by M. J. Kelly
Dig lay still, barely covered by the tarpaulin and not three metres away from the driver as he watched his handiwork. If the man looked sideways, they would be face to face.
“Kya karoon haye, Koch Koch Hotai Hai...” the man sung as a steamy cloud of piss rose around him and floated up to Dig. He held his breath with a grimace. The urine fog smelt acrid, and the hairs inside his nose tickled and twitched, like an army of ants doing laps around his sinuses.
After a near impossible length of time the torrent reduced to a trickle, and then the trickle tapered down to a few short squirts. The driver gave a shake and wiped his hand on the seat of his trousers. He stepped across the gravel and thunked up the metal steps to the cabin.
A sneeze began building momentum in Dig’s nose, and he clamped his mouth shut with his hand. It couldn’t be suppressed, and when it finally exploded, it came out as a high pitched “Choo!” The driver’s footfalls up the stairs stopped.
Dig squeezed his nostrils shut between his thumb and forefinger. The tickle slowly dissipated, and he allowed himself to breathe while watching the shadow of the driver beside the cab. There was a click, and the radio shut down abruptly—leaving a conspicuous silence, save for a whisper of wind in the palm fronds.
The shadow at the front of the truck moved, and a foot crunched back down to the gravel. The driver reappeared, facing the open road shoulder.
Dig lay still on the truck bed, his fingers clamped tightly over his nostrils, the fabric of the tarpaulin barely covering him.
The man took another two steps forward. His shoulders were bunched, and one arm hung stiffly at his side, grasping tightly what looked to be a small penknife. The tendons in his forearm bulged.
Behind him, a small bird of green and blue feathers floated down from the sky and landed on the top of the billboard. It stretched its wings, then gave a high pitched call.
The driver turned quickly toward the sound. After a moment the bird called again, and the driver’s shoulders dropped and relaxed. He shook his head and muttered to himself.
The man pocketed the knife and climbed back up the stairs of the cabin. The door slammed shut and the muffled warble of the music returned. Moments later the engine crunched back into gear and they were moving again.
Dig took a deep breath and slid back out from beneath the tarpaulin. As the truck passed the billboard he watched the bird and frowned—unable to pinpoint a nagging sense of déjà vu.
The truck motored on at a steady pace as it climbed a hill, and trucks passed intermittently in the opposite direction, carrying containers. Eventually, the trees on the road shoulder made way for boxy concrete shacks with peeling paint. The road topped out on the peak of a vast headland, and Dig tasted the salty tang of the ocean in the slipstream.
In the distance to the left, a cluster of buildings crowded behind a long stretch of sandy beach. To the right lay a wide green harbour, banked by a line of steel cranes on the shore. A flat expanse of concrete spread behind the cranes, stacked with containers. Ships were parked in the harbour, ready to receive their cargo.
The docks, Dig thought, and pressed his lips together.
The road followed the ridge of the hill down toward the harbour. A chain link fence appeared beside the road, and the truck slowed to a crawl before it turned into a wide gate. A large, faded sign stood above it, announcing: MORMUGAO CONTAINER PORT, GOA
The truck rumbled through the gate and across the concrete, heading for the line of T-shaped cranes that stood on the harbour’s edge like hulking rusted crucifixes. Beside them, trucks lined up across the carpark in rows. The Banyan Brewery vehicle rolled to a stop inside a faded white rectangle and awaited its turn to be unloaded.
As the cabin door clicked open, Dig lowered himself to the concrete on the opposite side, squatted, and crawled across the pavement until he found some cover beneath the tray of a nearby truck.
From here he could see the driver’s feet as they shuffled around in front of the vehicle. A second set of hairy legs in shorts and sandals arrived beside him.
“You made it,” said the owner of the sandals, in a strange accent. “Good trip?”
“Yes. There wasn’t a lot of traffic.”
“Well you’re booked in for upload at nine thirty. So you’ve a couple of hours.”
“Do you have the paperwork?”
“Aye, all here. And I’ve filled out the customs forms for ye, so you’re ready to go.”
“Good.”
