Goan Fish Curry Rice

It was during a wine tasting binge at a riverside winery in Porto that I first heard of Goa's all-night rave parties on the beach. Determined to investigate the rumor, I decided to explore this tiny destination hugging the western coast of India that had brought curious explorers all the way from Portugal, as early as the 14th century.

The resemblance is striking. Large, colonial style houses with open balconies and tiled roofs clinging onto the hill side, white washed churches, narrow winding paths disappearing into thick forests and the sound of church bells in the distance. Looking down the valley, I see the dark grey waters of the Arabian Sea washing ashore fine, silvery white sand.

Some say Goa is not India at all. The Portuguese hung on to this piece of land on the Indian peninsula for 16 more years, after the rest of India had declared itself free from colonists, in 1947. Curiously though, the result is a very liberated culture whose people welcome visitors of all kinds with the same warmth.

I take the footpath leading from the beach. Tiny cottages with hand scrawled signs invite me to sample their home made "Feni" (a strong alcohol made from cashew fruit) and the legendary "Goan Fish Curry Rice." A table fan propped up on a wooden stool keeps the warm, humid air in circulation.

Somewhere inside the house an argument is brewing, a man's voice is heard muttering something and then the sound of a door banging shut. A bowl of steamed rice soon appears along with a dish of fiery, red sauce swimming with chunks of shark. Simply divine.. Half way through the meal, I find myself already plotting dinner and wondering for what reason the man left the house.

If the days are long and lazy, its nights are exciting and pulsing with life. As the sun sets, bonfires are lit and people begin to gather around the watering holes along the beach. The music largely defines the crowd they attract. Booze flows cheaply, food is often on the house and soon, word gets around ! Smoke fills the air and by midnight, bodies sway to the rhythmic monotony of rave. This is believed to be the origin of trance music. True, by the first light of dawn, I am delirious in my own bliss.

Unlike a typical beach resort Goa has something for everyone. Secluded beaches for those in love, forested hills for the adventurous backpacker, picturesque countryside with rolling streams and meandering rivers for the romantics among us and quaint little chapels for those seeking solace. For the average tourist like myself, determined to experience the most of a destination, each day brings its own flavors.

The perfect month to travel would be September, after the monsoon rains have left a beautiful, verdant green blanket of vegetation. Rooms are easier to find, and much cheaper because the tourist season doesn't kick in until October. But the weather can be unpredictable.

Sitting on the open verandah drinking sweet, ruby port I hear thunder clouds. As I watch, the rain drizzles, pours and forms puddles, eventually running a muddy stream down the lane, carrying with it bits of life, a fallen twig and a hand-made paper boat. I fall asleep to the pitter patter of raindrops on the roof and dream of a house by the sea.

Next morning, I take the local bus to town. Not long after, a half empty bus trundles past and stops ahead. A middle aged lady with grocery bags climbs out, yells something at the driver and walks along. I run over and get a foothold on the bus, before it lets out a big sigh and continues. My bus companions are a cheerful lot. They break into a song and the rest of the journey is completed trying to clap to a Goan folk lore, teasing a young girl about her love.

As we drive past, I get a perspective of everyday life in Goa. Cows happily lazing about in the mid day sun, children playing football in a vacant paddy field, women gossiping with one another, on matters most probably, concerning the neighbor's daughter while their men get drunk at the nearest available bar. People here, appear to live a far relaxed life than the maddening pace in which the rest of India seem to exist in.

We arrive an hour later at the intended destination. It is a Friday and the marketplace is teeming with people selling and buying, haggling for an extra kilo or a few lesser Rupees, grocers swearing by their vegetables and cyclists skillfully dodging their way through the feet and baskets. I watch the proceedings from a street side café sipping creamed tea and munching on the most delicious mince pies I have ever had, hot from the oven. Three generations of the Barros family have been successfully running this bakery. The framed photographs on the wall, tell me the story.

And my mind wanders to the beginning.. all the way from Portugal.

By Anjana Das