I don’t remember when it got dark that evening. The coconut palms lining the beach were silhouetted against a pink sky first and then pitch darkness, punctuated by dim lights flickering here and there.
Our Beach Villa was definitely not on the beach. It was in a narrow lane up a hill away from the beach. We drove past the deceptively cheerful white picket gate down an all-too-short drive in front of a squat two-storied bungalow. We were greeted by a man in a T-shirt and shorts, who turned out to be our ethically-challenged caretaker for the next two days with a curious staccato way of speaking.
We deciphered two things eventually from him--we were the only guests at the villa for the weekend and there was no dinner. While spreading ourselves all over the villa presented no problem, food was a definite problem.
We intrepid city slickers set out to find food. To our chagrin, there was no food in Kashid and no food in Nandgaon, the next village. We found a kitschy bar complete with serial lights and a garden gazebo, occupied predominantly by foreigners and local men. Definitely not a sit down place and there was no food there either. The local gharghuti turned us down.
We stood there undecided on the village crossroad, near a closed temple by a sleepy lane, with our taxi driver insisting that we should share his dinner that he brought from home, when inspiration hit us. We will make our own dinner.
We found a small grocery shop where empty space overwhelmed the miniscule merchandise and bought Maggi, eggs, and two onions (the last being the triumph of P’s negotiation skills). We rushed back home and entered the kitchen, checking this and opening that, which brought our evil caretaker running. “Not allowed,” he told us and promised to get us Chinese food from somewhere.
We had a chance of examining our environs while waiting for our dinner. The place was enthusiastically ugly. Hideous furniture fought for their place in the Hall of Shame with faux stone facade in which two adjacent doors within a foot of each other proclaimed completely different garish designs. Our bedroom was done up in all shades of purple and tucked under weirdly sloping ceiling. (Yes, you guessed right--our villa had a faux tiled roof too.)
However, the best feature in the house was revealed to us as we were turning in for the night after a couple of drinks, salty Chinese dinner, a halfhearted attempt (from my side) at playing cards, and general chit chat. As the lights went out, the ceiling lit up with a thousand fluorescent stars and a crescent moon!
Love shack, baby, lo-o-ve shack!
The next morning saw us chirpily stepping out, armed with sunscreen, cameras, and that bible for weekend travelers, Outlook 52 Weekend Getaways from Mumbai. This despite a depressingly bad breakfast. Our first destination was the Revdanda fort.
When the book said it was in ruins, we didn’t think that a new township would’ve sprouted on them. We stood at the massive gates topped by massive banyan trees, disappointed with the normal buildings within. Then we saw a narrow dirt path going around the outer wall of the fort. We set out that-a-way without a second thought.
The path was narrow, overgrown with grass and bushes, barricaded sporadically by small stone levies (probably to keep the sea water at bay). We ducked under this branch and brushed away that cobweb and kept walking when suddenly, unexpectedly, we were surrounded by hundreds of butterflies! We stood there, too stunned for words, as bright orange and blue butterflies swarmed around us, like bits of colorful dreams.
We left our winged friends reluctantly and pressed on to the beach. We found a narrow gate that afforded an entrance into the fort. We stepped into a coconut grove which was adjacent (finally) the ruins. A little huff, puff, and heaving over short parapets later, we were in the middle of some serious ruins. Imposingly high walls overgrown with bigger trees whose gnarled roots snaked their way down to the rubble underfoot juxtaposing some half broken buildings whose vaulted ceilings still held vestiges of paint.
We explored them to our hearts’ content and then lightly jumped over the fence to get out. We walked back to the fort entrance where J and I once again scampered up the ramparts. Our efforts were not in vain--we encountered what looked like an enormous canon ball embedded in the fort wall and two abandoned canons on top. We also saw the coat of arms on the fort entrance--a distant memory of some bygone splendor.
Our next stop was the Korlai light house and fort. We drove past a fishing village where the strong fragrance of huge patches of drying fish accompanied us until the base of a serpentine narrow cliff path. It is a tricky drive--no cold rolled steel barricades to stop one’s way down to the rocky beach if one takes a curve too fast.
However, this road leads to one of the prettiest light houses I’ve seen. Short and gaily painted, it looked more like the extension of some fairy tale castle rather than a Government of India building, as the board indicated. The friendly caretaker/guide encouraged us to go up, using narrow iron ladders for the last two stories. The view from the top is spectacular with a high hill topped by a big fort to one side and cerulean sea on all other.
