The Freaks Come Out at Night, and in Arambol, there are lots of them, dancing on stilts, Hula Hooping, juggling, blowing bubbles, drumming, meditating, strumming.
At sunset the disciples of Yoga, Tai Chi, and various other new wave revived esoteric arts strut their stuff, while the hippies sell their wares to the ‘new wave’ of Russian touristWe woke to the screeching of birds, barking of dogs and the loud chattering of Russians. We’d slept fitfully on our rock solid bed. The night had been chilly ,and we were severely under blanketed. after a tortuous 24 hour journey from London which included delayed flights and lost taxi drivers we had arrived at Arambol tired, hungry and grumpy at around 8 in the evening, and had checked into the first hut we’d seen. It had a bed and a roof, that was all we needed.Come morning we had a chance to asses the situation a bit more clearly. Our shack was leaning at a Pisa-esque slant, the hot water worked, but the shower did not, so we ‘showered’ in the Indian way, filling a bucket with hot water and pouring over ourselves. The waste water from the sink spilled straight out onto the floor. Our sheets and pillow cases were dirty abd we decided to pack up and seek out alternative accomodation. But first things first. We were both really keen to check out our surroundings in the light of day and to have a dip in the Ocean that had been calling to us as we woke.

We walked down to the beach restaurant where we had dined the night before and met the Nepalese owner and his friends, spending the evening chatting and chilling, listening to music and eating.

They greeted with a warm welcome, waving excitedly as we approached.
Coffee ordered, we skipped over the sand and dived into the sea.
The beach was beautiful, with more huts and restaurants scattered here and there. The beach dwellers wereout, pracising Yoga, jogging, swimmimg, but mainly spawled out in the sun soaking up the rays.

As relaxing as it was, my mind was working overtime. We needed to find a new hut, not a big deal, but we also had to find bikes. We’d come to Arambol to look for a couple of Indian Enfields which we would either rent or buy to ride around South India, and our time was ticking away.

Our first day was spent sweating in the midday sun, looking for our perfect hut, on a long beach , with a plaethra of options. Way too many options. After an hour or so of walking in and out a multitude of ‘shall we see what else there is’ huts that were either too far from the beach, too expensive, too crowded or wih overly sexually active neighbours, we decided to go back to the second place we had seen, and finally dumped our bags around 2pm. It was time for the beach.

We swam , ate, made friends with an Indian male model and his photographer who were staying in the same huts as us, and dozed the afternoon away under the blue Goan sky.

The Freaks Come Out at Night, and in Arambol, there are lots of them, dancing on stilts, Hula Hooping, juggling, blowing bubbles, drumming, meditating, strumming.
At sunset the disciples of Yoga, Tai Chi, and various other new wave revived esoteric arts strut their stuff, while the hippies sell their wares to the ‘new wave’ of Russian tourist.

Goa, I am told by the ageing hippy as he finished playing his Ukelele.'is not what it used to be"
Dressed head to toe in baggy, flowing orange robes, his grey dred locks rolling over his shoulders and resting like a curled snake on his lap.

The Israeli occupation is over, and now we have the Russians. But the hippies are still here.

The beach traffic at sunset was like Oxford Circus at rush hour.

We made our way through the hordes of camera toting tourists and fire-juggling hippies back to our sanctuary at the far end of the beach, far from the drummers, DJs and ipods of the market area.

We settled ourselves on a solitary table overlooking the sea, unrolled our backgammon set, ordered a couple of coffees, and played until the sun dissappeared below the horizon.

First we heard the loud clack clack clacking of the Electra follow by the deep , soft put put putting of the Classic, shortly after we saw two beams of light as the Enfields headlamps pierced the darkness on the sand road behind our hut.

We’d met Pritish and Francis on the street outside the Enfild mechanics shop just as I had all but given up hope on finding oursleves bikes. We’d trawlwed through the market , up an down the dusty main street, and all we found was a knackered, ugly old monster, spilling its secrets in the form of a pool of oil onto the dirt beneath , and a tatty silver Electra that looked and sounded like it had been treated by a series of uncaring short time owners.

The for sale sign , written in Hebrew first and English second, confirmed our fears. We’d been warned by many folk that the Israelis ride their bikes to the ground. No oil changes, no maintenance, no care. We were told.

