If you haven’t read part one of this post, may I suggest that you read that post first, as this post starts on the morning after part one and part one will also give you an explanation of how events transpired and the scenario up to this point. I've also used a couple of photos from subsquent visits to Goa in this post.
Refreshed by a really good nights sleep, I was awoken by the phone at my bedside – the early morning call I had requested the night before – my early morning flight to Goa would leave soon and I needed to get ready.
My recollections of the journey to Cochin airport and flight to Goa are forgotten now, probably because they were completely smooth and non-eventful, however, once the aircraft landed in Goa and I was outside the airport – that was a whole different matter. The following paragraphs will seem like a comedy to you, and all these years later make me smile, but at the time I was a little stressed! Should you care to read on, I will tell you why…
Having read part one, you’ll know that today is Sunday and I’ve landed in Goa, we were the only flight there, an internal flight and we were soon all outside the airport. Everyone was met by someone or another, or they were picked-up by hotel transportation, except for me…and Bruno a young man, my age, from Switzerland. Bruno was back-packing and I, having failed to contact my family, was not met at the airport – they had no idea I was in Goa. I knew I was travelling north to Mapusa, but that’s all I knew – I didn’t have an address! And I hadn’t realized it as yet! Bruno was travelling further north than I was - to Vagatore, but as we were alone, a friendship was soon struck up and we decided to travel as far as Mapusa together, Bruno would carry onto Vagatore Beach. Keep in mind – this was Sunday. Back then, as so may other places around the world Sunday was a day of rest for so many, this was going to play a part…Goa is predominantly Catholic.
Bruno and I had no idea how we were going to travel to Mapusa – there were offers of taxi rides, but both of us, having been in India for a while, dismissed the idea as too expensive. We would take a bus – a local bus!
Local bus it was then, and the bus station fortunately, was round the corner from the airport, an easy walk of a few minutes. I don’t remember how much the fare was, just that it was ridiculously cheap. We were to take the bus to Panjim, from there cross the Mandovi River by ferry – the bridge had collapsed some time previously. Once on the other side we would pick up another bus north to Mapusa and Vagatore – that was the plan and it didn’t seem too hard.
A few people were in the bus station and a couple of questions later, we located the bus going to Panjim – we were the first, the bus was empty. There were two doors, opening outwards, on the back of the bus, on the outside and into that space, meant for baggage – we put ours. Having done that, we climb onto the empty bus and took seats at the back. It didn’t take long, the bus filled-up with friendly locals, eager to talk to us and the journey to Panjim was a very pleasant one. Time on the bus seemed to fly by and soon we were told – incorrectly – that we should get off “here” for the ferry across the Mandovi. The bus was pretty packed by now and we had to squeeze ourselves, through the throng of friendly locals, off the bus, going round the back to retrieve our bags. Or so we thought. Upon reaching the back, before we could take hold of the handles and open the door for our bags – the bus was off!
Perhaps we froze in shear disbelief for a second, then we took off, running as fast as we could, after the bus, trying in vain to catch-up with it and bang on the back in an attempt to stop it. But it wasn’t to be, we were sprinting side by side, but the bus was faster and it left us in the middle of the road literally eating its dust, traffic swirling around us as it disappeared in to the distance.
Neither Bruno or I said a word to each other, for there were no words, we trudged in silence down the middle of the road, oblivious to the dangers of being hit by the honking traffic all around us. Everything we had was in the back of that bus – it was all gone – my cameras, lenses, film, clothes - everything. It seemed like a nightmare, this couldn’t possibly be happening, but it was.
I have no idea how far we walked in silence down the middle of the road, it probably wasn’t long or far, life was a daze, broken only when my yelling shattered our silence. I don’t recall what I shouted at Bruno, but I had spotted the bus, parked in a depot. We were off again, what I do remember is the pair of us running full tilt down a hill, we had left the road, it was the fastest route to the bus. The back doors flung open revealed our bags – they were untouched, we were overjoyed.
Re-united with our possessions, we soon found out that the Mandovi River was too far away to walk, so another bus ride was in order. We kept our bags with us this time. The “bus” turned out to be an old VW Combi van, how many of us were packed into the tiny van – like sardines, I have no idea. If I thought it was a tight squeeze in the big bus – this seemed impossible. Arriving at the ferry, I had to turn myself into a contortionist to get out, twisting and turning I landed on the hard dusty road, with my bags, cushioning Brunos fall, as he landed on top of me.
The ferry across the Mandovi and the bus onwards to Mapusa were both thankfully uneventful. I bade farewell to Bruno, wishing him well and alighted in a very quiet and deserted Mapusa. There was not a sole to be seen. I hadn’t bargained on this, the original plan was to be met at Goa airport by my aunt, she knew where she lived, but I didn’t – reality was dawning on me. I had never been to Goa before and there didn’t seem to be anyone around to ask for help.
You’ll remember that I was unable to contact my family to let them know that I was arriving a day early and now I was finally here, I didn’t know where they lived! I should take this opportunity to explain a couple points. My family lived in Bombay – Mumbai, but my uncle had a business in Goa, there was no phone in their apartment in Goa – they only came here periodically for business. The phone was in the shop and it was Sunday. Any other day I could have just walked into the shop and there would have been help for me – just not today!
It was infuriating, India’s full of people but there was no one to be seen anywhere as I walked around hoping to remember something, anything that my uncle and aunt had mentioned about Mapusa and where they lived. All I could remember, at that point, was that they lived behind a temple. Walking around I found a Police Station…in London when you need help you find a friendly Bobby, here I soon found out local Bobbies didn’t speak English. There were only two or three policemen in the station – the oldest and evidently in charge, decided to take pity on me, I was obviously lost. We walked around for a few minutes, when I remembered I had been told the name of the apartment building and a minute later, there it was in front of me. I tried to explain to the officer that I was fine now, but he insisted on accompanying me upstairs.
A very surprised Aunty Carmel opened the door. I was just very relieved! I never leave my camera gear anywhere now, it’s always with me!! I also carry less!!!