A spicy date turned sour

Palolem Beach had palm trees and bungalows just like to those in Arambol. We stayed until Rahul’s departure, and then decided that we’ve had enough of the sea and sunbathing. We waved him goodbye at the bustling station of Madgaon, with the promise of seeing each other as we passed through is home state of Jharkhand.

“You have to come to Jharkhand to see the real India” said Rahul. “Our biggest attractions are garbage fires and potholes in the road.” And he waved with a laugh.

We get off the bus right in the center of Panaji, a towering staircase, white and blue, rises in steps to an immaculate church towering over the city, capital of the state of Goa. Only the tallest palm trees surpass it in height. The first hotel we find is only pompous in name, ’The Palace’. Climbing the paan-stained stairs, I approach the grim-looking man in the reception, and laugh at the price he proposes, I don’t even bother to see the rooms.

We walk a few blocks with the packs on our backs. I circle around a parked white car, the driver opens the back door to let a couple and a little girl out, the hotel valet, in livery, helps them with their bags, opens the glass door and directs them inside. In the sleepy street we find only expensive boutiques in restored colonial buildings or imitating them. Those are not for us, we keep walking. Sara is panting and huffing loudly, to make sure that I hear her. I go on confidently, licking the salt from perspiration on my mustache, it’s a matter of principle not to give in easily. In a grocery store I press a chocolate stupidly displayed on the street, it’s soft as mousse. The cashier doesn’t have any useful information for us. We have to proceed, the street is very long.

The sun beats down on us, our backpacks weigh us down. After a few more minutes with no end in sight, Sara whimpers, she says she doesn’t want to get heatstroke, she can’t walk anymore. I have to indulge her, already seeing what we were going to save on accommodation going away because she can’t walk any further. We stop, waiting, and of the tuk-tuks that usually nearly run us over, none pass now.

We end up going all the way back on foot, we have to surrender to the Palace Hotel. The man at the reception doesn’t lower a single a rupee to the requested amount, he already knows that we will accept his price anyway. For almost double what we paid on the beaches, we get a poorly cleaned room, with worn bedsheets and black damp stains on the walls. We spend our first hours alone, lying in a dismal room, feeling defeated, sweaty and dirty, in underwear and unwilling to get closer to each other, our bodies open to the ceiling fan that dries the perspiration on our skin with constant gusts.

The bed and the bath don’t wash away our disenchantment and tiredness. We go out to dinner, and as soon as we cross the street we find an old two-story house, whitewashed walls with green frames on the doors and windows, and three tiny metal balconies. There are three rooms for rent upstairs, on the ground floor lives the Vasques family, that gives the guesthouse its name. We book the only free room for the next day.

Now it’s my turn to huff: “See? We only had to walk for another five minutes and we would be in a nicer place.”

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” says Sara. “The backpack was killing me, I think it’s too heavy…”

“Well, you already started to fill it with rags and trinkets and we’re still at the beginning of the trip.”

“I just bought a scarf! You did the research, you could have seen the address to this house online and we would have landed right here at the doorstep.”

“What a nerve! I’m the one who looks for everything and you still complain!”

Sara tries to soothe me by making me notice the details of the houses, the verandas over the street illuminated in yellow by the lamps, a blind made of translucent shells. I cast my eyes silently in the direction she points me, guarding my bad mood, unwilling to let it pass so quickly. She has to realize that we can’t plan everything, it’s going to be a path of uncertainty, sweat and fatigue, with the weight on our backs, the dust in our mouths… We need to know how to suffer a little, without exaggeration, I don’t seek wisdom through pain, but let’s not soften everything either, lower our arms, whine, flee to an air conditioned room or a taxi at the first hardship we meet just because we can. It’s the journey we have chosen, we have to be faithful to it.

We arrive at the restaurant that Nirm recommended. A red house with white trim on the arched windows, three wooden tables under the porch, and a dark wooden door, wide open. Four tall lamps, wrapped in ivy, light up the terrace. Sara is already going in. I glance at the menu and stop her, “It’s a little expensive.”

“But it looks great!”

A waiter sets down a bowl of a thick, aromatic, vibrant orange sauce on the table. He walks back through the door, also arched, with side panels of frosted glass and wrought iron. Inside, the white walls highlight the dark colonial furniture, solid chairs with fat red upholstery, heavy tables with glass tops, a black sideboard with a mirror in a baroque frame, plus framed diplomas, recommendations, awards, and newspaper reports.

Sara is looking at the list, “And it’s not that expensive.”

“Nothing is expensive to you, the hostels, the restaurants, the tuk-tuks, the clothes…”

“Don’t be cacata.”

“Cacata my ass!” Sara brought from Mozambique a few local expressions that she sporadically lets out. When I first met her it was one of the things I found amusing about her, but suddenly it seems like an idiotic appropriation, it annoys me much more than if she had called me a cheapskate in Portuguese. “We talked about this, we don’t know how long we’re going to be traveling, we can’t spend randomly.”

“I know, and I think I’ve been saving. We’re only going to be here once, there are things we have to experience!” Exaltation causes her voice to rise to a higher pitch.

I move a few steps away from the terrace to a shadowy wall, and continue, caustic and relatively calm. “We’re only going to be once everywhere, we can’t try everything.”

“Not everything, you don’t care about food, but you know it’s one of the things I like best. It’s only once, you can’t be so strict.”

“I’m not, yesterday we went with Rahul to an expensive restaurant.”

“It was nothing special, this one looks much better…”

“I shouldn’t even have to say anything, I get upset because you make me play this role!” I say, getting more and more incensed. “You make me feel petty because I have to talk about money, I don’t want to! I want to think about money as little as possible. Do you understand?”

“I understand…” says Sara, avoiding the confrontation. “Let’s find another place.”

“No, I don’t want to deprive you of anything. Let’s eat here.”

“There’s no need, let’s just…”

I breathe out, releasing the fury simmering in my chest. “We’ve only just started and we’re already out of patience for each other…”

“No we’re not, we’re tired.” Sara embraces me. Her hands make my shirt stick to my back, coursed with tension and a film of perspiration. I put an arm around her shoulders. “We can order just one plate and split it” she says, “If we get hungry we’ll eat something on the street, the cheapest we can find, okay?”

We share a vegetable chacuti and rice. In the end we ask for naans to wipe off the sauce left on the platter. On the way home, in a square with trees and a small stage, we come across a rock band playing covers of well-known songs. The people sitting on the park benches watch with little interest. Sara doesn’t need much to cheer up, she wants to stand and already moves her shoulders, singing. Suddenly her body stiffens under the weight of a gaze that lingers on her. She tries to forget it, to resume the dance, and when she notices again, the lustful eyes are still there, not going away even when she faces them, intentional, insistent, disturbing. She hides behind me. I glare at the impudent man, stretch my neck toward him, reinforcing that I am watching him too, in a dare.

“Let’s go” Sara asks.

“No, he’s the one leaving.” I swell with manliness as I see the man stand up. But instead of walking away he comes closer and stands, staring with glazed eyes. I take a step forward. “Hey! What are you doing?” He continues to stare.

Sara pulls on my arm. “Let’s go, he’s drunk.”

Maybe having a common enemy helped us feel on the same side again. We walk back arm in arm, flushed, cheerful, and even the room at the Palace doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

Perpetual Motion is a serial novel. Go to the Table of Contents to read previous posts.

Next: Colonial delights and pains