Mumbai to Goa
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: From India's railway hell to paradise.
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Indian trains resemble large steel containers with windows that are covered by metal bars. They are packed to the point of insanity, the stench in the air is thick with faeces, urine, spit, vomit and curry, they’re slow, unreliable, too hot in the day and too cold at night, infested with cockroaches, filthy, thick with dust, full of beggars and loud. I loved them from the first moment I stepped on the carriage. As with all countries India has different trains that travel particular distances. They are of varying quality, price and class but the majority are the same. They are sleeper trains with four or five different classes; first class, second class, third class with air conditioning and third class without air conditioning. The backpackers of India can usually be found in third class with no air conditioning as it’s the cheapest and provides the most outrageous experiences. Although women who are travelling alone and hippy families frequently take a higher class.
The seats are elongated plastic blue mattresses of little comfort around six feet long and six to each cabin (there’s no door to close so it’s not much of a cabin), the bottom mattress serves as a seat until the occupier decides to lie down then the middle mattress, which until then serves as back rest has to be lifted and attached to the top mattress with two chains creating three beds. The gap between each blue mattress is about two feet leaving little room for manoeuver. The plastic sticks to the skin during the sweaty day time hours and becomes very cold during the night.
The Indian railway system spans the Indian subcontinent and is said to be the biggest employer on the planet with over one million staff driving, maintaining and cleaning the trains, as well as station employees, office workers and ticketing staff. It is also said to be one of the most dangerous forms of transport in the world. In Mumbai alone an average of six hundred people per year die on the daily commute to and from work. In the years of 2002 to 2012 36,152 people died in Mumbai and a further 36,152 were injured. As many as seventeen people can die on any given weekday whilst riding the train, this is mainly due to the overcrowding which causes people to hang from the train and climb on top of the carriages. These people either fall under the train or are electrocuted by the lines. Despite all this they are a wonder and an experience not be missed.
The stench raped my nostrils as soon as my foot stepped on to our carriage. The air was thick with an acidic perfume that resembled the smell of a crack addict’s kitchen. Tao and I had found our name printed on a passenger list on the door and we climbed aboard. We pushed our way to our seats past shoe-less children, legless cleaners and sweat drenched Indian business men. We took the window seats, pushed our backpacks under the blue mattress and settled in. The floor was covered with spat out peanut shells, small squares of used newspaper and empty plastic bottles. The bottles were soon taken away by the recycle woman and children whose livelihoods depended on discarded cans and bottles. A man whose legs were useless and smaller than his arms crawled over to where we were and swept the debris under the seats (and on to our backpacks) and then held out his hand. We gave him one hundred Rupees each. He neither smiled nor frowned but simply crawled to the next cabin to repeat the process.
I had neglected to apply the brown solution to my penis before we left the hostel. I wanted to do it before the train began to move. I took the solution out of my backpack and went to the nearest toilet. The stench of it became almost unbearable the closer I got. I opened the door and locked it behind me. The toilet seat was a steel hole in the floor which you could see the train tracks through. Beside it were two steel feet shaped rests where you could stand before dropping your trousers and hanging over the hole. The walls around the toilet were splattered with shit of varying degrees of beige and varying degrees of viscosity, the floor was covered in a thin layer of water and piss. There was no toilet roll. Beside the toilet was a small plastic jug that was filled with water. You were supposed to wash your arse when you were finished and then replace the water. The water inside was brown, populated by mosquitoes, flies and floating faecal matter.
I dropped my pants and widened my stance so that they would not fall onto the floor. I took out the brown liquid and applied it to my penis with a cotton bud; all while a tide of piss on the floor washed against my flip flops and bare feet. It took all my concentration not to vomit. The solution stung as it sunk in to the sensitive skin of my purple end. I pulled my pants back up and got out of there as fast as I could.
“Caya, caya, caya, garama, garama, garama.” A man walked down the carriage repeating the same mantra over and over again quite musically. Caya, caya, caya, garama, garama, garama. Coffee, garama, caya, garama.” We stopped him as he flew past us and took two hot teas at fifteen rupees each (about 15 pence). Indian sweet milk tea is a little pleasure at all times.
The train went from empty to full and then overcrowded in fifteen minutes. It seemed that families travelling with children did not buy extra tickets regardless of how many of their offspring they were travelling with and people without tickets paid the conductor when he arrived and sat in the gangways or on the floors in the aisles.
