In the eighties Goa was party heaven. A constant stream of tourists from all around the world invaded the beachfront villages of this small Indian state to spend days, weeks, or months partying through the nights and lazing the days away. It was easy, unbureaucratic and cheap to rent all kinds of accommodation short and long term including the many beautiful and spacious villas built by the former Portuguese colonialists. In fact, those villas had now become the favorite playground of party-goers.

Many of the events were open to anyone who happened to know about them by word of mouth or just passed by and was prepared to pay a token entrance fee. Everything was relaxed and easygoing: no bouncers, no age checks, no dress code, no time limits. Food and drink were often supplied by the organizers or could be bought at one of the many stalls that local people set up around the places.

So, party-hopping was the way to spend the nights for many tourists, and to move between places one could flag down one of the ubiquitous motorcycle taxis or rickshaws. However, anyone who decided to stay in Goa for a longer period and see and do more than just partying eventually got their own transport.

Motorcycle rentals had sprung up everywhere, and there were basically two types of bikes available for rent: The “big” bike, a 350cc single-piston Royal Enfield and for those with limited funds, the “small” bike, a two-stroke 150cc Rajdoot, the most common sight on the roads of Goa and the standard of all motorcycle taxis.

Really, I wished I had been able to afford a Royal Enfield and the attached status upgrade of a “serious” biker, but I needed to be careful with my reserves and therefore decided to rent a bike that would take me around and be economical at the same time, so I decided to get the less prestigious Rajdoot.

The trusty little machine did take me places. I explored national parks, visited historical sites and discovered the beauty of the hinterland rarely travelled, since most tourists headed straight for the beaches – and the parties. Soon I also learned that it was not altogether legal to drive in Goa without a local license so biking around helped me quickly grasp the unwritten rules of dealing with local police. I became ever better at navigating roadblocks, always ready to upgrade the meagre income of local cops with some extra cash and driving on roads that were equally shared by all sorts of beasts, vehicles and people.

One early morning, it must have been about 2 am, I was on the road returning home from some party I had spent the evening at. It was a moonless night and there was no functioning street illumination, so the front beam of my bike cast a dim light cone onto the asphalt revealing only a tiny portion of the road in front of me that I found it daunting to stay on the path. Secondary roads in Goa were minimally paved but to compensate for one practically missing lane there was ample space on both shoulders to avoid oncoming traffic. Street markings were completely absent.

I was not sober that early morning but as there was no traffic whatsoever, I felt comfortable riding in the middle of the road. Nonetheless, I knew from experience that the obvious absence of moving vehicles didn’t mean there was nothing to be watchful about. One always had to be prepared to react instantly to the unexpected as for example holy cows loved the warm roads to bed down for the night just as much as the many packs of stray dogs. Moreover, people often wandered about in utter darkness and didn’t seem to grasp the concept of an impact with a moving vehicle.

In short, I was going rather slowly. Suddenly I noticed the sound of some large animal galloping somewhere in the darkness on the right side of the road. It seemed to be keeping up with my rather slow pace. Beginning to feel slightly uneasy, I accelerated, but the galloping sound did not cease or fall behind; on the contrary, it seemed to increase in speed as well. Somewhat alarmed I went even faster in an attempt to outrun that invisible challenger when suddenly a large furry pig broke through the underbrush and ran with determination straight into the side of my bike.

I instantly lost control of the machine and the force of the impact somewhere behind my right leg sent me careering off the road into some thorny shrub. I crashed into the undergrowth scraping off bits of skin from my shoulder and upper arm. For a moment I lay still trying to gauge the extent of injury the accident had caused. I was half wedged between the bike and some branches, and with the motor still running, the front beam cast some light onto the leaves of the shrub I had landed in. Lying there I heard the pig squealing either in pain or triumph while it was disappearing back into blackness.

As I was trying to untangle myself from the bushes and my awkward position, I noted that I had suffered also several abrasions on my legs and was bleeding from several minor cuts but seemed to be unharmed otherwise. Strangely, I also became a little concerned about the welfare of the pig. I had heard stories of travelers who had been imprisoned and forced to pay a hefty fine for running over as much or little as a chicken.

I therefore concluded that it would have been unwise to investigate the condition of the pig but rather to get away from the scene of the accident as swiftly as possible. I freed the bike from the undergrowth, hopped on and headed home without any further delay.

This bizarre accident was just one out of many noteworthy events that happened while I was travelling in Asia, some of which I intend to share in some upcoming stories.