With the hospital ordeal a fading but unwelcome memory, I was beginning to feel like Lara Croft, ever alert for the next potential threat or challenge. It finally came when Giles mooted the idea that, at some point, during our time in Goa, I might like to try driving – seeing as within a couple of weeks I would be making the school run – a twenty minute drive up to Old Goa. I balked, panicked and went into shut down mode.
Now, I like to think that I am pretty adaptable and, on some occasions, quite brave but driving in Goa had me literally quaking in my sparkly flip flops. If you are familiar with ‘The Wacky Races’ you will have some idea of what it means to drive in Goa. As my new friend Faye put it – ‘Driving in Goa is like playing a video game, you have to survive the obstacles on each drive in order to get to the next level’ (or live!) The traffic system flows here, it is an organic process that follows an unwritten code – as long as you don’t cause an accident, pretty much anything goes. The road does not merely belong to cars, but trucks, people, cows and, of course, motorbikes/scooters. Now, this is where I feel that the television advertising authority has made a mistake – they show countless adverts of rugged men, hurtling fearlessly on their motorbikes through rain, hurricanes, natural disasters and coming through it all with a smirk and a simpering, beautiful girl waiting at the other end – the problem is every male on a bike literally thinks that he is living the dream – they race through traffic, swerving around pedestrians, buses and animals whilst pouting meaningfully, and more often than not, texting on their state of the art mobile phones. Motorbikes are not just for the boys though; entire families – sometimes as many as six people - are on a bike, workers use them to transport furniture, carpets, anything really and then there are the girls who putter carefully at five miles an hour, adjusting their hair and examining their nails regardless of the chaos surrounding them.
Ok, that’s the bikes dealt with, now the animals. As cows are sacred here, they are given the freedom of the roads. They lay across two lanes of traffic, merely blinking at the cacophony of beeping horns around them They feed their young on roundabouts and play chicken with any vehicle regardless of size or speed. So, it is the driver’s responsibility to avoid a cow at all costs in spite of the consequences of their actions. It is the dogs however that cause me the greatest concern. With thoughts of Ellie still very much on my mind, I find the dog situation in Goa quite difficult to deal with. The majority of dogs are looked after but there are lots of strays, who, with the lack of tourists to give them titbits are starving and making more desperate attempts to reach a food supply. They trot along roadsides, leaping out in front of unsuspecting drivers who are concentrating fiercely on getting through their journey in one piece. Most dogs survive, some don’t – and this fills me with sadness.
So, now it was my turn to take up the gauntlet. Giles had been driving an ancient little white car called a ‘Zen’ and as I took my place in the driver’s seat, I felt anything but calm. I started the car, reversed carefully into the lane and reached the main road. Sigh of relief, so far, so good. I had driven about 100 metres. As I got on the main road, I noticed that Giles was very quiet, clutching the sides of his seat, white knuckles already showing. A glance in the rear view mirror confirmed that the children were silently sliding on their seatbelts – I thought ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence guys.’ However, I am pleased to say that my first drive was a success – I negotiated the obstacles with flair, shrieking once or twice, and only causing the children to scream once. All good.
My pleasure at this first attempt provoked Giles to announce that I now needed my own car. So, one blazing hot Saturday, we piled into the car and visited a succession of glossy car showrooms. The places were air conditioned the salesmen attentive but the cars felt sterile. There was no car that was ‘me’. We went into Panjim, Giles becoming more and more dispirited with his high maintenance wife when I saw her. My car. She was perched on the edge of a second hand car showroom, a princess amongst peasants and I knew this was the car I was meant to have. That moment from ‘Transformers’ – ‘The driver don’t pick the car, the car picks the driver. It’s a mystical bond between man and machine’ - filled my head and I begged Giles to pull over. It was Sam Witwicky and Bumblebee all over again – except this time the car was … pink. Giles groaned in despair whilst Fuff bounced gleefully on the backseat, ‘We’ve got to get it Daddy, it’s a Barbie car.’ Holly rolled her eyes and slunk down further into the seat, obviously having visions of me taking her to school in a very pink, very cute car. Giles made us drive by three times before giving in to the assorted cries from me, Fuff and Oscar who also seemed to find the pink car strangely compelling.