“This is fucking mental this, man, what about these bars on the windows, if we crash or if there is a fire we’re up shit creek, man.” Tao nodded in agreement as I pulled at the bars. “Don’t worry, man, if anything happens we’re pretty close to the door, just bolt and in that direction and take no prisoners. In fourteen hours we’ll be in Goa smoking weed, drinking cold beers and lying on a beach. Just think of that,” Tao said.
I sat back and stared out of the window as the train set off from the station. People selling drinks, food, games and trinkets were still on the train as it began to move and could be seen diving off onto the station before running along beside the train attempting to sell their goods through the windows. People were still buying water and pakoras at ten miles per hour, grabbing their purchases then throwing money out of the window.
“Sandwich, sandwich, sandwich. Pakora, pakora, pakora. Caya, caya, caya. Garama, garama, garama. Coffee, coffee, coffee. Cold drinks, cold drinks, cold drinks.” This was to be the soundtrack of the Indian trains. No matter what the time, they sang their tunes loudly and musically as they steamed past your cabin. Often their presence and timing was godly, just as your stomach rumbled or your throat felt parched, their songs could be heard from the bottom of the carriage. Often they woke you from much needed slumber like interrogators trying to wear you down and force a confession; or in this case a purchase. And while they sang their songs the Indian passengers sat back in their chairs and stared at the white guys. Tao stared back in an attempt to stare them down but that rarely works with an Indian, they just don’t have the same social rules that we do. Staring only begets more staring and eye contact will usually result in a forced conversation.
For the first two hours or so the train slowly moved through Mumbai, past the slums and the factories through the local train stations and by the homeless families living by the side of the train tracks. There are literally millions of homeless throughout India who live, eat, sleep, shit, piss and die by the train tracks. They are a society unto themselves. After two hours we escaped the city and the surrounding towns and began to travel through the Indian countryside crossing rivers on questionable bridges, travelling through mountains in tunnels built in colonial times, through farmland and forest, small towns and tiny villages, all to the soundtrack of the tea wallahs, the smell of shit and in the company of curious Indians and even more curious cockroaches.
“Hello, my friend, what is your good name?” A middle aged Indian man sitting beside me decided he wanted to talk. “My name is Nicky,” I replied before attempting to end the conversation with a prolonged stare out of the window. “My name is Sandu,” he said in spite of my efforts. “Where are you coming from?” “Mumbai,” I said thinking it was obvious. “No, no, no, my friend, which country are you coming from?” he said waving his head and giggling at my stupidity. “Oh, I’m British.” “Ah England, a great country, I would like to live in Britain. Can you help me get a visa?” This time my confusion was justified. “How can I help you get a visa? I don’t even have a job there and I’m in India with you.” Sandu pulled out a pen from his shirt pocket and a notebook from a small bag he had on the seat beside him. “You can write a letter for me, say you are my friend and you would like me to live in England, if you give me your address and telephone number that will help.” He placed the pen and notebook on my lap, smiled at me and gestured that I should begin writing. “Look, Sandu, that’s not how it works, man, I have no power in Britain, I don’t even have an address or telephone number, writing a letter will not help you.” Sandu continued to smile unperturbed by my advice. “My good friend you can write your father’s address and telephone number.” “He lives in New Zealand,” I said. “With your mother?” he asked. “No, she’s in England,” I told him. “OK, my good friend, you can give me your mother’s address and telephone number, that will help.” I could see I wasn’t going to win this argument so I wrote down my real name, a fake address and a fake telephone number on the top of the page before writing a letter explaining that Sandu was my good good friend and I would like him to live in Britain. When I handed him the letter he was pretty blasé about it, he pulled out his phone and insisted that we take a photograph together so he had proof of our meeting. After the picture was taken he stood up and walked away, I didn’t see him again for the rest of the journey, the seat next to mine wasn’t even his.
After a few hours I began to feel bored. I took my iPod out and went for a walk along the train. The doors of the train were all open and the Indians, young and old, were hanging out and holding onto a metal bar on the door frame. They were smoking Gold Flake cigarettes and catching the breeze. It looked like fun. I found an empty doorway, sat down, hung my legs over the side and watched the countryside roll by to the soundtrack of Cool Britannia. I lifted up my trouser leg and faced the breeze, the cool wind soothed the burning in my crotch. It was a serene moment.
