Getting her Goa on

Running barefoot on sandy beaches, sampling inventive fusion food and fraternising with friendly tourists... SHONALI MUTHALALY narrates her adventures while driving along the scenic Konkan coast

April 17, 2015 04:06 pm | Updated 04:53 pm IST

mp_Goa

mp_Goa

We decide we’re too hip for Calangute. But not quite hip enough for Arambol.

The area of Calangute, along with Baga, and once-proudly kitsch Anjuna, is now the favourite abode of package tourists. Busloads of them spill onto the beaches before getting submerged in a rash of overpriced, underwhelming restaurants, bars and boutiques.

Arambol, on the other hand, is the last frontier. Or at least, the last frontier offering chocolate pancakes and masala chai, along with ‘air-cooled’ rooms on a cliff wrapped by the sea and spectacular views. Goan friends tell us about the beach’s vegan restaurants, drum circles and secret rave parties. Admittedly, the idea of running barefoot on fine golden sand in time to the beat of dreadlock drummers is alluring. But then, so is the idea of air-conditioning, frothy cappuccinos and slick martinis.

Candolim

After some thought, we settle on Candolim. Not quite the road less travelled, I admit. But still, ideally situated to explore the state, and then, party through the night. After plenty of surfing through traveller’s websites, I pick Maggie’s Haven, a cosy little bed-and-breakfast tucked away from the main road, about ten minutes from the beach. As we drive in, we’re greeted by Hector, an overgrown Boxer puppy, who promptly drools over our handbags and tries to eat my shoes.

Owner of Hector and Maggies’ Haven, Sunil Sharma, offers to drive us through Candolim to show us the area. To our delight, hippy bar Cheap Charlie is right next door. On the main road, there’s Chocolatti, popular for cinnamon-scented carrot cakes, warm scones and freshly baked bread. En route to the local supermarket Delfinos, Sunil points out ‘party hotel’ SinQ, bathed in flashy purple lights. He also points out Bombras, specialising in Chinese and Thai-influenced Burmese food. I snigger obnoxiously. I love all three cuisines but Burmese-Thai-Chinese fusion in Goa seems ridiculously over the top. As it turns out, I end up eating my words. Once I return from Goa, well-travelled friends tell me the food at Bombras is spectacular. Think slow-cooked pork belly with a cashew crust, South-Asian chocolate fondue and cocktails of lemon grass, sugarcane juice and vodka. 

We end up having lunch at 21 Coconuts, which, like many of Goa’s restaurants, is a shack-inspired, multi-cuisine amalgamation of clichés. In a good way. The waiters are chatty, and there’s something for everyone: an essential with our wildly temperamental gang of four. We order prawn curry, a burger, pasta and French fries. Talk about indefensible fusion!

Ashvem

We wake up to fluffy poha liberally interspersed with crunchy peanuts made by Paswan, Maggie’s resident cook. After multiple cups of sweet, strong coffee, we head to our newly rented car. To my intense dismay, I’m voted designated driver, since the other three have conveniently “forgotten” to bring their licences. I point the car northward; turn on my phone GPS and blast the music. Half an hour later, I give up on both. My internet connection is frustratingly patchy, and the CD — left in the car by its previous renter — has a grand total of five songs, each worse than the last. (There’s a limit to how many times you can listen to Five for Fighting sing ‘Superman’.)

Fortunately, it’s easy to roll down the window and ask for directions. And even easier to follow them — “straight, straight, straight,” for the most part. We pass noisy Baga, bustling Anjuna, quiet Vagator, drive over the scenic Chapora river, through emerald paddy fields and finally reach our destination: La Plage at Ashvem.

Fronted by a stylishly bohemian boutique, boasting everything from Italian bikinis, to designer kaftans to a hair stylist, La Plage has a distinctly international vibe. With quirky paintings, an attractive clientele and French-contemporary food, it manages to be relaxed, but efficient. The owner, a charming blonde who wanders around in shorts and windswept hair, guides us to a bright wooden table, close enough to the sea to hear the waves. We enthusiastically work our way through the imaginative menu: mango and beetroot salad, followed by gently poached fish served with clams in coconut milk, and lemongrass-scented rice. And finally, a decadently creamy pot of dark molten chocolate.

Arambol

Determined to join a drum circle, we scamper onto Arambol beach just in time for sunset. Admittedly, it’s a touch too grungy for my taste. So much for my hippy pretentions. I try to be appropriately “chill”, lounging in a shack on a much-used carpet, leaning against a set of disturbingly grubby cushions. Beside us, a Russian girl practises the hula hoop. In front, a group of sunburnt backpackers play a loud game of beach volleyball. I airily wave away fat flies from the laminated menu, and consider ordering pancakes. “Nothing from that kitchen,” shudders my friend, standing up rapidly and tugging at my arm. We decide on a walk instead — and a good thing too. If you go through a passage cut into the stone cliffs, between all the touristy tat, there are tiny restaurants presenting incredible views. Further on, we find a quieter beach, which encases a cool sweet water lake as well as a set of shacks run by endearingly warm locals.