Once I sat in her. I couldn’t have been more excited if I had found an Autobot symbol on her steering wheel. The salesman, Kamlesh, beamed throughout the test drive, he knew the car was already sold and Giles’ objections from the backseat fell on deaf ears as Kamlesh and I grinned at each other in perfect accord. Of course, to me she was wonderful, but as a second hand car, she had some faults which needed repairing before I could pick her up. Meanwhile, I practiced in the ‘Zen’, only eliciting squeaks instead of screams from the kids whilst I waited.
Giles videoed the moment where Kamlesh finally handed over the keys and it is difficult to tell who is happier – Kamlesh for making a sale or me for getting my very own pink car. However, this euphoria was about to dissipate in a rather dramatic way. I had made the school run three or four times, feeling more confident with every trip. The road to the school is a hazardous one and you have to keep your wits about you as trucks and scooters tend to veer off in unexpected directions with no given warning.
I had dropped the children off and was about a quarter of the way home, when a large thumping noise reverberated through the car. Understandably worried, I pulled to the side of the road and assessed the cause – a flat tyre – on the only part of the road that had absolutely nothing in either direction for a couple of miles. First call, husband, who calmly told me to ring the repair guy and wait in the car. This was all fine, well and good until I phoned the repair guy and discovered he couldn’t speak any English and so had no idea who I was, why I was calling or where I was calling from. Feeling increasingly frustrated, I phoned Giles again, who told me that he would ring the repair guy, then ring me back. I sat in the car - the sun blazing down, no water, no air conditioning – and waited and waited. My phone sat, silent and black on the dashboard. With various curses running through my head, I was jolted out of my reverie by a huge iron ore truck thundering past me from Maharastra – my pink car wobbled alarmingly so I got out. This did not improve the situation as the moment my feet hit the dirt, leaves started rustling, things started slithering and I swear I was being watched.
Finally my phone buzzed on the dashboard, I snatched it up eagerly, desperate for some news of rescue. Giles informed me that the guy was on his way and would be there in 15 minutes (Goa time – at least thirty!!!) So I stood, rooted to the spot, hoping that lack of movement would not attract the predators a hairs breadth from my position. When the guy arrived, I am surprised he didn’t just find a puddle of melted me, recognisable only through sequins and glittery accessories. After changing the tyre, he informed me that the tyre he had put on was also flat and I would have to follow him into Panjim to the garage. Not thinking about anything except getting the car repaired and getting home, I followed him into the labyrinthine backstreets of Goa’s major city.
After about 15 minutes, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was and I was following a stranger to a place I didn’t know. Suddenly, my impulse to trust the smile of the repair guy seemed foolish indeed and all the serial killer thrillers I had read began to replay in my head. How often I had I shouted at the blonde bimbette not to follow the guy into the abandoned garage/warehouse/hospital ?! And here I was, making all the same mistakes ! It was with some relief that I saw him pull into a roadside garage – well, a room on the side of the road with garage equipment in it. He motioned to where I should park, smiled and told me he had to get back to work. What ??!! I was alone, in unknown territory, with several men who spoke very limited English. It took two hours to fix the tyre as in Goa, people turn up and expect to be served straight away, I however waited my turn, using the time to my advantage as I raged at everything and everyone involved in this mess. So the car was fixed, I was angry and the drive home tested my driving capabilities to the limit.
But now, my love affair with the little pink car is re-established (I have forgiven her for that minor hiccup – we all feel flat sometimes!) I cruise around the streets of Calangute and Candolim, loving the bemused stares from fellow drivers as I channel my inner Lady Penelope and explore this land that is now my home …
