April 2001
Mandovi River, Goa

The heat here is excruciating. Our little boat provides no relief from the unrelenting sun. The air is searing, each breath scorches our lungs. Throat and mouth scalded by hot air, our skin drips with sweat, melting. Along the river even the trees are dipping branches. The mangroves look wilted. The water is filthy, mud-swirled and crawling with crocodiles. It doesn’t stop me wanting to dive in, anything has got to be better than this awful heat. But the water is the temperature of a warm bath, full of parasites, and anyway I’m too weak. Myself and CityGirl are still recovering from a three-day bout of dehydration sickness. We thought it was a really bad hangover, the staff at the hotel knew better, offered to call us a doctor.
We laughed them off the first two days, ‘it’s just a hangover’ and we took to our beds like old women, then after a third night of fighting over the facilities we relented. An English guest found us staggering and convulsed in the hotel lobby, gave us some rehydration salts, told us to be careful. Now we don’t go anywhere without a pre-mixed bottle of Electrolyte.
But this isn’t anywhere. It’s nowhere. Slap, bang in the middle to be precise. We are on our way upriver along the border of Tiswadi and Ponda provinces. There is nothing to be seen here apart from vegetation and the odd fisherman. A canoe keeps pace with us for a while. It’s long and sits low in the water. The prow is packed full of provisions. The Goan version of the weekly run to Tesco. The boatman waves at us, his head covered, face crinkled. He shouts hello and the noise echoes back across the river.
‘Nameste.’
We return the greeting and he smiles, so wide it almost splits his face in two. Then he paddles on ahead. Slicing through the murky liquid, leaving us in his wake.
We cut our engines, complete silence now. The only sound that of the light slap of the river upon the shore, and the brief breeze blowing through the mangroves. But the wind doesn’t last long and then there is nothing for a while. On the riverbank a crude stone slab looms out over the water. Our guide tells us that this is a holy place, the slab a sacrificial altar. But it has been years since it was last used, although in this case ‘years’ translates to ‘at least 30′. The locals soon realised that human vivisection is bad for tourist trade. CityGirl has stopped talking, we are all restless and weary, legs cramped and muscles sore. But it is too dangerous to try to stop here and stretch our legs. The crocodiles slide langourously into the water, stone eyelids the only thing visible above the waterline. They swim around us, lazy in the sun, mildly curious. As we head back into the middle of the river, they drift off into the shallows, digging into the cool thick mud to lie and sleep and watch the next passerby.