It occurred to me as the scenery rolled by, pouring into my eyes and affirming my decision to check out of my previous life that I really had no idea where I was going, what I wanted to do with my life or what I wanted to be. But I knew what I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to be a salesman, walking to work at seven in the morning through the autumn drizzle and seeking shelter from my depression in the pages of a self-help book that would assure me that I was doing the right thing. Go to work every day, it would say, work harder and smarter than everyone else and you will be successful. You can be a great salesperson, a great manager and an exceptional employee. The promotions will continue to come and you can begin to serve the shit instead of eating it, it assured me. I didn’t want to be that ever again.
Each time the train stopped I climbed out onto the station, stretched my legs and bathed my face in sunlight and when the train would sound its whistle and begin to move I would jump back on, pretending I was Indiana Jones. A few Indians offered me a cigarette which I politely refused, some tried to hold my hand and others just stared while I hung my legs over the side of the blue steel box and enjoyed all of the newness by which I was surrounded.
When I returned, Tao was sleeping, all of the beds had been lowered and so I had no choice but to lay down. Tao had left me the middle bunk, he was on the top bunk and an Indian woman and her two children were on the bottom bunk. I took my small bag up to my bed, closed my eyes and fell asleep.
When I awoke the sun had begun to set, Tao was already awake and reading something. “You’ve been snoring like a horse, man,” Tao said. “Sorry. You should have woken me up,” I replied. “I tried,” he said. “What time is it?” I asked. “Around 7 pm,” he told me. “Fucking wonderful, we’ll be there in three hours.”
Four hours later ten o’clock had been and gone, no one on the train looked like they were preparing to vacate the train. Tao and I both sat thinking that we may have got the time wrong. “Go and ask someone what time we’re meant to arrive,” Tao demanded. “Who? I haven’t seen an employee for hours,” I said. “Just ask anyone, man!” I stood up and walked along the train searching for a friendly face. I spotted a man by the door who had earlier offered me a cigarette. “Excuse me, when will we arrive in Goa?” I said. “I don’t know, my good friend. The train is four hours delayed.” I returned to my seat and told Tao. “For fuck’s sake,” was all he said.
The train finally arrived at Vasco Da Gama station at two o’clock in the morning. The late arrival had forced me to apply a second layer of the brown liquid to my penis in the train toilet which felt like it was burning through to my urethra. I was an unhappy man. The serenity of earlier had turned into a desperation for a clean room and a comfortable bed, I had completely forgotten that I was in Goa and on my way to one of the most beautiful beaches in India, I just wanted a shower and the pain in my pants to dissipate.
Tao took charge and found a taxi driver to drive us to Palolem Beach which was to be our final destination. We piled into the back of the taxi with our backpacks on our knees and headed off into the Goan night. Tao gazed out of the window trying to catch glimpses of Goa through the darkness. I sat back in the chair and looked through the windscreen at the headlights that were hurtling towards us at an insane speed. The roads were thin and cut through the jungle like wrinkles on an elephant’s face. Yet despite the blackness of the night, the blinding headlights coming from the opposite direction and the winding of the roads the taxi driver drove like a man whose wife was about to give birth in the backseat. Every turn we took I was sure we were going to hit a truck head on and the last thing I would hear would be the sound of my head shattering the windscreen. However, despite the theatrics, we arrived safely at Palolem Beach one hour later.
We were dropped on a concrete road, all of the shops and restaurants were closed and there were no lights coming from anywhere. “What the fuck are we going to do?” I asked Tao. “Fuck knows, mate”. We could hear the sound of the waves and decided to head in that direction. “Fuck it, man, we’ll just crash on the beach, it’s only a few hours until sunrise and then we can go and find a place.” The smell of the sea air had excited and emboldened me but Tao looked less impressed with my suggestion. “Can you hear that, Nicky?” “Yeah, man, voices.” The orange glow from lit cigarettes shone bright in the night as we approached the entrance to the beach. The air was strong with the smell of drying fish and sea spray and the night was as warm as a Spanish summer’s day. “Hello my friend, are you looking for a room?” A voice appeared from behind the orange glow. The night suddenly felt dangerous. One man approached us while his two companions sat against a wall. “Yeah, we need somewhere to stay for a week,” Tao said. “OK, my friend, where are you coming from?” “Britain.” “Ah England, great country. I have one place on the beach, it has a fan and a bathroom, it’s 250 rupees a night.” I looked at Tao. “It’s only £2.50, let’s just take it, man. “I want to see it first,” said Tao to the Indian. “No problem, my friend, I will take you on my bike. Your friend can stay here, I will come back and get him if you like the place.” I began to feel like we were about to be robbed, raped and murdered on my first night in Goa but before I had a chance to voice my concerns Tao was on the back of the bike and driving off into the black.