After we came down, J scurried up the hill to check out the fort, where he (allegedly) encountered a Narnia-esque world, replete with enchanted goats and magical lakes. P and I sat in the dappled shade of a coconut palm, overlooking the sea down the cliff. The rustle of breeze and the restless crash of sea against the rocks below soothed our city-bruised souls.
From thence, we drove all the way back to Nandgaon, to the gharghuti place where we finally had managed to wangle a meal. I love Konkan villages with their coconut, arecanut, and mango tree groves sheltering colorful little houses. It reminds me of my childhood in Kerala. The food at the gharghuti was simple but delicious.
We spent a somnolent afternoon in the mango-blossom scented sit-out of the villa (the ONLY nice thing about the place), entertained by geese fighting with chickens chased by dogs around us. A lamb cried all afternoon somewhere.
As the sun came down, we wandered towards the beach, an unimpressive affair between two rocky cliffs and as crowded as Juhu beach. We hung around until sun set, entertained by scantily clad ill-maintained men frolicking in the water around us.
Early next morning, we set out for the Phansad Bird Sanctuary: Binoculars? Check. Salim Ali book? Check. Cameras? Check. Bird watching capability? Zero.
The sanctuary is breathtaking, with dense tropical jungle traversed by trails. It was easy to get off the trail and walk around among the trees, feeling like cousins of Dr. Livingston twice removed. There were a million birdcalls around us, their decibel levels increasing as the sun rays filtered their way to the thick undergrowth here and there. We even saw a nest or two. But birds? Alas, we could see only three during our three-and-a-half hour trek.
What we did hear was a low guttural growl. I remembered the leopard warning at the beginning of the trail and was ready to flee. But “adventures-r-us” J pooh-poohed our trepidation, assured that we three were good enough to tackle a hungry/angry leopard, picked up a little stick, and led the way deeper into the trail.
Fortunately, we didn’t encounter any annoyed feline, although the growl followed us for some time. We did see huge trees, bright flowers, enormous vines, wild mushrooms and dried leaves that carpeted the ground under us. We didn’t see any fellow trekkers anywhere.
We came back exhausted, famished, and dehydrated. The burji paav at the Kashid beach shacks tasted delicious, so did the simple yet expensive meal our nefarious caretaker served us at the villa.
We set back to the city, feeling sadder and sadder as the traffic thickened. A very different kind of holiday was finally at an end.
Our Beach Villa was definitely not on the beach. It was in a narrow lane up a hill away from the beach. We drove past the deceptively cheerful white picket gate down an all-too-short drive in front of a squat two-storied bungalow. We were greeted by a man in a T-shirt and shorts, who turned out to be our ethically-challenged caretaker for the next two days with a curious staccato way of speaking.
We deciphered two things eventually from him--we were the only guests at the villa for the weekend and there was no dinner. While spreading ourselves all over the villa presented no problem, food was a definite problem.
We intrepid city slickers set out to find food. To our chagrin, there was no food in Kashid and no food in Nandgaon, the next village. We found a kitschy bar complete with serial lights and a garden gazebo, occupied predominantly by foreigners and local men. Definitely not a sit down place and there was no food there either. The local gharghuti turned us down.
We stood there undecided on the village crossroad, near a closed temple by a sleepy lane, with our taxi driver insisting that we should share his dinner that he brought from home, when inspiration hit us. We will make our own dinner.
We found a small grocery shop where empty space overwhelmed the miniscule merchandise and bought Maggi, eggs, and two onions (the last being the triumph of P’s negotiation skills). We rushed back home and entered the kitchen, checking this and opening that, which brought our evil caretaker running. “Not allowed,” he told us and promised to get us Chinese food from somewhere.
We had a chance of examining our environs while waiting for our dinner. The place was enthusiastically ugly. Hideous furniture fought for their place in the Hall of Shame with faux stone facade in which two adjacent doors within a foot of each other proclaimed completely different garish designs. Our bedroom was done up in all shades of purple and tucked under weirdly sloping ceiling. (Yes, you guessed right--our villa had a faux tiled roof too.)
However, the best feature in the house was revealed to us as we were turning in for the night after a couple of drinks, salty Chinese dinner, a halfhearted attempt (from my side) at playing cards, and general chit chat. As the lights went out, the ceiling lit up with a thousand fluorescent stars and a crescent moon!
Love shack, baby, lo-o-ve shack!
The next morning saw us chirpily stepping out, armed with sunscreen, cameras, and that bible for weekend travelers, Outlook 52 Weekend Getaways from Mumbai. This despite a depressingly bad breakfast. Our first destination was the Revdanda fort.
