Un Viaje Ordinario (eBook)

Lapis de Goa

Marc Xando (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
200 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-8672-3 (ISBN)

Infos

Un Viaje Ordinario is a gripping biography of a boy's journey from a small town to the world's edges as a street brawler, adventurer, and businessman, tangled in Soviet espionage and international crime. Its sequel, Lapis de Goa, continues this chaotic, extraordinary search for meaning across continents and centuries.

Marc Xando is an adventurer, philosopher, and storyteller whose extraordinary life journey spans continents and centuries. Through Un Viaje Ordinario and Lapis de Goa, Xando offers a window into his remarkable odyssey, blending real-life adventures with elements of philosophy and existential reflection.

---

Un Viaje Ordinario is an extraordinary biography in two parts, chronicling a life of chaos, adventure, and transformation. It follows a boy from a remote small town as he becomes a wanderer, street brawler, adventurer, and businessman. Fate draws him into Soviet espionage and an international criminal network, setting the stage for a riveting survival story. Marking his turbulent journey to adulthood, the protagonist wrestles with mental struggles and a relentless search for meaning. Oscillating between extremes indifference and excitement, hedonism and asceticism his life is anything but ordinary. The sequel, Lapis de Goa, continues the saga, tracing childhood dreams into adulthood and across distant lands. What connects these stories? A young man, still fleeing inner turmoil, embarking on a timeless quest to unravel life's mysteries. As one reviewer says: "e;A story so extraordinary, it seems impossible and yet, it happened."e;

Textauszug

Chapter 14
Mysteries of Goa (1993–1994)

My plane touched down at the worn Dabolim airport in October. As I retrieved my suitcase, I was told it had been lost somewhere during the layover in Bombay. The airport official asked for my address, promising to notify me when it arrived. The air was thick with humidity and the sun blazed overhead as I stepped into a taxi. I gave the driver my destination: Calangute Beach, North Goa.

The surroundings were lush and exotic, reinforcing the feeling that I had entered a completely new world. The drive took just under an hour, with glimpses of rural life—farmers working their rice fields, cows grazing lazily—interspersed with stretches of green vegetation edging the narrow road. The traffic, in contrast to the bustling, chaotic images of India that had filled my imagination, was far quieter, with mopeds, rickshaws, and small pick-up trucks trickling by. But this was Goa—distinct, quieter, and completely different from the frenzy of India’s big cities, where I would later find myself.

Arriving at the hotel Ernest had asked me to come, I paid the driver and made my way to the reception. I asked the clerk for directions to the office of my new employer. She greeted me warmly and pointed me down a narrow walkway that led past the pool area toward the beach. The office would be the fifth bungalow on the right side.

The hotel was small but charming, surrounded by bungalows loosely connected to each other. It was cozy, exotic, and surprisingly pleasant for such a remote spot.

I knocked on the door of the bungalow. A voice called out from inside, “Come in!” I stepped into a simple office, furnished for business with contract papers ready to be signed. Ernest and Jones were there to greet me—both sharp businessmen and genuinely friendly guys. Ernest had recruited me for this venture, and together we discussed the details of the project.

The plan was simple but ambitious. We were starting the timesharing business in India, but at the moment, the development project was still under construction right next to the hotel. We would be selling properties that didn’t even exist yet—something that was standard in the industry but still felt surreal.

We were pioneers, the first in India to try this type of business. At that point, no one could have predicted that this company would grow into one of the largest of its kind in the coming decades.

Ernest told me to relax, enjoy the beach, and get acquainted with the area. After a couple of hours, we’d head to another hotel about 15 minutes away, where we’d be staying. The path to the beach ran right alongside the hotel, turning into sand as it neared the shore. Since my suitcase still hadn’t arrived, I was stuck wearing jeans in the hot, humid climate.

I walked to the beach bar at the end of the path, ordered a beer, and sat down to gather my thoughts. As I stared out at the sea, a familiar voice called my name. It was Tony, my old friend from Spain, waving me over. He had arrived about a week before and was clearly excited to see me. He greeted me with enthusiasm, rattling off his experiences in Goa so far, and confidently predicted that we were about to make a lot of money.

Tony had always been a free spirit—though not the shallow sort of hippie. He’d started using cannabis at 11 and was now in his 40s, but he wasn’t like the junkie crowd I’d encountered before. He was warm, funny, and genuine—someone you could trust, even if his business instincts were a little more unconventional.

Although Tony and I worked in the same company, we weren’t really friends yet, just colleagues who’d crossed paths. Ernest was my direct superior, but I didn’t have much of a personal history with him either.

At the hotel, I met the rest of the team—Mark, the other boss, Jack, a bit older and more reserved, and a group of European salesmen, along with a team of about 10 Indian marketing staff. Ernest, Tony, and I were bachelors, which meant we spent most of our free time together.

