Vagator Nights...

I’ve awoken in a Zen palace to find that I have been served as the main course at the bug King’s banquet. Feverishly I search out each nibble at my flesh to try and decipher who I played host too. The twit and I decide that it couldn’t have been a mosquito party, but as a safety measure I should drink gin and tonic all day.
Vagator is a small village set in a haphazard square of rambling guest houses, bars, Averyurdic health centres and stalls of multi coloured shimmering fabrics. Young girls in crop top saris hail us as we walk by, “You come look at my stall? I give you best price.” “We can’t now,” we reply, “we are on our way to the beach/lunch/dinner” (used as appropriate). “You come back later then ok?” “Ok, maybe we come later”. “You come back, you like, you buy, you promise me now.” “Ok, we promise that if we come back we look”. “Don’t forget me now, don’t forget you promise me.” And so it goes, by each and every stall we promise to return and examine the wares.
This is our fourth day in Vagator. We arrived late on our first day, and had time only to find ourselves a bed and a meal. As the night drew in we found a bar on the beach and took a beer from the waiter. “You’re very quiet tonight”, observed the twit. “We’re only busy in the day my friend,” he replied, “Tonight everyone drinks at nine bar”, he nods his head up the hill to a ramshackle construction pumping trance music into the surrounding area.
As the sun neared the middle of the cloudless sky on the second day we stretched our legs in search of breakfast and chanced upon a Zen haven offset from the road on Vagator’s outskirts. This is where we awoke today. As you walk up the cobbled drive past a blackboard upon which ‘Vehicle free zone’ is written in friendly multi-coloured chalk the mellow tones of Indian fusion chill meander over the air into your mind. Upon each table in the open restaurant sits a single red rose underneath a stained glass bell. Dreadlocked individuals and Buddhist families flick through the menu peppered with life affirming quotes to choose from the extensive range of soya shakes and fresh fruit breakfasts. The staff nod and smile, one waiter, who works the seasons here away from his Delhi home bounds over to salut the twit as his brother and to toast us a happy new year. One Nepalese gentleman serves us our drinks, is delighted to find we will visit Nepal and immediately promises to swap addresses as he nods and beams, the light of his face reaching all the way to his eyes.
Vagator beach is a liberal free for all relative to the traditional atmosphere of Campal. Western girls sun worship in string bikinis while Russian and Israeli men strut in speedos speaking into mobile phones. The British men are easily spotted with pale skin, shaved heads and long shorts. The twit and I take a seat in the bar we visited upon the first night. Almost immediately a young girl has sprung to my side, “You want to come and look at my stall?”, “No thanks, I don’t want to buy anything”. “I bring to you, I also do manicure and pedicure”. The twit leans over my lap and looks into the young woman’s eyes, “Do you know where we can get any smoke?” He punctuates his question with the international gesture for taking a toke. She looks confused, “I don’t know. I’m not sure”, and turns and leaves.
A moment later a young attractive man with an array of sunglasses draped over one arm stops by the twit, “Would you like some sunglasses sir?”, “No thank you sir”. The young man leans forward to reach the twit’s ear – “I hear you want some smoke?” The twit nods. “Come to my shop behind the bar in 5 minutes and we talk”. The twit affirms this and returns to sipping his beer. After 5 minutes he wordlessly stands and heads to the stall.
The young man is waiting for him, “This is good stuff, straight from Malawi, you won’t get anything as good as this on this beach. I had to go specially to get this for you”. The twit shuffled among the rose pink and gold scarves stacked around him and the young man, “No, no, I didn’t ask you to get it. I just wanted to know how much”. “OK then, lets talk price, how much do you want to pay?”, “300” the twit asserted. The man laughed and shook his hands wildly before him, “No no no…this is good stuff, 1800”. The twit shook his head with mishearing, “1000?”. The man gesticulated wildly again, “No, no, no, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED”. The twit stepped back among the racks of silver ornate ankle bracelets and burnt yellow saris, “No, No, I don’t want it at that price, there’s no way I can afford it”. “Well how much do you have on you?” “500”. “Right, I went and got this especially for you. Its bad for me to go and take this back”. “Well I didn’t ask you to get it, and there’s no way I can pay that price”. “How about you give me 500 now and the rest tomorrow?” “Look, I don’t know if I’m coming back tomorrow. I don’t want to make you promises that I can’t keep”. “Who’s making promises? I trust you! How about you pay 500 today and 400 tomorrow?” “No, no, I don’t know if I’m coming back, I won’t do it”. “Look I trust you, its ok”. “I might not be coming back tomorrow. I can’t bring you money tomorrow”. The young man smiled winningly, “I tell you what, I like you. Sometimes we make more, sometimes we make less. I’ll let you have it for 500 and you get me a beer. And you promise that your lady will come and look at my store”. “Ok”, the twit delved into his pockets and pulled out a 500 as a 10 fell out with it, “Ah!” the twit exclaimed as his claim that he only had 500 was falsified, “Well here, have this too”. The twit handed the young man the 510 and they both laughed, followed by the subtle handshake that only occurs when a discreet package is being passed.