I put my backpack down and used it as a seat. The two Indians continued to smoke and I could see the milky white of their eyes behind the embers of the cigarette. They just stared. The Black Dog appeared from the safety of a nearby palm tree. “Nicky, Nicky, let’s get the fuck out of here, man, just start walking towards the main road, these two fuckers have crazed eyes and empty pockets, it’s a deadly combination. Fuck Tao, he’s dead, he made his bed Nicky, do you wanna get fucked by a pair of Indians and left for dead in the jungle. Just stand up and leave mate, time to go.”
The Black Dog had a point but it was easy for him to say from behind the tree and my imagination. I decided to wait. There were only two of them and I reckoned they’d struggle to hold me down or take my bag, it was heavy and they wouldn’t be able to run particularly fast. After about ten minutes I heard the sound of a motorcycle engine in the distance and as it turned onto the road I could see the bright headlight charging towards me through the dusty darkness. The Indian had returned without Tao. “Your friend likes the room.” He gestured for me to get on the back of the bike. I had been in India for less than one week and Goa less than a few hours, I was in the midst of darkness with no one around other than the three men, Tao was gone, I was alone, inexperienced and naïve and now I was walking towards a motorcycle that could either take me to my beach hut paradise or my jungle deathbed.
I sat on the back of the bike, he said something to his friends in Hindi and they walked over to their motorbike which was parked beneath a large sign. They started the engine and followed as we headed up the road. I looked straight ahead, left and right and behind searching for an escape if this was all to go wrong, I found no one, the village was quiet, the lights were off, the dogs were sleeping and wind was silent We drove for about four minutes before taking a right turn down a dirt track that seemed to be heading away from the beach, I could see the moon between the palms of the trees and I could hear the motorbike behind us following ominously. We wound around the dirt track, bumping and bouncing over the uneven road and stopped where the road seemed to end at a mass of tall palm trees.
My Indian driver turned off the engine and we both got off. The two other men left their engine running and stayed on the bike. I wondered whether they were preparing for a quick getaway. “OK, my friend, just through the trees and we are there. How long have you been in India?” He asked. “A few months,” I lied, not wanting to reveal my lack of experience. “Ah, but your friend said only a week,” he said. “Eh eh, yeah that’s what I meant.” The sound of the motorbike engine turning over and the light from the headlamp were becoming faint as we walked through the trees but I was beginning to smell the ocean spray and hear the crashing of the waves. The ground beneath my feet was becoming ever sandier and I was beginning to feel that I would be OK. “There, my friend, can you see that hut, your friend is inside.” He stopped and looked at me. I took 200 rupees out of my pocket and gave it to him, he turned and walked away. By the time I reached the small porch of the hut I was exhausted but relieved, there was still a tightness in my chest but it was dissipating. I could hear Tao showering inside. I dropped my bag on the floor, sat on the hammock, looked at the stars like I was seeing them for the first time, there were millions of them and they painted the blackness of the sky with a thin white dust and I listened to the sea.
The sleep that night had been deep and when I awoke the following morning I found it difficult to focus, open my eyes or move my body. Tao was still snoring beside me. The desire to piss and drink some water drove me to the bathroom. The infection in my cock seemed to have gone and the piss was joyfully uneventful. After I’d finished I inspected the area where I’d been applying the brown solution, it was clearly burning my skin away and my purple end looked like an acid attack victim. The skin was discoloured and uneven. I decided that I no longer trusted the doctor and that I would go and do some research on the internet later that day. I returned to the bedroom and opened up the small wooden shutters beside the door. The sun shone through intensely, blinding me temporarily and causing me to step back and wince. Once my eyes had adjusted I stuck my head through the open shutters and was presented with one of the most beautiful sights anyone could imagine awaking too. I was in paradise.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: From India's railway hell to paradise.
