Our map had said 150km, but it felt much longer than that. We’d driven for hours before we eventually arrived at the falls. We were dirty and our behinds were numb, but it was worth it. One hundred feet of frothing white water cascaded down the mountainside into the deep pool that lay before us. It was irresistible; we both stripped off and dived in. I washed the dirt of the road out of my hair and allowed the bubbling water to soothe my bones. The trees around the falls were full of monkeys, leaping about. On seeing the food we had to offer, they eyed us up for a few minutes. Then, after plucking up the courage, they came close enough to eat out of our hands. We could have spent hours in this beautiful place, but it was getting late, and driving during the day is one thing but at night - no way!
As the days went on, I was becoming more comfortable on the back of the bike. The driving conditions were becoming less scary and more the norm, although you only had to look at the many tourists in plaster or bandages to remind you of the dangers. The food was good - so far at least - the weather was great; I was really starting to like India. Arambol beach in north Goa is more quiet than the touristy beaches in the south and is a popular haunt for the aging hippies for which Goa is infamous. One day while walking along the beach, Garry was confronted by a strange little man. ”Excuse me Sir,” he said, looking closely at Garry’s head. ”What is he looking at?” Garry wondered. But before he had time to duck, the man had poked a sharp metal device into his ear. ”What the hell are you doing?” Garry said, pulling away startled. The man was looking at his device, smiling knowingly. ”You see, Sir, look what has come out of your ear! Very, very much wax. I clean for you, only 100 rupees.” ”There is no way that was in my ear,” Garry said. “There’s enough wax there to make a candle!” ”Oh yes, Sir, please. Your ears very dirty. You must have cleaned!” He went to take another swipe at the ear, but Garry ducked just in time to avoid another prod. “Listen you! I think I’ll just clean my own ears if you don’t mind!” Eventually, he got the message, and went off to offer his services to some other unsuspecting tourist, leaving us wondering where the hell all that wax had appeared from. Garry was cringing.
Almost anywhere in Asia, the marketplace is a hub of activity. The Anjuna flea market is no exception. It’s a huge event that takes place every Wednesday down by the beach near Calangute, about 10km from Candolim. We’d been told it was the place to get all your trinkets and clothes and that just wandering around was a great day out. We weren’t disappointed. As we walked past colourful stalls selling clothes, ornaments, rugs, we were constantly tugged at. ”Come, come, Sir, Madam. You come to my stall. Best quality clothes in market! “You must see the rugs I have. Very, very cheap!” ”I have big T-shirts, even big enough to fit you, Sir!” ”Look at the beautiful jewelery I have. For you, friend, special price!” Not knowing which way to turn, we told them, we were just looking now and would definitely come back later. A man wheeled himself in front of us, looking up longingly. His mangled legs were grotesquely twisted. His wrists were bandaged and he pushed himself around on a tray with wheels attached to the base. The level of poverty in India was heart-wrenching and disturbing. Even more disturbing is the fact that many of these injuries are deliberately inflicted on these people when they are young children to enhance their success as beggars.
Tightrope walkers and snake charmers vied for space with the stall owners. Ear wallahs were out in force, offering their services to anyone who dared. Garry made sure to cover his ears any time we passed one! Travelers at the end of their journey were selling off their belongings. ”How would you fancy traveling around India on a motorbike?” Garry asked. “My God, I’m only just starting to get used to one, and now you want to tour the country on one! It’s one thing scooting around Goa, but to go around India.” My voice trailed off. ”Come on, Rach. Look at these beautiful Enfield bikes; just imagine it. We’ll see parts of India we’d never see on a bus or train. Going through little villages, traveling at our own pace. Who do you trust more on the road, a bus driver or me? I’ll be extra careful, honest.” I looked over at the bikes. I have to admit, the Enfields are definitely attractive looking bikes. They have real attitude. The more I thought about it, the more I could picture us cruising around on this lovely machine. ”Let’s just think about it, and we’ll come back next week and decide,” I said.
The following Wednesday, we returned to the market. The decision was final. We were buying an Enfield today. I was still a bit nervous about it, but excited. We had our eye on one particular bike, but an English guy named Kevin and his French girlfriend, Crystal, were checking it out so we walked around the market and waited for them to finish looking. When we came back, a deal had already been made. The bike was theirs. ”You just beat us to it!” said Garry, laughing.”Well, I hope you find something else to suit you”, said Kevin. We chatted for a while and they wished us luck with our search, then drove off. Just then, another Enfield came putting in, and was parked up, covered in “For Sale” signs. This one looked even better than the one we had almost purchased. We looked at each other. ”Are you sure you’re sure now, before we go ahead with this?” Garry asked. ”Come on, let’s just go for it.” Before I could change my mind, Garry was already in there, talking money with the seller. It was definitely the best looking bike there. Only a year old, it was in immaculate condition. We agreed on a price, parted with our cash, and drove out of the market. It felt great. This was going to be different. Nerve-wracking, but different.
Our two weeks of luxury were almost at an end. ”Where will we go next?” Garry asked. I wasn’t quite ready to venture into the “real India” just yet, still enjoying the relaxed pace of life where we were. ”Let’s stay in Goa for another little while,” I suggested. Having to find other accommodation was not easy. Being the high season, nearly everywhere was full. Finally, we came across a place right on the beach. ”Let’s check it out. It’s only 50p a night,” Garry said. We weren’t expecting luxury, and certainly did not get it. But it was very cheap. At this stage, we still weren’t sure what to expect from accommodation. In fact, as we traveled around, we were to learn that a lot of hotels are very cheap and of good standard. But we weren’t too fussy at this stage. It was only for a few days. Once we had checked in, I decided to go to the beach on my own and relax. No sooner had I settled down than I heard a group of women, standing right beside me, talking amongst themselves. ”Excuse me, Madam” I looked up. ” Please, would it be possible to get a photograph of us with you?” They had already lined someone up to take the shot. ”Sure, why not.” I noticed another group of people approaching me. I obliged once more. Then, they started appearing from all angles. Eventually, after about the fifth photo had been taken, I had to call a halt. I had come down here to relax! Just about to settle back down and read my book, I spotted a bull, just a few feet away, eyeing me menacingly. He slowly started making his way towards me. I decided to retreat back into the little beach hut, where Garry was sitting. “Getting too much, was it?” he laughed.
Finally ready for our venture into “real India,” we packed up the bike - not an easy task tying three rucksacks to a bike - and started heading south along the coast. The changes were apparent quite soon after we crossed the state border into Karnataka. Bad enough as the roads were in Goa, they deteriorated rapidly as we moved into this less developed region. Our speed dropped down considerably to allow for the hidden danger of potholes. Groups of women sat at the roadside with tiny little chisels, chipping rocks. Given the heat of the blistering sun, this must have been torturous work for them. They would, no doubt, do this from sunrise to sunset. Karnataka doesn’t see many tourists, and our pale faces caused a stir. Stopping in small villages for a rest and a drink, we found ourselves the centre of attention, attracting people from all around. People would stop going about their daily business just to stand and get a look. Nothing threatening, just a deep curiosity.
The small dusty village of Gokarna was to be our first stop. Here, for the first time, we ate in a genuine Indian restaurant. A far cry from our candlelit dinners in Goa, it was very basic. There was a limited and strictly vegetarian menu, which was double-dutch to us. Garry, a strict carnivore with an aversion to vegetables, was a bit worried he was going to go hungry in Karnataka. We opted for thalis, which consisted of four nondescript sauces;