The twit rejoined me in the bar, a film of sweat across his brow, “Phew, that was heavy”, and we left the bar for a sun lounger before the sunset. Once on the beach we were surrounded by 5 young Indian girls bedecked in traditional saris and silver jewellery, “Hello good couple, what are your names?” they would sing one at a time. Each girl had the same story, “Where are you from?” we would ask, “Karnataka”, “Which town?”, “Hampi”, “Are you married?” “Yes”, “Do you have children?”, “Three, but I must work this beach all day, my husband is a bad man, he sleeps and drinks and doesn’t lift a finger. I work here all day and then I must go home and wash and clean and put the children to bed”. The pleasantries would be passed over as the young girls flung anklets over my legs and saris over my arms while they leafed through notepads of intricate henna deigns. “You give good price” they begged, desperation embedded with the tactics of the hard sell. “No, we don’t buy. We DO NOT buy” we had to restate many times over. And so this continued until we had fourteen girls sat cross legged around us, “You buy tomorrow, you remember me – you promise?” Upon realizing that we would not be customers they sat back and the atmosphere changed. Happy to share stories as the tourists left the sunset beach and the days work was complete. We sat in a circle and laughed at their stories of unfriendly Russian tourists, half suspicious that perhaps they have the same spiel in reverse for Russian customers.
One of the girls was different. Young, perhaps barely 18, she skipped over to where we were sat and introduced herself in sing song tones. Draped in purple silks, her dark eyes shone with a calm wit. She was luminescent in the last embers of the setting sun. “How did your day go?” we ask her, “I didn’t sell much, but selling something is better than selling nothing”. She tilted her head and laughed, “Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?” she inquires. “No,” I say, holding up the rings put on to protect myself against forward natives, “we are married”. “This is nice”, she smiles, “how long do you know each other?” “Two years”. “Ah this is not as long as some,” she muses, “but some people know each other straight away, while some others spend years together and do not know each other at all”. We laugh, “You are philosophical” I say. “I am a professional!” she beams, “I work this beach every day since I am 5 years old. I see many people from many countries and I learn many things”. “Are you married?” I ask. “No, my parents will pick me someone soon, I leave it to them to do the work for me. Well have a good evening my friends, maybe see you soon”. And with that, she gathered up her wares and skipped off to the cliffs where she will board the back of an open truck to head home for the day. We watch her leave wondering how bright her spark will be in ten years once she has been chosen a man she must serve as well as love.
The next day, we found ourselves sat at a bar surrounded by a group of cockneys. Their reddened skin heads and ease with the bartenders signaled their familiarity with the surroundings. They have been coming to Vagator for ten years and sitting among them feels like you’ve taken your own stool in an English village pub, apart from the relenting heat and the emphatic instructions of no ice. They swap stories of their travels with us and recommend treks in Laos. One guy, whizz, tells us the story of his arrival in Vietnam, “I showed the taxi driver my 9 dollars and said, look mate, this is all I have, can you take me to the hostel. The taxi driver nodded and I got in the cab. He then started driving me down this dark alley, and I thought, hang on, my mate wouldn’t stay anywhere dodgy like this. The driver then stopped and pulled a gun out of the glove compartment which he pointed in my face. ‘Money’, he said, ‘I want all your money’. But I didn’t have no more than this 9 dollars. So I pulled out all my pockets to show him I didn’t have none. He used the gun to gesture to my necklace. So I gave him everything, my 9 dollars, my necklace, my rings, my wallet. And then he drove me around the front of the hostel, and followed me in, took my bag and everything. Smiling and joking with me like he was my best friend. Couldn’t f**king believe it. Not half as bad as the time I got robbed by a gang of Thai lady boys. What are you up to tonight? Come for a drink in Chapora.”