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Indian trains resemble large steel containers with windows that are covered by metal bars. They are packed to the point of insanity, the stench in the air is thick with faeces, urine, spit, vomit and curry, they’re slow, unreliable, too hot in the day and too cold at night, infested with cockroaches, filthy, thick with dust, full of beggars and loud. I loved them from the first moment I stepped on the carriage. As with all countries India has different trains that travel particular distances. They are of varying quality, price and class but the majority are the same. They are sleeper trains with four or five different classes; first class, second class, third class with air conditioning and third class without air conditioning. The backpackers of India can usually be found in third class with no air conditioning as it’s the cheapest and provides the most outrageous experiences. Although women who are travelling alone and hippy families frequently take a higher class.
The seats are elongated plastic blue mattresses of little comfort around six feet long and six to each cabin (there’s no door to close so it’s not much of a cabin), the bottom mattress serves as a seat until the occupier decides to lie down then the middle mattress, which until then serves as back rest has to be lifted and attached to the top mattress with two chains creating three beds. The gap between each blue mattress is about two feet leaving little room for manoeuver. The plastic sticks to the skin during the sweaty day time hours and becomes very cold during the night.
The Indian railway system spans the Indian subcontinent and is said to be the biggest employer on the planet with over one million staff driving, maintaining and cleaning the trains, as well as station employees, office workers and ticketing staff. It is also said to be one of the most dangerous forms of transport in the world. In Mumbai alone an average of six hundred people per year die on the daily commute to and from work. In the years of 2002 to 2012 36,152 people died in Mumbai and a further 36,152 were injured. As many as seventeen people can die on any given weekday whilst riding the train, this is mainly due to the overcrowding which causes people to hang from the train and climb on top of the carriages. These people either fall under the train or are electrocuted by the lines. Despite all this they are a wonder and an experience not be missed.
The stench raped my nostrils as soon as my foot stepped on to our carriage. The air was thick with an acidic perfume that resembled the smell of a crack addict’s kitchen. Tao and I had found our name printed on a passenger list on the door and we climbed aboard. We pushed our way to our seats past shoe-less children, legless cleaners and sweat drenched Indian business men. We took the window seats, pushed our backpacks under the blue mattress and settled in. The floor was covered with spat out peanut shells, small squares of used newspaper and empty plastic bottles. The bottles were soon taken away by the recycle woman and children whose livelihoods depended on discarded cans and bottles. A man whose legs were useless and smaller than his arms crawled over to where we were and swept the debris under the seats (and on to our backpacks) and then held out his hand. We gave him one hundred Rupees each. He neither smiled nor frowned but simply crawled to the next cabin to repeat the process.
I had neglected to apply the brown solution to my penis before we left the hostel. I wanted to do it before the train began to move. I took the solution out of my backpack and went to the nearest toilet. The stench of it became almost unbearable the closer I got. I opened the door and locked it behind me. The toilet seat was a steel hole in the floor which you could see the train tracks through. Beside it were two steel feet shaped rests where you could stand before dropping your trousers and hanging over the hole. The walls around the toilet were splattered with shit of varying degrees of beige and varying degrees of viscosity, the floor was covered in a thin layer of water and piss. There was no toilet roll. Beside the toilet was a small plastic jug that was filled with water. You were supposed to wash your arse when you were finished and then replace the water. The water inside was brown, populated by mosquitoes, flies and floating faecal matter.
I dropped my pants and widened my stance so that they would not fall onto the floor. I took out the brown liquid and applied it to my penis with a cotton bud; all while a tide of piss on the floor washed against my flip flops and bare feet. It took all my concentration not to vomit. The solution stung as it sunk in to the sensitive skin of my purple end. I pulled my pants back up and got out of there as fast as I could.
“Caya, caya, caya, garama, garama, garama.” A man walked down the carriage repeating the same mantra over and over again quite musically. Caya, caya, caya, garama, garama, garama. Coffee, garama, caya, garama.” We stopped him as he flew past us and took two hot teas at fifteen rupees each (about 15 pence). Indian sweet milk tea is a little pleasure at all times.
The train went from empty to full and then overcrowded in fifteen minutes. It seemed that families travelling with children did not buy extra tickets regardless of how many of their offspring they were travelling with and people without tickets paid the conductor when he arrived and sat in the gangways or on the floors in the aisles.
