In 1983 I travelled from Bangalore to Goa by train. As there was no direct connection to Panaji, the capital city of Goa, I had to change trains in Londa Junction, a small station in the middle of the jungle whose single purpose of existence seemed to be a railway switch that directed trains coming from Bangalore either in direction of Bombay/Mumbai further north or Panaji to the west and vice versa.

Standing on the weathered wooden platform in Londa Junction felt a little bit like a scene out of an old western movie. There was a motley assortment of passengers waiting for a train that was bound to arrive on that day but there was no certainty as to its exact arrival time. When it finally did pull in, I got into one of those third-class coaches with wooden benches and entertained myself for most of the four-hour ride to Panaji by looking out the window – also to avoid the constant stare of some other local travelers in my coach. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a quite social person and love a good chat but remembering rather annoying interrogation-style talks I had on other trains I much rather kept to myself this time.

The railroad track wound its way through the pristine wilderness of the Western Ghats, a mountain range that stretches all along the Indian west coast. At one point the train stopped on a bridge that was spanning an enormous waterfall. The cascade started high above the arches and emptied into a lake deep below. Some people even briefly got off the train to marvel at this wonder of nature. After a while a shrill whistle from the locomotive called them back into their carriages and as our journey continued the train left the hills of the Western Ghats and moved into the brooding heat of Goa’s coastal flatlands.

Some weeks later –  I had settled comfortably into my little house on the road to Baga Beach and had made friends with my neighbor Bernhard from Germany –  I decided to travel into the Goa hinterland and explore  some of the sights that I had seen on arrival, as for instance the 320-meter-high Doodhsagar Falls the train had passed over and the Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary, of which the waterfall is a part. As well, I was curious to visit Velha Goa, the former state capital which had mostly been abandoned at some point in history due to its unhealthy location in mosquito-infested swampland but still featured some impressive Portuguese churches and monasteries.

The Portuguese began to settle in Goa at the beginning of the 16th century and only ceded their land to India in 1961 when the Indian army annexed the small state. Since the end of Middle Ages, Goa was known as a centre of the spice trade with Europe and its monasteries were home to missionaries, most notably Saint Francis Xavier who spread the Christian faith to countries as far as Japan and China. He undertook several journeys to that part of Asia, however, on his last journey to the Far East he died on the island of Shangshuan, Taishan, in China while waiting for a ship to take him to the mainland. His body, initially buried on the beach of Shangshuan, was later exhumed and taken to Portuguese Malacca in 1553, from where it was moved in the same year to his final resting place in the church of Bom Jesus in Velha Goa.

My neighbour Bernhard was keen to join me on this trip. He had just rented a bike and wanted to explore the area as much as I did, so we started off one early morning. We took the road to Panaji, crossed the wide Mandovi river and turned off onto the Panaji-Belagavi road that took us straight to Velha Goa. The morning air made the ride pleasantly refreshing and after some kilometers we spotted the ruins of St Augustine Church of which just one tower had survived the sands of time, tilted at a precarious angle. Soon after we reached Velha Goa itself.

The whole area was surprisingly well maintained and beautifully landscaped, probably because of its many architectural landmarks and its famous mummy that lay enshrined in the church of Bom Jesus. We stopped at the front of the church and entered the main hall. Soothing coolness welcomed us, and we headed straight for the crystal and silver casket of Saint Francis Xavier.

A legend goes that one of his toes had once been bitten off by an overly zealous follower and we realized that the saint was indeed without his right toe – but we also noted that this was not the only missing body part. Much later I discovered that a part of his right lower arm had gone to Italy and is now kept in the main Jesuit church of Rome, il Gesu; while his upper arm bone went to Macao and is being kept in St Joseph’s Church.

A quick snack at one of the ubiquitous food stalls and we headed on because there was still quite some way to cover to reach the wildlife reserve we intended to visit. Following the Panaji-Belagavi road for about an hour we eventually arrived at the Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary. It took us a while and some asking around to find the entrance to the Sanctuary. The ranger station was our first stop as the park was not free and visitors were not permitted to enter the location without a guide.

After paying a small fee and waiting for about half an hour we were eventually joined by a young uniformed local man who was going to act as our guide. He jumped onto the back of my bike and we headed into the park. From the back of my bike he directed us through a maze of small dirt tracks until we finally arrived on the main path that lead to the waterfall.