And so we did. We walked down the jungle lined hill to the main street of bars, shops and stalls, more ramshackle, and somehow more urban than the neater stalls lining the road to Little Vagator beach. The cockney crew are in full force, they fill the balcony and we join them. The bar has the air of a private party and this they know. They point to the juice bars surrounded by a haze of chillum smoke. ‘They’re a bit nuts down there’ they gesture to the tie dye clad hippies lying blessed out on silk cushions sipping melon juices and lassies. At the same instant, red, who has been swaggering heavily, falls back over a shop stand across the street and does not get up. We watch in silence and erupt into laughter as the sound of heavy snoring carries across the hot dusty dirt track. We meet a multitude of British people, a young couple who have just quit university because they do not know what they really want to do and they believe they will find the answer on the red brick trails of Indian shanty towns. Uncle Ed, the wild Scotsman, whose liver is decaying rapidly and who firmly believes that all British politicians have sold their soul to Satan. We meet two Londoners who continually complain that their home borough is over run with Indians. Jonathan is unmistakably middle class, and his warm open smile flinches slightly when he admits that he will be calling his mother in two days for cash. His long lean body is golden and the stab wound scars that follow his left forearm trace a burnt brown path. He has fought here too – but there is no trace of a temper in his joviality tonight. Jonathan and Uncle Ed reminisce over all the beautiful girls who have smiled, kissed and opened themselves to them on Goa’s sandy shores.
Nearing midnight, the shanty bar is running out of drinks and we head to the Primrose café. We jump on the back of Jurgen’s scooter as he speeds wildly into the night alive with the sounds of revelers and a multitude of crickets singing songs that only the insects will understand. I cheer as we rush along the dark pot holed paths, heady with liquor and heat. The twit grabs for life behind me at a handle that the bike has not been furnished with. I feel his arms wrap around my waist as he wrestles with gravity and equilibrium to stay on.
We arrive at the Primrose, the party is in full swing beneath the psychedelic neon paintings that adorn the roof. Jonathan buys us a beer and draws us a map so we can always find his English home if we need a place to crash. Someone tells me that if we want a rush, red is the man to talk to. I whisper in his ear and he sizes me up, his eyes clocking the safety of my pale skin, drunken swagger and eagerness. He takes me to a dark corner and opens a Clingfilm wrap, “Ere you are, have a dab’. I like my finger and sink it into the sticky grey mud, “Not too much mind you, its strong stuff”. I slip my finger in my mouth and beam through the acrid taste that seeps into my tongue. “Now get your fella, I don’t wanna be caught with this so make it quick”. I turn and rush off for the twit. Red doesn’t ask for anything off either of us. After the twit has had his fill, red looks up and smiles, “mate…welcome to India!”
Next thing I know I’m sat at a table where two Austrians find that they have worked together before, and the skin headed manc next to the twit resides in a trailer ten minutes from our last home in England. Synchronicities fill the air, signifying that the world is safe. That wherever you are, there will always be a friend. Jurgen and me are discussing the fallacies of bipolar ideologies and the life defying nature of heavenly beliefs. I don’t know how we reached this topic but we agree. We pose for photos with new found friends. Each picture reveals widened eyes, blackened pupils and unhinged jaws that chew the excess energy coursing through our nervous systems. I feel the floor rush through my feet and my chest heave as the lights dazzle my eyes and my optical nerves fragment the neon colours like prisms. The groups are closer now, friends of years share private jokes and intimate stories. The twit and I see its our time to leave. We hug everyone goodbye and head back to the bliss-filled ambience under our mosquito net.
Time is irrelevant here. The sun has moved midway across the sky as I write this. We sleep half the hours a day gives, and the completion of one task a day is an achievement. Yesterday we recuperated in our Zen palace, waking to eat and drink but little else. Exotic birds hummed shrills that guided our dreams to paradise. We ventured out for a beer yesterday and learnt that one night at the Primrose is sufficient to put yourself on hello terms with half of Vagator. Journeys have doubled as we meet and greet all we know on our way. Vagator seems the place that you slip into like a warm tartan slipper, it feels as if we have always been here and we would not need to leave if we did not wish it.