“This is fucking mental this, man, what about these bars on the windows, if we crash or if there is a fire we’re up shit creek, man.” Tao nodded in agreement as I pulled at the bars. “Don’t worry, man, if anything happens we’re pretty close to the door, just bolt and in that direction and take no prisoners. In fourteen hours we’ll be in Goa smoking weed, drinking cold beers and lying on a beach. Just think of that,” Tao said.
I sat back and stared out of the window as the train set off from the station. People selling drinks, food, games and trinkets were still on the train as it began to move and could be seen diving off onto the station before running along beside the train attempting to sell their goods through the windows. People were still buying water and pakoras at ten miles per hour, grabbing their purchases then throwing money out of the window.
“Sandwich, sandwich, sandwich. Pakora, pakora, pakora. Caya, caya, caya. Garama, garama, garama. Coffee, coffee, coffee. Cold drinks, cold drinks, cold drinks.” This was to be the soundtrack of the Indian trains. No matter what the time, they sang their tunes loudly and musically as they steamed past your cabin. Often their presence and timing was godly, just as your stomach rumbled or your throat felt parched, their songs could be heard from the bottom of the carriage. Often they woke you from much needed slumber like interrogators trying to wear you down and force a confession; or in this case a purchase. And while they sang their songs the Indian passengers sat back in their chairs and stared at the white guys. Tao stared back in an attempt to stare them down but that rarely works with an Indian, they just don’t have the same social rules that we do. Staring only begets more staring and eye contact will usually result in a forced conversation.
For the first two hours or so the train slowly moved through Mumbai, past the slums and the factories through the local train stations and by the homeless families living by the side of the train tracks. There are literally millions of homeless throughout India who live, eat, sleep, shit, piss and die by the train tracks. They are a society unto themselves. After two hours we escaped the city and the surrounding towns and began to travel through the Indian countryside crossing rivers on questionable bridges, travelling through mountains in tunnels built in colonial times, through farmland and forest, small towns and tiny villages, all to the soundtrack of the tea wallahs, the smell of shit and in the company of curious Indians and even more curious cockroaches.
“Hello, my friend, what is your good name?” A middle aged Indian man sitting beside me decided he wanted to talk. “My name is Nicky,” I replied before attempting to end the conversation with a prolonged stare out of the window. “My name is Sandu,” he said in spite of my efforts. “Where are you coming from?” “Mumbai,” I said thinking it was obvious. “No, no, no, my friend, which country are you coming from?” he said waving his head and giggling at my stupidity. “Oh, I’m British.” “Ah England, a great country, I would like to live in Britain. Can you help me get a visa?” This time my confusion was justified. “How can I help you get a visa? I don’t even have a job there and I’m in India with you.” Sandu pulled out a pen from his shirt pocket and a notebook from a small bag he had on the seat beside him. “You can write a letter for me, say you are my friend and you would like me to live in England, if you give me your address and telephone number that will help.” He placed the pen and notebook on my lap, smiled at me and gestured that I should begin writing. “Look, Sandu, that’s not how it works, man, I have no power in Britain, I don’t even have an address or telephone number, writing a letter will not help you.” Sandu continued to smile unperturbed by my advice. “My good friend you can write your father’s address and telephone number.” “He lives in New Zealand,” I said. “With your mother?” he asked. “No, she’s in England,” I told him. “OK, my good friend, you can give me your mother’s address and telephone number, that will help.” I could see I wasn’t going to win this argument so I wrote down my real name, a fake address and a fake telephone number on the top of the page before writing a letter explaining that Sandu was my good good friend and I would like him to live in Britain. When I handed him the letter he was pretty blasé about it, he pulled out his phone and insisted that we take a photograph together so he had proof of our meeting. After the picture was taken he stood up and walked away, I didn’t see him again for the rest of the journey, the seat next to mine wasn’t even his.
After a few hours I began to feel bored. I took my iPod out and went for a walk along the train. The doors of the train were all open and the Indians, young and old, were hanging out and holding onto a metal bar on the door frame. They were smoking Gold Flake cigarettes and catching the breeze. It looked like fun. I found an empty doorway, sat down, hung my legs over the side and watched the countryside roll by to the soundtrack of Cool Britannia. I lifted up my trouser leg and faced the breeze, the cool wind soothed the burning in my crotch. It was a serene moment.
