Goa - Part 1

Let me once again begin a blog with the phrase 'let me begin.'

Let be begin by making a disclaimer - although the title clearly states 'Part 1,' at the rate I've been writing in Goa - let along waking up while the sun is in sight or forming coherent sentences without a whiskey in my hand - the second two parts may never come.

I've broken down the three main elements of Goa as I see them to the following - partying, beaches, and renting motor bikes. The beaches are stunning. The partying is so good it has likely damaged my motor skills for life - for example, this morning I spilled every beverage all over my shirt that even leisurely approached my mouth. Today, I'm going to talk about the least interesting topic of the three - motorbikes.

It is a veritable a right of passage for Caucasians to rent a bike while in this chilled out state of India. The longer term residents or biker bad asses choose the powerful Enfields. The reasonable, unexperienced, or terrified choose 150cc scooters. On a day like any other, with a slightly more reasonable hangover, I decided to join the ranks of the terrified.

I've heard and seen many accident stories about foreigners on motor bikes. An American friend was in Nepal, driving on a highway when and 8 year old playing with a tire darted in front of him. He plowed through the child, confident he killed him. The kid was okay with minor injuries and luckily Eric wasn't lynched (I'm tempted to make a "that kid should have done like any other smart 8 year old and played with guns" joke, but I will refrain). An Australian girl in Goa was driving her bike when she was harassed by a bike of Indian guys, who proceeded to ram into her, knocking her and her sister down and positioning her arm perfectly in a cast for the next week. One of my favorite accident stories comes from the southern islands of Thailand. I shared a taxi with a man one morning missing a fair proportion of the skin on the left side of his body and face. When I inquired, he was pretty sure he crashed his bike late the night before. But after the 2nd bottle of vodka, he really couldn't be sure.

For those of you who recall my earlier blog about traffic in India (see - "I'll Never Work Again"), Goa is similar in the form of organized chaos, only with much easier, calmer, less crowded roads. I chose a renter who heckled me for a sale as I passed, knowing that if I approached anyone on my own behalf I would have to tell them that the last time I even looked at a bicycle I fell down. My lack of experience irrelevant and my 200 rupee's speaking on its behalf ($5 for the day), I got a quick run down of the vehicle.

I positioned the bike in the direction I wanted to go, and made sure no other cars were anywhere near Goa. I revved the engine and lifted my feet from the ground, shooting off of the dirt path onto pavement. I desperately tried to break with my flip flops, wobbling back and forth across the road until I realized that this particular bike - like many others this day and age - came with functional brakes of its own. I utilized them, regained my composure, and gave it another try.

For the first five minutes, I genuinely feared for my life - at 10 miles an hour. Simple tasks like going over speed bumps was petrifying. G0d help me should another vehicle pass on the other side of the road. As I often followed my normal inclination to drive on the right side of the road - generally frowned upon here due to their left-leaning English ways - I constantly found myself playing chicken with anyone who dared to be on Anjuna road. If I had been wearing a diaper, I would have taken full advantage.

Once you get the hang of the bike - a process a normal person can usually manage within 30 or so seconds - its actually quite fun. There is something to be said for a style of driving where instead of following mundane laws like using turn signals and not tailgating, you honk like hell and just go for it. If someone is driving too slow, you pass them - oncoming traffic or not- as long as you can make it work. If they have to slow down, fine. It's almost as if whoever honks first has the right of way. If you're trying to turn right and an oncoming car wants to go straight and honks, you wait. If you honk and make the turn, they have to slow down. You take responsibility for yourself and making others aware of your presence.

I'd love to continue to completely deface myself, but it's getting late, and it's going to take me a couple hours to push my bike home. Ladies - call me. I'll take you for a ride - as long as you don't mind going 10 miles an hour.