Why I cannot be a travel writer (Galgibaga Times)

I don’t fancy myself much the travel writer. I’d probably write one travel piece with much huffing and puffing, and dream of being ‘found’ by Conde Nast, and live that life of traveling the world in their exciting employment. But what if Travel writing is just as boring as Technical writing, but with the added pretense of creativity, maintaining still all the rules and regulations, style(or the lack of it) and its necessary elements drilled into the sorry head of the writer (yours truly) until I choked like I’d stuffed myself too much on festival day, when I happened to chance by my overly loving Indian relative’s home.

They (Conde Nast, not my loving relative) would probably tell me that I’d have to have a how to get there, which did not include descriptions that went, “ask the sorry person sitting next to you on the bus a thousand times whether you are there yet, until they ask you to shut the fuck up” or places to eat including “Get off your ass and try Fishing. Other wise…suck it and eat a lot of Lays. I hear they are healthy (tee hee).”

But my point being, I was in Galgibaga, a beach so secluded, the only conversation I was having was with a dog. It was a bit strange to be discussing life problems with a dog than your boyfriend, but there was the added advantage that the dog didn’t sleep in between my sentences. But here is my travelogue. Read, judge, understand that grammar and spelling gets in the way of creativity, and kindly inform that friend of yours in Conde Nast that their next aspiring writer is here and ready to be ‘found’

Day 1 – Day 3

Forgot to write travel diary…was too busy sleeping and doing nothing. What? I can’t take a rest? Travel writing is a tough job!

Day 4

Since I had not yet touched water (salty or sweet) being 72 hours in its proximity, my reputation as a water-loving adventurist was surely at risk. And all my adventure loving friends (snobs every last one of them) would pkhhhh pkhhhh that I was just a sorry ass show off that on my own did nothing but sleep. With this sudden realization, I woke up and put on my sports shoes and went for a jog by the beach, as it sounded like the fancy thing to do that one could later boast about.

The dog joined me quite happily, though I wished it wouldn’t walk faster than my jog. It wasn’t good for my appearance, though there wasn’t anyone to be judging my appearance, other than other dogs. These dogs are such territorial creatures, I say, I think this dog wants my company so that he can tag along into all the other territories I happen to chance by. My plan was to cross beaches after beaches, after Galgibaga was Honeymoon and Cola and Butterfly and so many secluded beaches, so much more seclusion, yeyy. But by now, I was looking for seclusion mostly out of habit, and not really out of interest. I am desperate for some company, though my conscious mind would never let that on to anyone, even the dog.

Running by the beach was interesting. Galgibaga was the cleanest beach for the most part, given that it was the maternity ward of Oliver Ridley tortoises most of the year. But I’d come not in the time for tortoises. Crabs and frogs on the other hand, were an all-year round matter, breeding and mating like humans and rats. They lived in little worm holes, and just watching them dive in terror back into the sand at the very sight of my running feet gives the sadist in you quite the running high….“Escape the human wrath, you crab and frogs!” I boomed, trifle loudly for the downloaded music was streaming into my ears, just before I hit some nasty-looking rock formations that forged into the sea like a long jutting dick (not perhaps the right metaphor, but perhaps I was horny). Dog and I inspected the rock formations, and I deemed it adventurous enough to be boasted about. It was slippery (pkhh…obviously) and if I managed to forge my way across, while the angry sea lashed into the rocks, I would be at another pristine beach, and gifted with excessive beauty and more seclusion. I began my way, as Dog looked on…not very excitedly, as if he didn’t believe I was actually planning on this. I wasn’t wearing my trekking shoes, and the first grip of my sports shoe on the green mossy carpet wasn’t encouraging. But then, I fancied myself the hardcore trekker. I had seen far worse, I said with a condescending smirk to the skeptic crab that was pinching at me from afar, don’t tell me what I shouldn’t do. The dog sighed, and walked ahead as if to show me a path of least chances of slipping and falling on my fat arse.

I managed. I mean, I managed a few rocks. Said HI to another crab or two. Just enough to decide that if I did slip and fall, I’d be sitting there for a while. Of course, someone would find me. Dog would go and find someone. Wasn’t that what dogs did? Bark until someone came to help. Though Dog didn’t look the barking kind. Dog would probably sit right next to me, with its leg extended, thinking that all that angry waving was merely a part of some game these city folks indulged in.

Which meant I’d have to cry out, really loud. Help Help Woman In trouble. And that would not be pretty and would put a permanant damper to the strong, independent adventuress image that my social media feed swore i was….

So I returned. And jogged all the way back. Watched a few crows attack a giant dead fish, which had its mouth wide open like a thanksgiving pig with an orange stuffed in its mouth. I slipped into my swim wear, checked if my belly was as bad as that bloated fish’s, and set off to the nearby estuary.

The estuary was pristine (Conde Nast: Note the travelogue sample approaching). The wind awakened it, and the water arose in million little wavelets. I dreamt of swimming the length of this estuary. Straight ahead was an island, thick with trees, and I could hear the sound of sea birds calling to each other (it was actually a territory battle between some crows). To the left, the estuary stretched endlessly, and the boats that were parked on the sides told me that there was hope for a luxurious swim somewhere far far ahead. To the right, behind red-green rocks and sand formations, a private alcove beckoned, and like lovers met the estuary with the sea (I get corny when I’m horny). It was a rocky affair, between the two, the sea the raging lover, who threw its weight on the rocks, and the estuary the more peaceful one, that watched the seas antics with a gentle smile. And so the sea seemed to calm itself by the estuary, its waves more pleasant, its splashes more gentle on the rock (So profound…!). I played here in this passionate meeting point. Even Dog decided to venture in with me. I allowed myself to be carried with the waves, lying face up, as the water closed my ears, the world released me….as I drifted away into a meditative ecstasy.

Conde Naste…here I come…

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