THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

Paul sat in the small beach front shack in southern Goa and gazed through its rustic frame towards the horizon.  The sea was placid for once, much like his mind, as the onshore breeze helped to keep his more turbulent thoughts at bay.  He and Andrew were finally back in the bosom of Mother India. It had been nearly eight years since they had bid farewell to her balmy shores but he knew one day they would return.  

And it felt good. 

Even if they were settled in the less spiritual part of that great sub-continent twixt Russian bankers and British wankers – it was still more authentic than most of the world!

Paul had been troubled of late.  

Since giving up alcohol whilst travelling through Indonesia almost nine months previous , he had returned to England and been prescribed an obscene amount of drugs for his ‘condition’ –  none of which had done the trick.  He still felt numb and lost and suicidal! 

He’d undergone an inordinate amount of ear acupuncture in Brighton it was a wonder he had any lobes left. 

He’d meditated, cogitated, ruminated and medicated and still he could find no peace.  

He’d enrolled on an advanced TEFL Course to teach English as a foreign language in order to improve his mind, but found the content dryer than the Sahara! He hated his pupils before he’d even met them.  

And now he found himself sitting behind an emaciated pink and mottled Englishwoman who had taken the table in front of his. The charming waiter, Sunni, had sauntered over to take her order and Paul could pick up her familiar northern twang all too easily,

‘Oh Hiya, I’ll have a …..’

Sunny chimed in,

“A beer?”

“Oh funny you should say that – I was gonna have a coke light,  but go on then, I’ll have a beer please.’

Paul had stopped listening.  He was thinking of the poor itinerant staff, like Sunni, who he knew had come from the north of India, somewhere near Dharamasala where the Dalai Llama lived, to work down south for the summer. They slept like vagabonds inside the restaurant of an evening and were paid a pittance for a months’ work. Slave labour. His Holiness would surely be appalled. But then maybe not.  The Buddhists had such a capacity for acceptance.  But it seemed obscene to Paul when he’d just read on the BBC the night before that India’s economy had grown by an unexpected 8.6 percent in the last year.  It certainly wasn’t coming Sunni’s way. There was nothing sunny about that. But then Paul knew he wasn’t in a good place – even though he’d been booze free for the time it took to have baby, he was pregnant with bitterness. So he looked back out at the Arabian Sea and ached once more for calm.

He and Andrew had been in the country for two weeks now.  They’d arrived via ‘Air India’, an experience Paul wished on no-one.  They had both been sat in aisle seats which Paul had thought a good idea when booking, due to the length of their limbs, but the squat stewardess had other ideas.  Each time she hurried up and back down the aircraft with a harried expression she managed to bash both of them in every funny bone they possessed. It wasn’t amusing!  Added to that, the inflight entertainment went Kamikaze and the in-flight cuisine dive-bombed! The South Asian toilets proved just that and the landing was momentous to say the least. Paul arrived feeling xenophobic and shaken!

He and Andrew moved into the little pink house he had found, situated in a village on the edge of the jungle, near to the more touristic Agonda Beach. Paul had booked it knowing it would be authentic and cheap. 

Unfortunately it was both!  

For the first few nights Paul could not sleep for the mysterious animal noises and the constant chanting emitting from the the Hindu temple next door. Their lovely host, Vishu, had explained ,one far too early morning, why the place of worship was so important. Something about the particular God ,(there were so many of them!), had not moved from a stone because he didn’t want to disrespect his parents etc. etc. Paul tried to be understanding, but was feeling he’d  happily kill both of his just to get a good nights’ sleep.  

And then the cockerels started. 

At 2.30am!

’My neighbour has the best cock in the village” Vishu had told Andrew on another morning.

It was doubtless the case.

As this cock, which seemed to be roosting about three feet from Paul’s face, rose every night way before dawn. And then announced his arrival in the most alarming of manners!

Paul and Andrew managed a week in the little pink house and then made their way down to the beach. For some peace and quiet. 

And less cock!

A few days later and Paul sat in the same beach shack gazing out at the  Indian Ocean once again. Today she seemed less calm and moved like a giant pot of tea recently stirred. But she was still comforting.

The mottled, thin, Englishwoman came and sat in front of him a second time.  He listened as Sunni once again came to take her order.

‘Oh hiya,’ she said most politely,

‘White wine?” Sunny enquired,

‘Oh, d’you know what, I was gonna have a lemon soda, but you’ve twisted my arm. Go on. A white wine – two ice cubes .Thank you.” She said.

Paul and Andrew were now residing on the sand. 

Front-line!  

Andrew had discovered a  secret path one early morning, post cock, and met an overly pierced man with ADHD and his pink haired partner who were long staying down on the beach.  They had introduced him to the wonderful Suresh who just happened to have a cheap and perfect hut with a ceiling fan that they could afford.  It also turned out that Suresh had worked on cruise ships for many years and had bar-tended on both boats that Paul and Andrew had previously worked on as entertainers. He even feigned remembering Paul as the star of the show on “The Splendour Of The Seas’ ‘ a vessel Paul had renamed the ’Splenderous Disease!’  He’d re-counted that amusing anecdote back to Suresh but the former steward had  looked blank. 

And had certainly not entertained any discount! 

Still it was a coincidence. Ships that meet in the night and all that. 

He and Andrew spent many an almost happy day on Agonda Beach. 

Andrew would wake at the same time as the village cock, even though he was no longer in earshot, and head onto the veranda to watch at least one sun rise! 

A cock crow later and Paul would rouse, stirred by the rabble rousing of the dogs who lived on the shore.  There always seemed to be some canine drama or other that woke him from his sweaty slumber. 

And the crows, whose black company was ever present, cawed ceaselessly through the morning as they fought over packets of sugar and the dregs of breakfast, making a lie-in impossible. 

But as the eagles swooped overhead and the vagrant puppies ran through one’s feet , the beach felt alive.

And Paul felt resuscitated.

He sat in the beach shack on another anonymous afternoon.  The ocean unchanging yet altogether different was again  in front of him.  

The pink woman arrived for a third time and sat this time to his left.  He listened as the waiter from the the north once again came to take her order.

‘White wine?’ He asked with a smile.

‘Oh, d’you know what, I was gonna have a coffee, but go on then, I’ll have a white wine. Just one ice cube this time please!’

Paul sat looking at the menu.  He’d never known a time when he’d been so flat. So lifeless. He looked at the sea and envied her current. His movement. It’s flow. The depth. He knew he’d gone deep enough.

Sunni came over to him and he heard him say…

’Soda Water?’

‘Actually Sunni, I was gonna have that, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I’ll have a beer please!’ ……