When the book said it was in ruins, we didn’t think that a new township would’ve sprouted on them. We stood at the massive gates topped by massive banyan trees, disappointed with the normal buildings within. Then we saw a narrow dirt path going around the outer wall of the fort. We set out that-a-way without a second thought.
The path was narrow, overgrown with grass and bushes, barricaded sporadically by small stone levies (probably to keep the sea water at bay). We ducked under this branch and brushed away that cobweb and kept walking when suddenly, unexpectedly, we were surrounded by hundreds of butterflies! We stood there, too stunned for words, as bright orange and blue butterflies swarmed around us, like bits of colorful dreams.
We left our winged friends reluctantly and pressed on to the beach. We found a narrow gate that afforded an entrance into the fort. We stepped into a coconut grove which was adjacent (finally) the ruins. A little huff, puff, and heaving over short parapets later, we were in the middle of some serious ruins. Imposingly high walls overgrown with bigger trees whose gnarled roots snaked their way down to the rubble underfoot juxtaposing some half broken buildings whose vaulted ceilings still held vestiges of paint.
We explored them to our hearts’ content and then lightly jumped over the fence to get out. We walked back to the fort entrance where J and I once again scampered up the ramparts. Our efforts were not in vain--we encountered what looked like an enormous canon ball embedded in the fort wall and two abandoned canons on top. We also saw the coat of arms on the fort entrance--a distant memory of some bygone splendor.
Our next stop was the Korlai light house and fort. We drove past a fishing village where the strong fragrance of huge patches of drying fish accompanied us until the base of a serpentine narrow cliff path. It is a tricky drive--no cold rolled steel barricades to stop one’s way down to the rocky beach if one takes a curve too fast.
However, this road leads to one of the prettiest light houses I’ve seen. Short and gaily painted, it looked more like the extension of some fairy tale castle rather than a Government of India building, as the board indicated. The friendly caretaker/guide encouraged us to go up, using narrow iron ladders for the last two stories. The view from the top is spectacular with a high hill topped by a big fort to one side and cerulean sea on all other.
After we came down, J scurried up the hill to check out the fort, where he (allegedly) encountered a Narnia-esque world, replete with enchanted goats and magical lakes. P and I sat in the dappled shade of a coconut palm, overlooking the sea down the cliff. The rustle of breeze and the restless crash of sea against the rocks below soothed our city-bruised souls.
From thence, we drove all the way back to Nandgaon, to the gharghuti place where we finally had managed to wangle a meal. I love Konkan villages with their coconut, arecanut, and mango tree groves sheltering colorful little houses. It reminds me of my childhood in Kerala. The food at the gharghuti was simple but delicious.
We spent a somnolent afternoon in the mango-blossom scented sit-out of the villa (the ONLY nice thing about the place), entertained by geese fighting with chickens chased by dogs around us. A lamb cried all afternoon somewhere.
As the sun came down, we wandered towards the beach, an unimpressive affair between two rocky cliffs and as crowded as Juhu beach. We hung around until sun set, entertained by scantily clad ill-maintained men frolicking in the water around us.
Early next morning, we set out for the Phansad Bird Sanctuary: Binoculars? Check. Salim Ali book? Check. Cameras? Check. Bird watching capability? Zero.
The sanctuary is breathtaking, with dense tropical jungle traversed by trails. It was easy to get off the trail and walk around among the trees, feeling like cousins of Dr. Livingston twice removed. There were a million birdcalls around us, their decibel levels increasing as the sun rays filtered their way to the thick undergrowth here and there. We even saw a nest or two. But birds? Alas, we could see only three during our three-and-a-half hour trek.
What we did hear was a low guttural growl. I remembered the leopard warning at the beginning of the trail and was ready to flee. But “adventures-r-us” J pooh-poohed our trepidation, assured that we three were good enough to tackle a hungry/angry leopard, picked up a little stick, and led the way deeper into the trail.
Fortunately, we didn’t encounter any annoyed feline, although the growl followed us for some time. We did see huge trees, bright flowers, enormous vines, wild mushrooms and dried leaves that carpeted the ground under us. We didn’t see any fellow trekkers anywhere.
We came back exhausted, famished, and dehydrated. The burji paav at the Kashid beach shacks tasted delicious, so did the simple yet expensive meal our nefarious caretaker served us at the villa.
We set back to the city, feeling sadder and sadder as the traffic thickened. A very different kind of holiday was finally at an end.
Comments