There was a flick of a lighter, and a puff of cigarette smoke rose into the sky. “Well, I’m out of here.” The owner of the sandals sauntered off, back in the direction of the main road.
Dig crept after him, following at a distance, weaving through the maze of parked trucks. The man’s blonde streaked hair hung to his shoulders, and strings of beaded bracelets were looped around his wrists.
The man exited the main gate of the dock and jogged across the road. When he reached the far side, he stepped down a sandy track that split through the trees and disappeared from sight.
Dig jogged across the road after him. A faded sign pointed down the sandy trail: Baina Beach. He followed.
The track snaked around the base of a rocky cliff and opened out onto a beach covered with coarse, brown sand. Waves broke along the shore, pushing clumps of seaweed onto the bank. A fine salty mist hung in the air. Dig stepped onto the sand and scanned the length of the beach—but it was empty. The guy had disappeared.
Behind the sand, a dirt road ran parallel to the shore, lined on both sides of the street with shops and stalls. The street was busy with people, and the warbled voice of an announcer filled the air. Dig paced toward the crowd.
It was a market, with wares packed tightly on both sides of the street. Spices were heaped on the ground in pointed piles, with vendors seated beside them. Foul smelling fish were lined up on tables, covered in flies. An elderly man stood before a vegetable stall, holding up a handful of greens as he haggled with the merchant. Shoulders jostled past him, and the hum of conversation filled the air.
Dig stood on his toes and scanned the crowd, then spotted the sandals guy by a motorbike halfway down the street. The guy lifted a roll of paper from the rear of the bike, stepped over to a plywood hoarding on the edge of the road, and tacked the paper billboard up on the wall. He returned to sit on the bike, and started it up.
Dig dodged through the horde. “Hey!” he shouted, and waved his arms. But the bike jerked forward and disappeared into the crowd.
Dig came to a stop beside the plywood hoarding, his hands on his hips. His brow furrowed and he slowly shook his head. After a moment he turned to look at the billboard the guy had fixed to the wall:
THE BANYAN BREWHOUSE
HOME OF BANYAN BITTER
SUNDOWN PARTY
EVERY NIGHT TILL LATE
RESIDENT DJ
FREE ENTRY
CLIFFTOP ROAD, ANJUNA
SEE YOU THERE!
Dig blinked and reread the sign. He looked up and down the market, before his attention turned to a woman who sat cross legged on the ground. She wore gold hooped earrings, and supported a double chin over a patterned dress. Heavy sacks were stacked on the road beside her, brimming with dark red, knobbly sausages.
“Excuse me,” Dig said, pointing to the sign. “Is Anjuna far from here?”
The woman studied the sign, then wobbled her head. “About an hour,” she said. “To drive.”
“Okay.” Dig pursed his lips and glanced back up the road. “Are there any taxis around here? Or rickshaws?”
She frowned and shook her head. “You going to Anjuna?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Her eyes lit up, and she turned toward a dark concrete room in the building behind her. “Rakesh!”
A pot-bellied man with a bald head walked out of the darkness. The couple had a quick discussion in Hindi, then the man turned to Dig.
“Hello,” he said. “Where you from?”
“Australia.”
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“Ah! David Warner and Mitchell Johnson. Good cricketers.”
“They are,” said Dig, smiling.
“Where you going?”
“I’m trying to get to Anjuna.”
The man nodded. “Okay then. Come with me.” He gestured toward the back room.
“Are you a taxi driver?”
The man frowned. “No,” he said. “I make chouricos.”
Dig looked at him blankly, and the man pointed to the sacks of dried sausage stacked in front of the woman. “Goan sausage.”
“Is that like chorizo?”
“Yes, but better.” The man grinned and waved his hand again. “Come on. I’ve a delivery to make in Anjuna. You can come with me. No problem.”
Dig blinked. “Oh right...thanks.”
The man entered the building. Lengths of the knobbly red sausage hung from floor to ceiling in rows. A doorway at the rear of the room led to an alleyway and a rusted, three wheeled vehicle. The front cabin of the machine was small and enclosed. A flat steel tray filled the rear of the machine, making the vehicle look like a cross between a motorbike and a tiny pick-up truck.
