This will be the last chapter from my book that I toss to the wind, I’ve been writing this book since I got out of rehab in 2017 and it’s been done for a year to be honest I am probably afraid to try and publish it, maybe I won’t. I didn’t write the book for anyone to read. I wrote it to understand myself better.
It was the year 2001, and I had been working in India for months. Bombay was chaotic, loud, overwhelming, and alive in a way that both thrilled and drained me. My team, a couple of guys I trusted and worked with, were just as exhausted as I was. So when the opportunity for a weekend escape came up, I didn’t hesitate. I told them we were heading north to Goa, a place I’d heard was as close to paradise as you could find in India. We needed to get out, breathe in something other than city smog, and relax before we lost our minds in the grind of the Bombay streets.
The three of us, my best friend, who worked for me, and another guy who had joined us on the project were more than ready for a change of scenery. I’d booked us a suite, a nice three-room setup right on the beach. The idea of soft beds, air conditioning, and cold beers sounded like heaven.
We arrived late Friday night. Goa greeted us with a tropical warmth that clung to the skin, but the night air carried the scent of saltwater and seaweed. I could hear the waves crashing just beyond the hotel, a rhythmic pulse that promised a slower, calmer pace.
But when we checked into the room, I quickly realized that "suite" was a bit of a stretch. There were no three rooms, no air-conditioned haven to retreat to just one room with three beds, side by side. At first, I felt the urge to be pissed off, to demand what I had been promised. But when I opened the windows, the frustration slipped away. The ocean was right there, the sand glowing silver in the moonlight. The air was warm, almost sticky, and the sound of the waves instantly calmed whatever frustrations I had left.
“This isn’t so bad,” my best friend said, slapping me on the back as we dropped our bags on the floor.
“No, it isn’t,” I agreed. We weren’t here for the luxury; we were here to get away. And there, with the ocean right outside our window, it was hard to feel anything but relief.
The sun rose early, lighting up the beach in hues of gold and orange. We woke up, groggy but eager to explore. Goa was different from Bombay in every possible way. It felt like another world entirely. The streets were quieter, lined with palm trees, and everything seemed to move at half the speed of the big city.
We wandered down to the beach, our feet sinking into the soft, wet sand, the ocean stretching out endlessly before us. There were small fishing boats bobbing in the distance and a few vendors setting up stalls along the beach, selling everything from colorful saris to fresh seafood. We hadn’t eaten yet, so we found a little shack that looked like it had been there for decades, right on the sand, and ordered breakfast. They served us shrimp that had been caught only hours before, grilled over an open fire and seasoned with lime and chilies. We washed it down with cold Kingfisher beer, and for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe.
“This is the life,” the third guy in our group said, stretching out on a wooden bench, his bare feet digging into the sand.
“Yeah, I could get used to this,” I replied, my mind already starting to drift into the possibilities of the day ahead.
After breakfast, we decided to rent scooters. The road was calling to us, and we had no plan except to head north and see where the day would take us. Goa’s roads were narrow, winding through small villages with thatched-roof houses and groves of coconut palms. Every so often, we’d catch glimpses of the Arabian Sea, shimmering in the distance as we wound our way through the countryside.
The scooters were old, beat-up machines, but they had enough life left in them to carry us through the day. We hit the road, the wind whipping through our hair, the sun warming our backs as we sped north, away from the tourists and the noise. It was just us, the open road, and the wild beauty of Goa.
As we drove further from the beach, the landscape began to change. The air grew heavier, and the lush, tropical forests closed in around us. The palm trees gave way to thicker, more tangled vegetation, and the road began to wind through small hills that climbed toward the northern jungles of Goa. We crossed rivers on tiny, hand-cranked ferries that looked like they hadn’t been updated in decades. The ferrymen didn’t speak much English, but they smiled and waved as they pulled us across, their arms strong and weathered from years of the same steady rhythm.
The jungle was alive with sound, birds chirping in the trees, the rustling of leaves as animals moved unseen through the underbrush. The deeper we went, the more isolated it felt, like we were leaving the world behind entirely. Occasionally, a small roadside stand would appear out of nowhere, nestled among the trees, selling trinkets, snacks, or whatever else they thought passing travelers might need.
One of these stands caught our eye, not because of what was being sold, but because of the man running it. He was older, with a face like weathered leather, deeply lined from years spent under the sun. He wore a loose cotton shirt and a turban, his eyes sharp and alert as we approached. On his table, he had a mix of goods: small brass statues, beads, and what looked like handmade hash pipes.
