GO GO GOA

Why Doctors Can Never Retire In Goa

It’s the summer of 1986. I’m on my way to a village in Goa riding my RD 350 Yamaha. We’re looking for a place called Querim.

My friend and I are on this bike trip. And we are refreshed after a good night’s sleep in our beachside homestay in Baga beach. We are wearing T-shirts, shorts and Hawaii chappals.

Querim was not on our Goa plan. Not at all.

Our plan is simple. Roam around, and chill out.

This plainly means – Taking casual bike rides around the place. Enjoy Goan-Portuguese dishes and beer at beachside shack restaurants. Down a couple of Feni shots at local drinking joints. Browse flea markets. Chill on the beach every late-evening listening to the sea accompanied by classic rock, blues, and reggae wafting from the beach shacks.

And repeat this simple programme for as many days until we run out of money, keeping aside money for the return ride back to Kochi.

Querim was thrust upon us out of the blue. On our overnight halt at Kinnimulki, a small town near Manipal, my friend’s Uncle advised us to make a quick visit to their ancestral deity in a temple in Querim.

Caught with a stuffed mouth full of yummy Konkani food we lost precious moments to reject the proposition in time.

We looked helplessly into each other’s eyes while chewing and greedily gobbling down delicious steamed Modaks, chasing them down with flavourful mouthfuls of Aamras.

And that’s how we end up now searching for a place almost no one has apparently ever heard of before.

Locals in the interiors of Goa are extraordinarily friendly and helpful. The first person we ask at a T-junction seems to know Querim. We proceed as directed and soon reach a river. To cross, we take a pretty much empty ferry service along with a small number of locals and vehicles.

Thereon, it’s an almost desolate but decent winding road. Peaceful and scenic. Soon we cruise into Querim. Wow! That wasn’t too hard.

Now, all we have to do is find the temple.

We ask for the specific temple we need to visit. Soon we realise we’ve reached the wrong Querim.

The wrong Querim?!

A set of elderly locals chatting beside a culvert explain that there are three Querims in Goa. And this Querim is not the Querim with that temple.

After a bout of cursing and blaming each other, we ride back at high speed toward the ferry. As before, the road is empty except for an occasional vehicle.

The road is through hilly terrain with bends and steep inclines. I’m riding at a fast pace. That’s fine because I’m good with my bike. And the RD 350’s parallel twin engines are purring synchronously with a distinctively deep aggressive tone.

And then at the next turn, there’s a jeep coming straight at us. I instinctively hit the brake just a bit to manage the speed. But we skid on some pebbles on the side of the road. We crash-land on our butts a bit too unceremoniously.

We dust off our behinds and attempt to laugh it off.

But my ankle is bleeding from bruises. The jeep stops. And a passenger walks toward us. Asks whether we are ok. We say we are ok with a brave face, and the jeep leaves.

I start the bike and prepare to leave. But my leg cannot engage the bike’s gears. So my friend takes over the riding and we slowly proceed towards the ferry.

Then we see a Doctor’s sign on a rusted ornate gate. We hadn’t noticed this sign on our ride to Querim.

The pain is getting worse, and my leg doesn’t look good.

So we must take a chance to see if the Doctor is available.

We open the gates and ride in. The driveway leads us to an old mansion. The door is ajar. But there’s no one in sight. So we knock.

Moments pass until we hear footsteps approaching from inside.

It’s a woman at the door who appears to be in her 70s. She suspiciously eyes us as we ask to see the Doctor.

“No Doctor,” she says. “No Doctor here”.

We smile politely and try to explain the situation. We tell her that we saw the Doctor’s sign on the gate and that we need first aid.

“No Doctor”, she repeats with a visibly irritated expression.

We’re not making much progress here with the grumpy woman.

We turn back towards the bike dejected and a bit confused. A few drops of blood ooze from my wounds onto the car porch while I limp toward the bike.

“Stop!” “Wait!” yells the grumpy woman, and disappears into the house.

We’re sure she’s grumpier for staining her porch with blood.

I place my leg on the seat of the bike to keep it elevated.

The grumpy woman reappears.

“Come!” she orders us.

We are asked to sit inside the house.

Soon, the grumpy woman reappears with a wheelchair-bound senior citizen.

He has a bright smile and a compassionate face. We realise that this man probably in his 80s is the Doctor. Now everything falls into its place in the puzzle. He offers us a surprisingly steady handshake.

“I’m Doctor Carneiro. How can I help you?”

We explain our situation apologetically. And in a minute, a first aid box appears, and my wounds are cleaned and dressed with assistance from the grumpy woman.

We’re having a friendly chat while the wound is getting dressed. And the Doctor’s terribly amused at our Querim detour.

He pulls out an old photo album. And among the many black & white photos taken a few decades ago, is our Doctor sitting resplendently on his Triumph Thunderbird touring bike.

While we are struggling to retract our popping eyes back into their sockets, our grumpy woman reappears.

She proclaims – “Lunch ready. You hungry?”

Have read my story on Napoleon’s secret? Here’s the link.

https://wordsoups.com/2022/11/29/how-to-conquer-the-world-well-almost/