocking gypsy. There was Anna, a mysterious German girl who walked everywhere barefoot and had a rainbow in here hair. Of course there was Mr. Tony, a British hippie who'd been everywhere and seen everything, he was very wise and very funny. I liked to listen to him talk and enjoyed the way he would say words like RajaSTHAN and Rupeee.
When Fish and I finally left Goa for the north, a day before the infamous Holi festival, it was with the 5 of them sitting at the gate of the guesthouse, hugs and goodbyes and smiles. Easily the most pleasant farewell I've had the pleasure to experience. It like I was saying farewell to family, and that I would return and they would be there, waiting, with a cold beer and a pot of hot tea, and we'd all play backgammon and discuss old times. Heh, Life is Good.
And so are my intestines (wish the same could be said for ol' Mota Matchi, I think he still hates me a bit for getting him on that plane in the state he was in).
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