A very Goan Christmas

Just because it was three months ago, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. And if it happened, I can write about it. Even if it was three months ago

Getting to Palolem beach from Goa airport takes about an hour and a half in a car that looks like this (love the devil eyes, child)…

We drove through hundreds of thousands of people going to midnight mass. Dave, after 24 hours of solid travel, fell asleep, Jackson did too because it was most definitely passed his bedtime.

I didn’t.

Instead, I sat there clinging desperately on to the thought that it wasn’t my destiny to die in a car decorated with carnations on the road to Palolem. I think I may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder because I have blocked out most of that journey, what I do remember though is going around hairpin bends in the pitch dark ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD.

The taxi driver, mensch that he was, dropped us at the south end of Palolem beach, took our money and made a dash for it. Well, it was 2.00am and the only way to get to our hut was a 10 minute walk along the sand, a wade through the sea and a stroll over a makeshift rickety bridge.

But we got there in the end.

And this was our Christmas day…

Sum total of our presents. Sorry, Jackson, no iPad for you, buddy. But here, have a nice book of Indian folklore.

Dave got the Kama Sutra. Well, you know, when in India…

Christmas breakfast. Eggs on toast (Dave), some kind of spicy scrambled eggs in a chapati (me) SIX CHOCOLATE PANCAKES (Jackson). We had this same breakfast every day for the whole time we were there.

Christmas lunch. Yeah, I’m pretty much going to say that we had this same lunch every day for the whole time we were there too.

This is the bridge that you have to walk over to get to Ordo Sousar, the beautiful (magnificent/posh/bad-toileted) grass huts where we stayed. We joked about trolls living under this bridge, but seriously, that water you see there housed ARMIES of these weird, shiver-inducing crabs with one massive pincer.

A million times worse than trolls.

Santa’s little…um..I don’t know what really.

I freaking love that mask though. I made a taxi driver turn around in the middle of the street so that I could go back and buy it. It’s okay, people do perfectly legal, extremely dangerous u-turns on the roads in India all the time.

Jackson and Dave playing with his plastic airplane at dusk. Jackson’s only other Christmas present, poor child.

I can’t even remember what we did for supper, seriously. I’m going to guess that we ate pizza, like we did every single night we were there. Because that’s what happens when you go to the culinary capital of India with the world’s two most fussiest eaters.

But anyway, forgive me if I get a bit soppy here, but I just can’t help it.

This was, without doubt, my best Christmas ever. Jackson and I had been in India for 10 days before Dave arrived and they were incredibly difficult. India is an assault on every sense and Fort Cochin (where we stayed before Goa) was not exactly child/single woman friendly.

So although we were pretty short on gifts, just all being together again was the best present money could never buy.

And now I can’t wait to see where we end up for Christmas this year.

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