It occurred to me as the scenery rolled by, pouring into my eyes and affirming my decision to check out of my previous life that I really had no idea where I was going, what I wanted to do with my life or what I wanted to be. But I knew what I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to be a salesman, walking to work at seven in the morning through the autumn drizzle and seeking shelter from my depression in the pages of a self-help book that would assure me that I was doing the right thing. Go to work every day, it would say, work harder and smarter than everyone else and you will be successful. You can be a great salesperson, a great manager and an exceptional employee. The promotions will continue to come and you can begin to serve the shit instead of eating it, it assured me. I didn’t want to be that ever again.
Each time the train stopped I climbed out onto the station, stretched my legs and bathed my face in sunlight and when the train would sound its whistle and begin to move I would jump back on, pretending I was Indiana Jones. A few Indians offered me a cigarette which I politely refused, some tried to hold my hand and others just stared while I hung my legs over the side of the blue steel box and enjoyed all of the newness by which I was surrounded.
When I returned, Tao was sleeping, all of the beds had been lowered and so I had no choice but to lay down. Tao had left me the middle bunk, he was on the top bunk and an Indian woman and her two children were on the bottom bunk. I took my small bag up to my bed, closed my eyes and fell asleep.
When I awoke the sun had begun to set, Tao was already awake and reading something. “You’ve been snoring like a horse, man,” Tao said. “Sorry. You should have woken me up,” I replied. “I tried,” he said. “What time is it?” I asked. “Around 7 pm,” he told me. “Fucking wonderful, we’ll be there in three hours.”
Four hours later ten o’clock had been and gone, no one on the train looked like they were preparing to vacate the train. Tao and I both sat thinking that we may have got the time wrong. “Go and ask someone what time we’re meant to arrive,” Tao demanded. “Who? I haven’t seen an employee for hours,” I said. “Just ask anyone, man!” I stood up and walked along the train searching for a friendly face. I spotted a man by the door who had earlier offered me a cigarette. “Excuse me, when will we arrive in Goa?” I said. “I don’t know, my good friend. The train is four hours delayed.” I returned to my seat and told Tao. “For fuck’s sake,” was all he said.
The train finally arrived at Vasco Da Gama station at two o’clock in the morning. The late arrival had forced me to apply a second layer of the brown liquid to my penis in the train toilet which felt like it was burning through to my urethra. I was an unhappy man. The serenity of earlier had turned into a desperation for a clean room and a comfortable bed, I had completely forgotten that I was in Goa and on my way to one of the most beautiful beaches in India, I just wanted a shower and the pain in my pants to dissipate.
Tao took charge and found a taxi driver to drive us to Palolem Beach which was to be our final destination. We piled into the back of the taxi with our backpacks on our knees and headed off into the Goan night. Tao gazed out of the window trying to catch glimpses of Goa through the darkness. I sat back in the chair and looked through the windscreen at the headlights that were hurtling towards us at an insane speed. The roads were thin and cut through the jungle like wrinkles on an elephant’s face. Yet despite the blackness of the night, the blinding headlights coming from the opposite direction and the winding of the roads the taxi driver drove like a man whose wife was about to give birth in the backseat. Every turn we took I was sure we were going to hit a truck head on and the last thing I would hear would be the sound of my head shattering the windscreen. However, despite the theatrics, we arrived safely at Palolem Beach one hour later.
We were dropped on a concrete road, all of the shops and restaurants were closed and there were no lights coming from anywhere. “What the fuck are we going to do?” I asked Tao. “Fuck knows, mate”. We could hear the sound of the waves and decided to head in that direction. “Fuck it, man, we’ll just crash on the beach, it’s only a few hours until sunrise and then we can go and find a place.” The smell of the sea air had excited and emboldened me but Tao looked less impressed with my suggestion. “Can you hear that, Nicky?” “Yeah, man, voices.” The orange glow from lit cigarettes shone bright in the night as we approached the entrance to the beach. The air was strong with the smell of drying fish and sea spray and the night was as warm as a Spanish summer’s day. “Hello my friend, are you looking for a room?” A voice appeared from behind the orange glow. The night suddenly felt dangerous. One man approached us while his two companions sat against a wall. “Yeah, we need somewhere to stay for a week,” Tao said. “OK, my friend, where are you coming from?” “Britain.” “Ah England, great country. I have one place on the beach, it has a fan and a bathroom, it’s 250 rupees a night.” I looked at Tao. “It’s only £2.50, let’s just take it, man. “I want to see it first,” said Tao to the Indian. “No problem, my friend, I will take you on my bike. Your friend can stay here, I will come back and get him if you like the place.” I began to feel like we were about to be robbed, raped and murdered on my first night in Goa but before I had a chance to voice my concerns Tao was on the back of the bike and driving off into the black.