In the mood for some serious clubbing, on the way back we stop at Club Cubana, ‘the nightclub in the sky.’ Beefy bouncers on the road ask us to park and get into a dinky jeep, which swerves unsteadily up the hill. It’s women’s night, and the club is heaving with accents: Israeli, German, Russian and distinctive British. By 4 a.m., we’ve scrupulously danced on each of its three floors, making some truly outlandish friends along the way, including a compulsive flirt from Estonia. We’re also ravenous. Fortunately, the wood-fired oven is still in action, and the pizzas are pleasingly satisfying. Even when you’re soggy from being unexpectedly thrown into the Cubana pool by a gang of overly-excited Russians.

Panjim

We spend one day being good tourists in old Goa, armed with the Lonely Planet and a badly folded map. After ticking off the big ticket sights, between tall glasses of roadside sugarcane juice, coconut water and luridly orange popsicles, we head to Panjim, where I spend a large chunk of the morning driving around in confused circles.

Just as I’m about to throw a tantrum, we find Cafe Bodega at Altinho, Panaji. A gracious Portuguese Villa, it features an airy courtyard café. We drink icy Vietnamese coffee, sweetened with creamy condensed milk, and eat spongy ravioli, stuffed with addictively sharp feta cheese. It’s followed by a rather frugal slice of salted almond cake. After an appropriately tranquil couple of hours here, I’m ready to tackle Panjim’s narrow streets and whimsical traffic again. We head to the fascinating Fountainhas, with its old Portugese villas draped in Bougainvilla flowers and history. There’s a bar called Down The Road nearby, and all the way home, we argue about how one would give directions there. “How do you say Down the Road is down the road without confusing people?”

Vagator

Thalassa seems to be on everyone’s ‘Must do’ list, which is enough to make me suspicious. We’ve already been disappointed with the much-hyped Curlies, which turned out to be just another shack with mediocre food, overpriced massages and an admittedly great view. (This explains a random TripAdvisor review on it, which reads, “Music: Terrible, Food: Terrible, Hookah: Terrible. But anyway, this place is quite enjoyable.”)

En route to Thalassa, we make a pit stop at the Mango Tree, a higgledy piggledy restaurant built on the road around a big tree. Sitting at the bar, we watch Goa’s unique mix of people go by. Opposite us, a severe-looking woman snaps open her computer and starts working in front of us, while next to her, a grizzled biker drinks beer. The coffee is strong, and we team it with vegetable pakoras, which are crisp, hot and light.

By the time we leave, it’s about 10 p.m., and the roads are dark and deserted. However, Thalassa is rocking: stunning people dancing to infectious house music, with the sea as backdrop. It’s astonishing: like walking through Lord of the Rings , then tripping into Mamma Mia!

Once we get a table, it’s rapidly covered with pretty food and generous glasses of wine. A thin-crust pizza dappled with fresh tomato sauce and feta. A hefty slice of moussaka covered in stretchy cheese. Deep red pasta arrabiata. Freshly grilled fish. We punctuate our food with trips to the dance floor. Sometimes, we join other patrons and just dance between the tables. Who would have thought moussaka would go so well with Justin Timberlake.

Instead of dessert, my gang of friends — now expanded to six, with two more flying in to join the party — decide to dance some more. So we walk to Waters, a trendy open air club. With multilevel terraces carved into the rocky cliff, Waters offers a dramatic view: both inside and out. The DJ is gifted, and the very global crowd bounces with energy. Add the effect of an energising sea breeze, (and no doubt all that pizza), we only stagger home in the morning.

Nerul

After five days of multi-cuisine menus, I’m hankering for home-style Goan cooking. Sunil suggests a local favourite, Bhatti village, for dinner. The restaurant is warm and welcoming, stacked with antique glass bottles, impressively large copper vessels originally used to distil the local spirit Feni and even a whopping whale bone that curves proudly beside the bar. There are just 12 tables, and no menu. As we settle down, the owner comes by to recommend the dishes of the day, all cooked by his wife in a kitchen behind the restaurant.

This is undoubtedly the highlight of the trip, food wise: juicy prawn, a spicy pork vindaloo, creamy beef curry and beans from their garden. We mop it all up with crusty local pau. And end the meal with serradura, a creamy dessert topped with crushed biscuits.

On the way back, we stop by Baskin-Robbins to pick up some ice cream for Hector. Apparently, he likes honey nut crunch. But will settle for Very Berry Strawberry in a pinch.

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