Goa is the final resting place for hippies. It's also filled with people "finding themselves," tourists with Om tattoos, Westerners that forget to bathe, Israelis fresh from the army, Europeans in speedos...
It's not really a place where you "do."
If you have been to a sandy beach, with salty, wavy water (the ocean), sunshine and coconut trees swaying in the nonexistent wind, then you can probably figure out what the state of Goa is all about.
Not quite.
Add in holy cows, scrappy dogs, trash, more trash, hawkers more persistent than the zit on your forehead, women doing laundry in the stagnant creek filled with animal fecal matter and more trash, 2 roving holy men with a cow jumping on their heads, corrupt police officers, horrendous traffic, a small colony of wild pigs foraging in heaps of even more garbage, backsheesh, more Royal Enfields than you can shake a fist at, and you have Goa.
Traveling has been taxing and difficult. For example getting my laundry done by other people, choosing what to have for breakfast, lunch and dinner, deciding whether or not to have pineapple juice or orange juice, being in 30+ weather... All these decisions really make it difficult for me to relax on the sandy beach, while Indian versions of Cabana boys bring me water. I was busy doing nothing and then something happened while in Goa.
Richard and I bought a beast. She's big. Like 163kg big. She's cumbersome, and graceful isn't really an adjective I'd use to describe her. But boy, is she one hell of a machine. She's a 1992 Royal Enfield Bullet. Her name is Betsy and I don't think she knows what's in fore her...
-T.Sallard-