“My auto rickshaw,” the man said. “You can squeeze in the back.” Stacked tightly in the rear tray were wide circular sacks, brimming with chouricos. Dig raised his eyebrows.
“Have you tried chouricos before?”
“No.”
“Well come on then!” The man snapped a handful of the sausage off the top of the nearest pile and held it out. “Try!”
Dig took the chouricos; it was soft and knobbly in his hand, like a string of oversized rosary beads, and the colour of dried blood. “Is it cooked?”
“Of course. By the sun. We leave it outside for three months.”
“You just leave it on the ground? Raw?”
“Well...yes. It’s raw at first. But it’s dried out now.” The man gestured to the sausage in Dig’s hand. “You see?”
Dig glanced from the chouricos to the rickshaw, his lips thin. The man watched him with an expectant smile.
Dig shrugged, then brought the meat to his mouth and took a bite. It was chewy, and strong flavours of pork, garlic and vinegar soon gave way to a burning chilli fire. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. “Whoah, it’s bloody hot.”
The man laughed.
“Not bad though.”
“You see?”
Dig nodded. “Why’s it so knobbly anyway?”
“That’s just the natural shape of the pig intestine.”
The chouricos caught in Dig’s throat, and he coughed, fighting down a retch. He forced a smile, and swallowed it down. It felt like he was trying to swallow a golf ball.
“Shall we go?”
“Yes,” Dig said, nodding slowly. “Let’s go.”
He climbed onto the back tray and squeezed between the sacks to sit with his back against the cab. The pungent odour of the chouricos surrounded him. The rickshaw vibrated into life and bounced down the lane into the open road. His stomach flipped over and acid rose into the back of his throat, but he tried to put it out of his mind.
12
THE TRIP WAS BUMPY AND LONG, but eventually the engine dropped down to a puttering rumble as the machine came to a halt. They were parked in a thin dirt road with tightly packed restaurants crowded on both sides.
“Anjuna,” Rakesh shouted.
Dig pushed through the sacks to the street and stretched his back. “Thanks for the lift.” He reached for his wallet.
“No! That’s fine. In fact, here...” Rakesh grabbed another handful of sausage from the vehicle. “Take some more chouricos for lunch.”
Dig paused, then took it from him. “Um, thanks.”
“No problem.” Rakesh returned to the driver’s seat. “Have a good trip.” The engine revved into life and the rickshaw accelerated away down the street. Dig looked down at the sausage in his hand, frowned, and pocketed it.
At his feet, a rooster pecked through a pile of food scraps. Two deeply tanned girls with blonde, braided hair walked past him in long skirts and singlet tops. A guy with a crewcut and a covering of tattoos from neck to waist weaved a moped down the street. Somewhere behind him, the pulse of dance music resonated.
Dig walked toward the sound. The road climbed up, and as it approached the top of a rise, a large dirt carpark appeared, filled with motorbikes. Beside it stood a wide, double-storey building, covered in vines and blinking fairy lights. The thump of bass resonated over an underlying rumble of conversation. An illuminated sign hung from the roof, announcing: The Banyan Brewhouse. Sundown Party Tonight!
The building sat on top of a high cliff, with coastal views in both directions. An onshore breeze whipped up over the cliff edge and cooled Dig’s arms; seagulls with dirty brown wings circled above his head.
He entered through a rear beer garden, weaving his way through groups of westerners with deep tans and unkempt hair, talking and smoking at the tables that lined the cliff edge.
The beer garden led into a wide room of natural timber columns and exposed ceilings. Curtains of glass beads dropped over a floor of tightly compacted dirt. Here, westerners crowded shoulder-to-shoulder in a dense haze, smoking and drinking. The music pounded around the room, and as he passed two speakers that were taller than him, he felt the thump of the bass resonate in his chest cavity.
He moved further inside, and the room morphed into a dark, heaving dancefloor. Rows of fluorescent blue lights hung from the ceiling—the type that made your teeth glow bright. The crowd was dancing, punching the air and turning erratic circles over the floor. Up in the corner of the room, a sweaty-faced DJ stood in a booth, nodding his head and working the decks in front of him.
