Ricky hated buses. He'd spent the two-and-a-half hour journey south across Goa staring at a goat and sitting on something uncomfortable, which he'd later found to be a cockerel. The locals had been a bit funny as well, they kept making kung-fu hand chopping movements and noises at him, no idea what that was about. Though after he'd tried his time honoured trick of just starring unnervingly at them from 14 inches away they'd soon piped down.
He'd left the Portuguese imperial splendor of Panjim behind and got on the 40p special bus down to Palolem. He'd been sorry to leave Panjim, he'd had a hell of a time. The locals had dubbed him Richardo Soggardinho -Little Soggy Ricky - though the meaning was somewhat lost in being translated from Portuguese to Konkani to English.
Safely holed up in Palolem, he immediately holed up in the town's finest hotel (£7pppn) and headed for the D.I. to give the curl some much-needed fresh air - after all those hours on the bus he smelt like a dirty football sock. The water was safe, the locals assured him, though he wasn't sure whether this meant he wouldn't be eaten or whether it meant he'd avoid swallowing something previously eaten by someone else.
Ricky had picked up two new friends along the way, MeGiulia and Matt. Together they got ready for what should be a highlight of the trip - Silent Disco. Ricky whacked on a bit of Old Spice/Lynx Java as he prepared for the night. The air was pregnant with expectation.
He was excited by the idea of silent disco - a club with no sound system, where all music is played though individual speakers - because as someone who was silent a lot of the time and who also liked banging phat beats, it ticked all the boxes. Apart from a lack of Only Fools and Horses on a big screen. For some reason, there wasn't a channel on the headphones for the UK's finest situation comedy of the last 30 years. Funny country.
After two hours he was ready. He smelt good, his head was polished so much it looked like a disco ball. He'd even changed his pants.
But when he got there, he felt curiously deflated. The music was a sonic explosion in his ears but he found the experience weird. He'd been eying up some woman and using the "fishing rod"
methods to reel her in but she didn't bite. Strange, it had never failed before. She'd taken her headphones of and whispered something about chicken oriental or something, he'd not quite made it out in the patter of stomping feet.
Ricky consoled himself later in the week by heading out for some real fishing. Out on the waters of the Indian Ocean he'd bagged himself some slippery wrigglers and headed back to the beach with the crew for a top class nosh. Though when he'd put it like this to Giulia he'd got a funny look.
After that it was back to the hut for an early night. For some reason, buses in Goa only travelled in darkness, so he had to be up for 5am. To continue the Adventures of Ricky Schmuck.
