I feel sorry for the British traveler-writers who describe today's Goa in such glowing terms (see Gabe Menezes' link to the Daily Mail UK). It is not so much real beauty they are seeing as much as a welcome relief from the concrete jungles they are used to.
The real deal was the sights and experiences of the ones who went before them, the Hippy groups of Europe who saw Goa in its pristine best, who slept on its virgin beaches, swam in its unpolluted waters, walked on its narrow roads, ate what the Goans ate and washed their pots and pans not with soap but with coconut husk dipped in the silver sands and rinsed with the salt water of the Arabian Sea. That was the real Goa and we all loved it. When the choicest malcurados could be picked from the ground as soon as they dropped from ripening, when the tree tapper came without much asking to climb the palms and give you some early morning toddy which you drank just before you buttered some of the best bread ever made, when the most delicious food was cooked at home, the most mouth-watering sweets made in the kitchen and when the sun went down you returned from the beaches to a home lit by oil lamps and petromax, the right ambiance for sips of feni after which was rice, curry and fish followed by blissful sleep to the music of fireflies and crickets and the raspy melodies of the village drunk traipsing home from his happy hour at the village tavern. Roland. Roland Francis 416-453-3371