Dig pushed his way through the crowd. He sidestepped a tall, bearded guy staring at the ceiling with his hands linked behind his head. A girl with dark makeup and dropped eyelids turned circles beside him, pointing at the crowd like she was conducting an orchestra. Dig sidled past her into the path of a solid guy in a tight green T-shirt with Banyan Bitter emblazoned across it. He held a beer bottle diagonally at his chest and stared listlessly at the ground. Liquid dribbled from the neck of the bottle and tracked down his shirt.
Dig spotted a bar at the back of the room. He pushed through the pack, and when he reached it he leaned back against the counter.
A guy sat on a seat beside him, reading a paper. A necklace of shells hung around his neck, partially concealed by his shoulder length, sun bleached hair. Dig took an intake of breath as he realised he was the same guy he had seen earlier at the docks.
The guy’s eyebrows knitted and he turned to look at Dig with bloodshot eyes.
Dig pursed his lips; he realised he had been staring. “Hey,” he shouted, and nodded.
The guy nodded back to him, then returned to his paper.
Dig blinked and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Pretty busy in here huh?”
The guy looked Dig up and down before speaking. “It was a lot worse a few hours ago. You just arrived?”
“Yeah. Can you tell?”
The guy smirked and shrugged.
Dig pointed to the beer taps. “Banyan Bitter huh? I see this advertised a lot. Any good?”
“Why don’t you give it a try.”
Dig pointed to the empty space on the bar in front of the guy. “You aren’t drinking?”
“Just finished work.” He closed his paper. “But I could be swayed.” He waved his arm at a girl who stood at the opposite end of the bar, and she walked over to them. She had wide green eyes, high cheekbones, and flowing brown and blonde streaked hair that hung to her waist in a tangled collection, intertwined with braids and beads. Her small green singlet top supported an ample cleavage.
“Two green labels please,” the guy said.
She squatted down to retrieve two bottled beers from a fridge, and Dig fought the urge to glance at her cleavage for the second time. She lifted the beers to the bar and whipped off the tops with a flick of the wrist. A surge of
bubbles rose from the opening and tracked down the neck of the frosted glass. The green label read Banyan Bitter.
“Cheers.” They clinked their bottles together and drank. Dig was thirsty, and he gulped down two long mouthfuls. It tasted good, yet also very familiar; he looked at the bottle, trying to pinpoint the nagging feeling of déjà vu.
“You alright?” the guy said.
Then clarity hit him. The beer tasted the same as the signature drink from the Buckley Brewery, the Buckley’s Chance. This was logical of course, as they were fermented from the same crop of hops.
Dig glanced up, his concentration broken. “Yeah fine. Just tastes like a beer I know back home.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Dig anyway.”
The guy looked at Dig’s hand, then reached out to shake it. “Most people call me Chook.”
Dig pointed to a seat beside him. “Mind if I sit?” The guy shook his head, and Dig sat down. “So you work here? At the bar?”
“Sort of.”
“Seems like a cool place to work.”
The guy frowned. “If you like incoherent drunks, then sure.” He took another sip of his beer. “You Australian then?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Irish.”
“Nice.” The girl behind the bar served a couple more people, reaching down below the counter for more bottles of the green labelled beer. She wore a flowing skirt and no shoes.
After a moment, Dig turned his attention away from her. Chook met his gaze with raised eyebrows.
“Sorry,” Dig said. “I got a bit distracted there.”
The girl returned to their side of the bar.
“Dig,” Chook said. “This is my sister, Jules.”
“Hi,” Jules said, smiling.
Dig blinked rapidly. “Good to meet you.”
Chook smirked, then turned back to his sister. “How’s the day going?”
“The usual shit.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “One guy fell asleep on the toilet; a spaced-out chick decided to try to pierce her own nipple up in the DJ booth; and a mumbling freak who looks like Frankenstein keeps trying to touch me.” She wiped the top of the bar with a furry green tea towel. “You know, just a normal morning.”
