Sorry about the fish…
Landing at Goa airport was one amongst many adventures facing us. The airport isn’t a commercial facility in the truest sense; it’s a military base that has loaned its strip to the charter companies. The only problem is; the Goan military hasn’t woken up to the fact that they’ve lost the war.
Goa is full of ancient monuments and the terminal building is the first. The next is the transfer coach. Here, I use the word “coach” advisedly. I believe both Herr Mercedes and Herr Benz were still alive when this one rolled off the production line. Moreover, I suspect Henry Ford hasn’t stopped laughing since.
Getting the bags was more of a bun-fight than usual, ably assisted by two escapees from The Kumars play Snow White and the Seven Dwarves: Miserable and Stupid. Rather than let the tourists fight amongst themselves for pecking rights at the conveyor belt, they made us crowd around one end and pulled all the bags as they came through, lining them up in the central aisle between the two belts, then unleashing the crowd in all its fury to trample over luggage, scrabble between outsize Brummies with Nike sports shirts, and dodge flying Tesco bags tossed from one of the room to the other by two athletic looking Mancunians with savagely anarchic haircuts and culturally disadvantaged clothing. The kind of guys you would like to see get on a bus going the other way. Happily they did just that and we saw neither hide nor excessively gelled hair of them for the entire fortnight.