As we crossed a shallow river that was fed by the pond at the bottom of the waterfall, one of our bikes died unexpectedly in the middle of the ankle-deep stream. The motor had got wet, so we pushed the bike to the riverbank, took out some tools we had brought along in foresight and started to disassemble parts of the engine to dry it under the scorching midday sun. There was little to do but wait until the parts had dried, so we sat under a tree, smoked some cigarettes and admired the unspoiled woodlands around us.

Suddenly there was some noise coming from the underbrush on the other side of the river. It sounded as if a large animal was moving through the jungle foliage. Our guide grew immediately pale and whispered in a frightened voice: “Be very quiet! There’s a tiger in the bush”.

We were petrified. We knew that the sanctuary was home to tigers and that there would be no escape from the predator if it decided to attack. No high trees. No shelter. No fences. The river was too shallow to be an obstacle, and tigers were good swimmers. We were trying to hide in growing terror behind the trunk of the tree we had rested under, hoping that the animal had not yet picked up our scent, but as the grating and cracking sounds came closer our panic grew.

I was just about to calculate my chances of survival if I had started running now but in that very moment, not a tiger but a bony brown cow broke through the undergrowth followed by a deeply tanned young boy dressed in scanty clothes. We broke out in nervous laughter of relief, while our guide launched into an angry rant to vent off his fear. Unfazed the boy grinned innocently and herded his cow off down the track we had come from.

A short while later our bikes were dry enough to be reassembled and we continued our journey. The bumpy path became ever narrower and yet another annoying obstacle started to hinder our progress. Long lianas of some very thorny plant hung down from the branches above and ripped into the flesh of our exposed arms and faces as we passed.

Suddenly our guide, who had been ducking behind my back not to be injured by the lianas, shouted: “Stop!” We reacted immediately thinking that another ferocious animal was about to sneak up on us. But not so, he jumped off the bike and disappeared into the bush only to return a short moment later shoving a man holding a bundle of firewood.

The ranger slapped the man’s head and kicked him in the butt shouting angrily which clearly showed that logging in this nature reserve was not an activity that went unpunished. Some more fierce shouting, slapping and kicking made the man finally drop his bundle and run off.  After this unpleasant incident we continued to the waterfall and finally the guide indicated a spot where we could park the bikes. He explained that the last ascent to the cascade needed to be done on foot, so we started clambering up the rocky bed of the small river we had crossed earlier. The climb was a tiring exercise as the early afternoon sun burnt down on us mercilessly.

When we finally reached the waterfall, we collapsed exhausted at the small lake into which the water cascaded. The scenery was beautifully peaceful. From high above the water flowed into the crystal-clear depth of the small lake that was beckoning for a swim. Unable to resist we started to take off our clothes ready to take a splash when suddenly our guide cried out in panic:

“Don’t go into the water, the lake is infested by bad spirits!  Anyone who touches the water will be cursed!”

His exclamation gave us pause for a moment but the lure of the cool water was too overwhelming and so we dove in. While we were enjoying a refreshing swim, our guide was nervously pacing along the boulders that were bordering the lake, shouting further warnings and admonitions. We swam closer to the main cascade to take a dip under the waterfall. The rushing water was fantastic and the experience marvellous.

Reluctantly we left the pond a short while later annoyed by the constant pleading of our frightened guide, but in fact, it was getting late and the road home was long.

As we climbed down from the lake through the boulders of the riverbed our guide seemed to grow increasingly disoriented until Bernhard, who lead our little party, stopped and asked the ranger where our bikes were. The man looked around in bewilderment and admitted that he had lost orientation and didn’t know. None of us had paid particular attention to what the parking area had looked like and from this point the jungle seemed all the same in every direction. We didn’t want to separate out of fear of dangerous animals so there was little to do but to climb up and down the riverbed and look out for any signs of the bikes. At last, and after a seemingly endless time searching, we caught a glimpse of metal shining through the dense foliage and moments later we were on our way back to the entrance of the reserve and eventually home.

Needless to say that the ranger had not really done anything to earn our profound gratitude, therefore the tip he had hoped for probably remained below his expectations. Nonetheless, we enjoyed this quite extraordinary adventure and talked about it for a long time after.

One last thought: While I was on the internet, researching the exact names of the locations mentioned in this article, I came across some photos of the sanctuary and the lake I have just described. The place I had come to know then has now become a touristic hotspot and by looking at the crowds that floated in that once magical pool I have come to believe that all the mean spirits that inhabited the lake in those days must have emigrated to some more undisturbed location.