In the Land of the Dancing Flames- Days 6-8

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Published on Oct 24, 2022

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The sand vibrated beneath our feet as the air exploded arounds us, blasts of colourful lights lit up the coast in a breathtaking spectacle of pyrotechnic mayhem.

It was New Years eve, and after a trip to Old Goa, we explored the streets of Calangute, which were positively vibrating with locals and tourists getting ready to welcome the new year with a bang.

As darkness fell, Bianca and I made our way to the beach, where the fireworks extravaganza was to take place at midnight. I was looking forward to it because I take immense pleasure in exploding pyrotechnics. Back home, a fireworks festival is held during summer, when organizers put a barge on the bay full of fireworks. Thousands gather to watch them on the beach (from a safe distance). On New Year’s eve, fireworks can be seen at several locations throughout the city. Once in a while, you hear firecrackers from mischief makers, but it is against the law to have fun with explosives on your own, and for the most part the citizens obey this fun-less yet prudent rule.

We weren’t sure what to expect in the fireworks department in Goa, but people we spoke to sounded very enthusiastic about the New Year explosions. We did not know where exactly they would go off, so we wandered around the beach and checked out the scene. The place was a madhouse with a cacophony of electronic music blaring from every restaurant and beach party. It was difficult to discern any particular song because it was all a blend of synthesizer sounds, beeps, boops, screeches, and looping beats. It was a discordant musical symphony.

The sea was turbulent, its waves crashing loudly in the throes of a high tide. Part of the beach had been flooded and we had to take off our shoes to get through certain areas. There were shouts and hoots as gangs of tourists and locals strolled up and down the beach for miles in either direction.

Vendors walked among the merry makers, selling lanterns, glowing sticks, jewelry, horns, and many other products geared towards enlivening the new year festivities. The lanterns were particularly popular with western and eastern European tourists, who took immense joy in watching them float across the sea like ghostly specters. If you forget for a moment the wasteful and harmful pollution this creates, and instead relive that innocent state of childhood, you would have seen a line of lantern lights rising up in the mystic Goan darkness, propelled by playful ingenuity, rising with a flickering flame, conjuring up the spirit of a new season with their magic, winking out like the phantoms of the past year as they gently fell upon the waves.

“It’s just an accident waiting to happen,” said the level-headed Bianca watching with a raised eyebrow at a nearby group of children struggling to light one of the lanterns.

Restaurant staff had placed tables on the beach, and we found a nice one right beside the shore, where the sound of the waves somewhat masked the spicy mix of discordant sounds blasting from loud speakers.

The restaurant beside us hosted a rowdy group of Irish men and women who danced around a wooden pole to the sounds of Cotton-Eyed Joe and other Celtic-inspired beats, hooting and hollering, jumping around half-drunk and mimicking traditional Irish dance moves. A crowd of locals had gathered to watch the Irish antics and watched wide-eyed as the dancers kicked up their legs and swung around the pole. One dancer stumbled backwards and fell on the sand, her companions cheered her on, so she stood up and tumbled forward on all fours, then she reeled back leaning on her friend, swaying her hips to the beat while holding on to the pole, and the celebration carried on into the night.

After dinner, and as midnight approached, we looked up and down the beach for the fireworks viewing area, but it was nowhere to be found. There were revelers everywhere, yet nobody seemed to be particularly concerned with fireworks. I looked at my watch. It was 11:47 PM. At that precise moment, the pyrotechnics went off all around us. We ran through the crowds and took refuge behind some boats.

Groups of young men piled palm fronds and other detritus to build bonfires, which they they used to blast their rockets up in the air and all around the beach. There was no viewing area because we were standing on it. The whole length of beach, miles of it, exploded with light and echoing booms in the maddest spectacle I’ve experienced! Colors splashed the night sky and the surfing waves crashing on the shore.

Goa had exploded in a ecstasy of fire.

Bianca and I looked at each other in the seemingly endless flashes. What a holy madness! The warm wind blew from the illuminated sea, and beaming with smiles beside the raging bonfires, we rejoiced in the flickering flames of a Happy New Year!

We remained in Calangute for a couple of more days. To get to know a place, you need to spend a bit of time there, so rather than darting off to another destination right away, we settled down to the rhythm of Goan life.

On the beach, we chatted with Lamani ladies who came from the east to sell their crafts on the Goan beaches. Their sense of humor and wily salesmanship was boundless. One of them approached us, and in perfect English told us that she was ‘different’ from the other ladies that had crowded around us. Indeed, she did not give us a sales pitch right away, but instead asked about us and our home. She was sharp like a fox, and keenly aware of the cultural differences among people of different nationalities including her own.

“I know how people behave,” she said. “The Indians, the Russian, The British…”

“What about Canadians?” Bianca asked her.

She smiled enigmatically.

“I don’t know much about Canadians,” the girl admitted warmly.

It was all becoming a blur of sky, sea, and beach. Temples and churches. Signs warning of ‘brigands’ in the area. The heat rising from the warm sand.

At one point, while Bianca was swimming in the lantern-detritus-filled sea, a jellyfish caressed her leg, and she soon began to feel ill with a burning sensation.

A line of red welts formed on her creamy thigh, where the tentacle had graced her skin.

"There's no way I'm peeing on your leg in front of all these people," I said.

We rushed back to the guest-house and acquired some vinegar from a nearby restaurant whose manager seemed a bit mystified by our dilemma. In a few hours, she began to feel better and off we dashed to one last night of exploration.

Our time in Goa was coming to an end. I looked up at the moon that had been our companion these past few days. We stood in the middle of the street while we looked up beyond the palm fronds and promised to never forget. This was the timeless moment. Not a past that existed in photographs or other form of media. Not a future of best laid plans. This tantric now. This glowing moon. This last night in Goa.