Goa Diaries Part 1: Sand, sea, surf, and skin

The blond Scandinavian cupped a hand over his brows and shielded his eyes from the sun, as he stared up at it. It was just past midday. The other hand wrapped around his knees that he drew up to his bare chest. His bum was buried in the hot white sand of Calangute’s beach. From his trance-like disposition, the heat did not seem to scald his backside, which was surely unaccustomed to such bludgeoning heat. It seemed as if his red boxers were enough to insulate his derriere. There was no other clothing on his person. Like him, his girlfriend who frolicked in the warm water wore only one piece of her two-piece red bikini. The top was in a pile of clothes and other belongings that lay next to her boyfriend, who was staring up at the midday sun.

We sat down next to him on the burning hot sand and immediately, sharp pangs of pain shot up my derriere despite the thick denim shorts that I wore. I lifted myself up, then plopped down again, and sprang up yet again, before I got accustomed to the scalding. The other two friends of mine, colleagues from the computer training institute I worked at, did the same thing. Anyone watching us would have been thoroughly amused; three men bobbing up and down on the burning hot sand.

But the blond chap seemed oblivious to this assault. Instead, he turned towards us and smiled with such glee, one would have thought he was sitting on a satin futon.

“In my country,” he said in a thick accent, as if he saw the bewilderment on our faces. “In the town I hail from, the sun is never directly overhead.” Then he pointed south-westwards and with the same index finger, drew a parabola on the cloudless, blue sky, just above the horizon and the shimmering sea. “That is how the sun travels in my country. Always skimming over the horizon, but never overhead. Like this!”

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Norway.” He also mentioned a town that I had never heard of.

“I’ve heard of Stavanger, Lilhammer, and of course, Oslo,” I said, remembering the scanty map of Norway that I had seen in a school atlas. What I was trying to do was show off my map-reading skill and knowledge of the capitals of all the countries in the world. Yes, I have memorized the capitals of all the countries in the world. It was a game we played in school, memorizing the map of the world and the capitals of the various countries, and then quizzing each other about it. Anyway, the trick worked. The blond chap’s smile broadened. Amid the yellowing patches, the sun gleamed on the whites of his teeth, but I was appalled with myself for having noticed that glint. Until then, we were more interested in the glistening skin of his girlfriend, who bobbed in the water, topless. Her hair was as golden as his. Even at this distance from the water’s edge, where the surf left some of its foam, I could tell that she was taller than her boyfriend. At one point, she emerged from the water like a Penthouse center spread model, but when she saw that her boyfriend had locals for company, she turned around and returned to the sea.

Then, it was 1999. Then, it was end-April. ‘Off-season’ for tourists in Goa. Most beach shacks had closed business. With most Indian tourists catering to board exams and entrance tests, the ‘phoren’ guests felt at home in their minimal clothing and unabashedly enjoyed the warmth of the scalding sun on every inch of their skin. We, on the other hand, were on foreign territory, in an area that, at that moment, was supposed to be off-bounds for locals. 

 Goa does not have officially designated nude beaches even today. Then in 1999, the number of Indian tourists during off-season was ostensibly low. We guys were lucky to have the institute's Management guys feel generous out of a sudden and pack us off on a trip to Goa at the company’s expense. This was my first trip to Goa, the first of more than a dozen that followed in subsequent years. Until then, I thought all those tales of topless sun bathers on Goa’s beaches were urban legends. Then I chanced upon a copy of Cleo Odzer’s biography about her hippie days in Goa. The excerpts that I read evoked a curiosity that I had to satiate. What I saw on this stretch of pristine creamy sands, between Calangute and Baga, I will never forget. Dozens of topless women meandering about, playing ball, riding on the waves, or simply lying on beach mats, with their sun-baked nipples aimed skywards like little missiles.

The three of us, my colleagues and I, wore the most clothes on this stretch of beach. We were also the only brown-skinned, ‘lowly creatures’. Our intrusion upon this space of foreign territory was not challenged, but we did sense a few scowls and grimaces directed at us. It reminded me of a Bruce Willis scene in one of his ‘Die Hard’ flicks, in which the crafty antagonist gets Willis to wear a placard around his neck that read ‘I hate Niggas’ and dispatched Willis to a street in Harlem. I felt a little like what Willis must have felt. Even our brown-skinned brethren, waiters and beach shack owners, glowered at us with disgust. What annoyed brethren even more was that the blond – whose name was Eric, we discovered later – took a liking to us and spoke to us, like men just happened to do so over a bar counter, every now and then. Thankfully, I knew better than to stare, much less ogle, at the free, bountiful display all around us, and I also steered clear of the shacks. Then, in 1999, I did not drink.

My casio digital watch beeped and announced that it was 1 PM. We realized we had spent a lot of time with Eric. His girlfriend was beginning to get restless in the water. The sun had gone further overhead. My belly was also rumbling with hunger. Fortunately, one of the shacks at a distance promised to serve us ‘authentic’ Goan prawns curry with rice; the burly owner was still eager to serve local guests. That’s where we had deposited the remaining colleagues who did not want to spoil the colour of their skins by stepping out in the sun.

We stood up, dusted the sand off our shorts, shook hands with Eric, and after casting a furtive last glance at his girlfriend, walked back to the rest of the group. As we neared the shack, we could see dupattas and kameezes of all sorts fluttering in the breeze. The sounds of dumb-charades emanated from the area where the group huddled. I thanked my stars for giving me an opportunity to give this game – which I absolutely hated – a miss and indulge in a little ‘sightseeing’.