I put my backpack down and used it as a seat. The two Indians continued to smoke and I could see the milky white of their eyes behind the embers of the cigarette. They just stared. The Black Dog appeared from the safety of a nearby palm tree. “Nicky, Nicky, let’s get the fuck out of here, man, just start walking towards the main road, these two fuckers have crazed eyes and empty pockets, it’s a deadly combination. Fuck Tao, he’s dead, he made his bed Nicky, do you wanna get fucked by a pair of Indians and left for dead in the jungle. Just stand up and leave mate, time to go.”
The Black Dog had a point but it was easy for him to say from behind the tree and my imagination. I decided to wait. There were only two of them and I reckoned they’d struggle to hold me down or take my bag, it was heavy and they wouldn’t be able to run particularly fast. After about ten minutes I heard the sound of a motorcycle engine in the distance and as it turned onto the road I could see the bright headlight charging towards me through the dusty darkness. The Indian had returned without Tao. “Your friend likes the room.” He gestured for me to get on the back of the bike. I had been in India for less than one week and Goa less than a few hours, I was in the midst of darkness with no one around other than the three men, Tao was gone, I was alone, inexperienced and naïve and now I was walking towards a motorcycle that could either take me to my beach hut paradise or my jungle deathbed.
I sat on the back of the bike, he said something to his friends in Hindi and they walked over to their motorbike which was parked beneath a large sign. They started the engine and followed as we headed up the road. I looked straight ahead, left and right and behind searching for an escape if this was all to go wrong, I found no one, the village was quiet, the lights were off, the dogs were sleeping and wind was silent We drove for about four minutes before taking a right turn down a dirt track that seemed to be heading away from the beach, I could see the moon between the palms of the trees and I could hear the motorbike behind us following ominously. We wound around the dirt track, bumping and bouncing over the uneven road and stopped where the road seemed to end at a mass of tall palm trees.
My Indian driver turned off the engine and we both got off. The two other men left their engine running and stayed on the bike. I wondered whether they were preparing for a quick getaway. “OK, my friend, just through the trees and we are there. How long have you been in India?” He asked. “A few months,” I lied, not wanting to reveal my lack of experience. “Ah, but your friend said only a week,” he said. “Eh eh, yeah that’s what I meant.” The sound of the motorbike engine turning over and the light from the headlamp were becoming faint as we walked through the trees but I was beginning to smell the ocean spray and hear the crashing of the waves. The ground beneath my feet was becoming ever sandier and I was beginning to feel that I would be OK. “There, my friend, can you see that hut, your friend is inside.” He stopped and looked at me. I took 200 rupees out of my pocket and gave it to him, he turned and walked away. By the time I reached the small porch of the hut I was exhausted but relieved, there was still a tightness in my chest but it was dissipating. I could hear Tao showering inside. I dropped my bag on the floor, sat on the hammock, looked at the stars like I was seeing them for the first time, there were millions of them and they painted the blackness of the sky with a thin white dust and I listened to the sea.
The sleep that night had been deep and when I awoke the following morning I found it difficult to focus, open my eyes or move my body. Tao was still snoring beside me. The desire to piss and drink some water drove me to the bathroom. The infection in my cock seemed to have gone and the piss was joyfully uneventful. After I’d finished I inspected the area where I’d been applying the brown solution, it was clearly burning my skin away and my purple end looked like an acid attack victim. The skin was discoloured and uneven. I decided that I no longer trusted the doctor and that I would go and do some research on the internet later that day. I returned to the bedroom and opened up the small wooden shutters beside the door. The sun shone through intensely, blinding me temporarily and causing me to step back and wince. Once my eyes had adjusted I stuck my head through the open shutters and was presented with one of the most beautiful sights anyone could imagine awaking too. I was in paradise.
About the Author
Originally from South Shields, Lee Carrick is a thirtysomething adopted Scot. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