We drank a few more beers, then walked back to the hotel and met some of my new colleagues at the pool bar. Later, we caught a rickshaw to our accommodation, which would be my home for the next few months. Goa, back then, was a far cry from what it is today. It was a quiet, primitive place—still largely untouched by the wave of mass tourism that would eventually flood the area. But that charm, that authenticity, was exactly what we were there to build upon. It had been the hippies’ secret haven for decades, but now the Western upper middle class was beginning to take notice, and so were we.

My room was modest but clean, with daily housekeeping—a definite plus. Downstairs, there was a restaurant where you could get a cheap breakfast and authentic Indian dishes. It was basic, but decent. The hotel was located just a couple hundred meters from the beach, with small street-food stalls and clothing shops lining the road.

The first thing I did was buy some summer clothes, since I was still wearing my travel outfit, and it was starting to feel uncomfortable in the heat. I grabbed a T-shirt, shorts, and sandals, then returned to the hotel, showered, and went downstairs for dinner. After a long day, I hit the pillow early, eager to start fresh the next morning.

The next day, Ernest and I met downstairs and decided to go for a jog. It quickly became a shared ritual, one I enjoyed. Our route took us past rice fields, and sometimes it felt like we were running through a jungle with dense greenery surrounding us. Cows, roosters, and other animals wandered freely along the way. A few times, we even spotted a snake crossing our path. Ernest was fit and competitive, so as we neared the hotel, we’d pick up the pace and race to see who could reach the yard first. It became a fun, recurring end to our runs.

After showering and breakfast, we would catch a rickshaw to the office, though I later rented a moped to make commuting easier.

Sales began quickly. We were able to secure customers and sell timeshare weeks from the get-go. The workdays started to flow into routine, and I began to settle into life on the coast. There was a bigger hotel near our office that had a well-equipped gym, where Ernest and I started working out regularly. Tony, however, had other interests and wasn’t much for training.

I got a call one afternoon saying my suitcase had finally arrived. I hopped into a taxi and made my way to the airport to pick it up. When I arrived, I headed to a small room where lost luggage was collected. A uniformed man greeted me with a sweaty stare and a thick mustache. I gave him my details and he stared at me for a moment before asking, “You have any rupees?” as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together—an unmistakable gesture for a bribe.

I realized he was trying to extort money from me. Though I was the one inconvenienced by the lost luggage, I knew better than to stir trouble. I played dumb and feigned innocence, saying, “No, there was no money in it.” Our back-and-forth continued for a moment before a brisk woman in uniform entered the room. She had clearly caught on to the situation and spoke sharply to the man in Hindi.

The man’s demeanor shifted instantly. He waved me off, muttering angrily, and practically shoved my suitcase into my hands. I thanked the woman with a smile, and she gave me a brief but genuine smile in return before I made my exit.

A couple of weeks passed as we got used to the new routines, but then we grew restless, as young men often do. Life needed entertainment. Goa, known for its free-spirited, hippie culture, didn’t offer much in terms of a lively nightlife beyond a few beach bars. After dark, these bars transformed into reggae music clubs, attracting people from all over the world to dance on the sand.

Ernest, Tony, and I befriended two Nordic tour guides and spent some time with them. One of the girls became interested in Ernest, and they had a brief romance. Tony was drawn to the other girl, but she showed more interest in me, and I gave her some attention. This, of course, didn’t sit well with Tony. He complained that I was taking away a chance from him, even though I had no real interest in her. Maybe I was wrong, but I didn’t want to give Tony up—especially since I knew he didn’t have a real shot with her. I wasn’t looking for a romantic partner, and though the girl clearly wanted one from me, I wasn’t about to give her any false hope.

Fortunately, Tony quickly moved on and bounced back after a few days. He became determined to explore Goa’s offerings in another direction and asked me to accompany him to Panaji, the bustling city by Goa’s standards—though small by India’s. When we arrived, Tony inquired with some street vendors about finding prostitutes, and soon a mustached man invited us to follow him. In fairness, all Indian men seemed to have mustaches, so I didn’t immediately assume he was a pimp.

I had no interest in visiting Indian brothels, but I went along with Tony’s request, figuring it would at least give us a strange story to tell. The man led us to an old, run-down house and up a rickety outdoor staircase. At the top, he peeked through a small hole in the door, asked us to wait, and then let us inside. The sight was revolting—a small, stuffy room with three disheveled women sitting like zombies, waiting for customers. I turned to Tony and said, “This is sick. I’m not staying here.” I headed down the stairs, and Tony followed me. We went for a beer and laughed about his absurd idea.

One night, at a reggae bar, I...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 14.3.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-8672-3 / 9798350986723