The Electra was red, and fairly new, but in the darkness we could see very little. What we did notice, however, was a frame for a luggage rack to be fitted, a huge bonus, as Pritsh, the owner of the beautiful brand new Classic, didn’t want us to fit one. I understood. It was a gorgeous bike. We’d squeezed each others hand tightly when we first saw it in classic black and white the bike was a dream. He didn’t want to ruin that look by bolting an ubly rack on it. Nor would I!

We looked over the bikes by the light of our phones and started talking money. This wasn’t going to be as easy as we had thought.

The boys wanted our passports as a deposit, but without them , we couldn’t check in to any guest houses or hotels. We had to get more cash. We were so busy talking about deposits that we didn’t notice at first but then another sharp sting on my toe made my cry out.

‘Step back Daniel’ Frances said to me with a tone of urgency. I took a couple of steps back just as Pritsih cried out in pain.

I shone my phone onto my foot and saw the culprits. A few rather large , bulbous ants were marching around my toes, I flicked them off and joined Pritish and now Frances in stamping our feet in an attempt to get rid of these fierce men-eating ants.

We locked up the bikes and walked back up to our huts, where we sat in the bar and tried to figure out who was paying who what.

We had some Sterling, some Euros and handful of dollars and thousands of Rupees, but not enough. The boys were after a hefty deposit, so after converting our non rupee money, we followed Pritish and Frances on the Electra, Phoebe holding onto me tightly as we took our first ride into town on the Enfiled.

My mood soared. A few hours ago Phoebe and I were sat outside a pastryshop ready to give up. I could feel my precious time ticking away and was dismayed at the apparent unavailability of any decent bikes.

Now as we chugged along the narrow back streets of Arambol, I could,t suppress my grin. The bike’s silencer had been removed and the engine pounded likek a gun. We hit a wider road and I turned my head to Phoebe . “Hold on tight, Im going to give it some” I twisted the throttlel right back and the exhaust note doubled in volume,. I hit the rev limit and changed up and the little 350 motor propelled us forward, builing velocity. Now time to test the brakes. I put my right foot down , made contact with the pedal , and depressed. Nothing. “Shit,” I was about to qualify this exclamation with a “No Brakes!” follow-up, but the pedal after being pushed down another inch or two, finally released enough fluid to engage the rear brake.

Settling into the bike a little, I tested the hornfirst priority, Indians LIVE by the horn , high beam, check, indicators, check, mirrors-wait, there are no mirrors. I made a mental note.
Everything seemed to work. MY only worry was the vibrations. The bike hummed, we knew that, now we were getting to know its rattle.

We arrived at the ATM machine a few minutes later, by which time my hands were numb and I felt I was about to loose a couple of teeth.

The seat was rock solid and unsprung, unlike the Classic. How many hours of rideng were we planning? Too bloody many on this beast, I thought to myself.
We dismounted and after a few attempts we withdrew the funds we needed and passed the csash over for the Classic to Pritish.
We arranged to meet the next morning to finalise the Electra, and Frances promised he’s take the bike home, put mirrrors on, and fit the luggage rack for us.
On the way back , Phoebe rode the Classic while I did my best to relax ion the pillion seat.

We parked up, named our bikes-Priti and Frankie, after their owners , Priti was the stallion, the brand new black and white classic 350 that Phoebe had been dreaming of, Frankie was the red Electra, the only bike with a rack, so this was to be the mule. My ride for the first day.

We met our mate Gazi the model for dinner and then went back to our hut, full of excitement , eager to plan our next move.

Shopping List
Map, Bungee, Fingerless leather gloves, helmets.

We rode into town, unbelievebly found not one, but two pairs of fingerless gloves (mine were shortened by the white haired gentleman who sold them to me.)“I made them, I can tailor them for you , as you like , sir, no problem”
The bungees were everywhere so we stocked up, we bought the only map in town, but could not finish our list. Our priority, helmets.

That evening we re-re-packed and shed even more weight from our ridicuously small bags. I lost a pair of pants, a T shirt, a book, and a padlock, and Phoebe also lost a few items, but insisted on bring her sax.