Trompe le Monde: A Round the World Tour Diary

An online travel diary so people can keep up to date with what I'm doing and where I'm going.

Location: Home, United Kingdom

You all know who I am, I assume.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

Poley and Herc ride again

You've read the title, and it is indeed true. Not a week elapsed since we fled Palolem, hoping to forever put behind us the insane alternative identities of Napoleon and Hercules Salas. But life is often not so simple...

It all started when last night, being a Saturday night, we decided we should go out. Near to Baga, where we are currently staying, are two 'Saturday night Bazaar' places. Think Camden Market, with more old English tourists, Indians, beer and a terrible terrible "entertainment" stage featuring a cack jazz band, an odd guy doing tai chi, and an old cockney hippie woman as the worst compere in the world. On the plus side, there are less rubbish "legal high" stalls. But no decent clothes or records shops, either - it was all hippie beads and trance. Basically, if you want an Om or Che Guevara T-Shirt, or any item of ethnic tat, this is your place. The food was the same as Camden Market food too - overpriced slightly tasteless MSG-rammed noodles in card trays with plastic forks. Yummy. In case you hadn't yet guessed I wasn't overly enamoured with the Ingo's experience.

However, Ingo's did have the advantage of being within walking distance of the area's top club, "nightclub in the sky" Club Cubana. And for all the pedants out there, no, it was on top of a big hill. At Club Cubana there is a swimming pool, a jacuzzi, a dancefloor that looks like a laser quest, and the policy that you pay 500 Rupees to get it (that's pretty much what I'd normally spend in a day - about six quid fifty to you) but after that drinks are free all night. That's right, I said free. And all night. As you can imagine, it's brilliant. And as you can probably also imagine, due to the gratis nature of the refreshments, we got pretty, er, refreshed during the evening.

Our main shock, however, came relatively early on, when I was tapped on the shoulder at the bar, turned around and came face to face with an english guy we'd met in Palolem. "Poley and Herc, isn't it!". No, we didn't tell him the truth - we just nodded and smiled and spent the rest of the evening avoiding him and the gaggle of Scandinavian girls out with him. I think they were Swedish as well. Curses - foiled by our own stupidity. Will I never be rid of this Albatross-like alter-ego?


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