I flew to Goa on "Spice-Jet" with a Toronto playwright who was at the Women's Playwright International (WPI) conference. I called ahead to the guest-house in Agonda where we had a room reserved thanks to my chum Peter and his friend Dave. The guest-house owner sent us a trusted taxi-driver, who met us at the Dabolim airport. Good thing. Along with the other cars, buses, cattle, dogs, carts, tuk-tuks, motorcyclists and cyclists there was a parade on Highway 66. Let me just say that I don't recommend the drive to Agonda from the airport for anyone suffering from a heart condition or nervous anxiety.
It turned out we had arrived in advance of a mini-monsoon. For the next couple of nights, sand blew in our windows, water leaked through the clay roofing tiles, and the sound of crashing waves enveloped our ground-floor, cement refuge. Reliable as he is, Peter slept off his jet-lag undisturbed. When the sun came out, and our roof-top grass hut was constructed, we gazed at scenes on the beach, like these.
It won't be long before I long for a long beach in Goa.
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