"Hardcore Holiday?...or Paradise (Re)Visited?!"

Paradise and plentiful grub...

We’re currently smack-dab-in-the-middle of a much longed for three week trip to Goa, India.

Are we having fun?  You better believe it.  Is this holiday without its trials and tribulations?  Heck no.

For one, the husband was bitten a few days ago by a potentially rabid dog who had the unfortunate inclination to chase his light purple Enfield down a village road whilst he was ferrying our eldest son Egg.  By managing NOT to run the thing over the husband was rewarded by four canine shaped souvenirs in his right leg and a surprise trip to the local hospital for tetanus and rabies shots.

Rabies or just a bloody mess?

Not wanting to feel left out, yesterday whilst saddled with a 12 kilo+ baby tied to my front and a gadget and book heavy backpack slung over my already overburdened shoulders (and shamefully, decked out in a pair of bloody useless silver sequinned FitFlops – which Auntie Ba has scolded me for even owning – but probably for different reasons) I took a rather nasty tumble on a little sharp stoned pathway to the beach.  One minute I was gazing at the too beautiful to be real backdrop of sea and giant rocks, and the next I was doubled over in pain with a cut up left leg and a potentially sprained left foot.  Nice.  There was only one thing for it:  “a large Kingfisher and two glasses thank you very much sir.”

Of course as I pointed out to the husband, if called upon, we would make a most excellent team in a three-legged race.  (Either that or comedy fodder for diners watching us hobble down the beach at sunset for dinner – each sporty a gammy leg.)

The little guy is getting into the whole beach bum look....

Thanks to shoddy electrics and ‘do-it-yourself’ wiring, the husband also managed to give himself not one but two killer 220 voltage shocks this morning, trying to repair the broken fairy lights strung across the boys room.  I winced in sympathy having done the same thing myself a few days ago.  Will we never learn?

Being here with the baby has been an interesting learning curve in holiday expectation vs. cold hard truth.  For example, save the hour in the morning and afternoon when the baby slumbers, he is ‘on’ full-time.  Infused with seemingly endless energy and enthusiasm for the Indian subcontinent, he delights in putting absolutely everything in his mouth at the moment – be it a pepper shaker in the shape of a die, the nozzle of the 50 factor sun spray or a shiny 2 Rupee coin that has likely been anywhere and everywhere .

While the rest of us are eating like pigs and gorging on the rich delicious dals, channa’s  and kadai veg dishes mopped up with garlic cheese naan bread and washed down with fresh lemon soda’s and not-quite-ice-cold Kingfishers, the big fat baby is becoming…well, less so.  He’s decided that he no longer deems himself infantile enough to be fed baby porridge or anything mushy for that matter.  Instead, he seems to prefer omelettes and pancakes these days – and inexplicably, sour cream and onion crisps.

In the ten days we have been here I have been in the gorgeous Arabian Sea just once, and have sunbathed exactly 0 times.  Instead I have had hot Indian Chai knocked over on my leg, been smeared with dairy cream all over my clean new sarong, had my hair pulled out in clumps by sticky honey coated fingers, and have had my bikini top covered in vomit.

I am officially one of ‘those women’ now, who stare wistfully at the twenty-something year olds who, like show ponies, stroll up and down the beach in slinky bikini’s, aviators and glance at us bedraggled and kiddie-bound types with a combination of horror and relief.
When I ran into an old friend for the first time - the local girl who runs her own little beauty shop and does the best waxing in the world…EVER, she looked at me, clocked the baby, the unwashed and un-brushed hair, and the food-smeared t-shirt and smiled sadly.  “You are looking very different” she said motioning to the face.  “Yeah…no sleep for a year and a very fat and energetic baby will do this to you” I answered drolly – both of us trying to crack a smile but neither of us finding it particularly funny.

Room with a view...

Ah well.  At least I’m on holiday, in the sun, and can hear the crash of waves from our bedroom.  There’s much to be said for that.

And don’t even get me started on the ‘porno-massages’ the husband and I have accidentally on purpose had.  That’s another story for another day.