Curious, we stopped to check out the pipes, and after a few minutes of bartering in broken English and a lot of hand gestures, he pulled something out from beneath the table a block of dark, sticky hash.
"Afghanistan," he said, tapping the block and giving us a knowing look.
We didn’t need much convincing. Actually we didn’t need any convincing. We bought the hash, along with some trinkets, and stuffed it all into our bags before jumping back on the scooters.
The hash hit fast. We drove for hours, our senses heightened, every sound in the jungle amplified, every smell, wet earth, blooming flowers, the salt of the sea so intense it was almost overwhelming. It was as if the jungle itself had come alive, every tree, every animal, every gust of wind now part of some grand, interconnected dance.
As the afternoon wore on, we kept heading north, the road getting rougher, the jungle closing in tighter around us. The light was starting to fade, the sun dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the road. The only sounds now were the soft purring of the scooters and the distant calls of monkeys somewhere up in the trees.
I’d heard stories about the jungles in Goa. About how, if you were unlucky, you might run into more than just monkeys. Tigers. That word had been passed around more than once during our time in India. Tigers, lurking in the thick jungle, watching travelers like us from the shadows. I wasn’t sure if I believed it or if it was just another story meant to spook foreigners, but as the light faded and the jungle pressed in around us, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.
By the time we realized how late it was, the sun had almost disappeared completely. The sky was a deep shade of purple, the kind of twilight that makes everything seem just a little unreal, a little more dangerous. We were miles away from Goa, somewhere deep in the northern countryside, with no clear idea of how far we had to go to get back.
And then, of course, one of the scooters broke down.
It was my friend’s scooter, the damn thing just sputtered and died on the side of the road, leaving him standing there, looking down at it like it had betrayed him.
“Shit,” he muttered, kicking the scooter’s tire.
We pulled over, trying to figure out what to do. The jungle was dark now, the shadows thick and heavy, and as we stood there, trying to fix the scooter, I noticed something moving in the trees. At first, I thought it was just my imagination, but then I saw it again, a flash of movement, a shape darting between the branches.
Monkeys. A whole troupe of them, their dark eyes glinting in the fading light, their small hands gripping the branches as they moved through the trees, watching us. I’d seen monkeys before, but there was something different about this group. They weren’t just curious they were following us, tracking our movements as we tried to get the scooter running again.
“Great,” I muttered, glancing over my shoulder. “Monkeys.”
My friend looked up from the scooter, frowning. “What?”
I pointed to the trees. “We’ve got company.”
He followed my gaze and froze. There were at least a dozen of them now, moving through the branches, their eyes fixed on us. They weren’t close, yet, but I had a feeling they wouldn’t stay distant for long.
And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, I remembered the stories about the tigers. I hadn’t thought much about it earlier in the day, but now, standing in the dark with a broken-down scooter, monkeys watching us from the trees, the idea seemed suddenly very real.
“We need to get moving,” I said, my voice tight. “Now.”
We couldn’t fix the scooter. The engine was dead, and no amount of kicking or cursing was going to bring it back to life. So we did the only thing we could, we left it. The three of us rode back, two riding on one scooter, the boss solo on his machine, racing down the narrow, winding road, hoping to hell we’d make it back to Goa before the jungle swallowed us whole.
The monkeys followed us the entire way.
Every time I looked over my shoulder, they were there, darting through the trees, their eyes gleaming in the dark. And every time I heard a rustle in the underbrush, my mind went straight to tigers. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts as we pushed on, the road stretching endlessly in front of us.
We had beer and hash, but no idea how much time we had. The jungle around us felt alive, the air thick with tension, every sound amplified by the darkness.
Finally, after what felt like hours, we saw lights in the distance, the warm glow of Goa, a beacon in the night. Relief washed over me, and we pushed harder, desperate to get back to the safety of the beach, the comfort of our shitty little hotel room.
We made it just before midnight, collapsing onto the sand, exhausted but alive. The waves crashed against the shore, a steady, soothing rhythm that drowned out the chaos of the day.
I lit a cigarette, passed the hash to my friends, and we sat there in silence, staring out at the dark ocean, the events of the day swirling in our minds as the hash smoke drifted lazily down the beach.
We had made it through, but the jungle, those monkeys, the looming threat of tigers, the wild freedom of the road would stay with me forever. It would be years later my good friend and Goa native would tell me there really aren’t Tigers in Goa, I never did tell the two idiots with me that truth.
I hope you enjoyed this short chapter from my book it means a lot that you read this far. Thank you.