Banjo

In India there is Goa and then the rest of the country. That is to say, while modesty seems to be the rule in Bangalore, Goa’s beaches are excess in every conceivable manner. Goa was, up until the 1960s, a Portuguese colony and is probably best described as a slice of Brazil glued onto India’s western coast. But this post is not about one of Goa’s endless nights, this post is about one of Goa’s stray dogs.

Two years ago, on my first trip to India, Chetan Chandra – a brother from another mother – and I spent five days in Goa. We had a fantastic time, stayed in a hotel built on the ramparts of a 16th Century Portuguese Fort and did more riverboat gambling than I need to recount here, but an hour with a stray made the trip.

One afternoon after lunch we decided to walk back to our hotel. We had taken a taxi to the happening stretch of the beach and I don’t think either one of us had realized just how far we had gone.

As we stood outside our restaurant and gazed in the direction of the hotel, we could see a tanker washed up on the beach in the distance and figured it was a maybe a mile or two away. It was our landmark and goal.

As we started the trek, the beach began to slowly empty out and before we knew it, we were alone – except for the company of a few fishermen mending their nets and wandering packs of stray dogs. These dogs were aggressive and would at times move towards us and circle. Trying to keep our calm, we simply kept walking.

After an hour something was very wrong. The ship, that didn’t seem that far away when we started, wasn’t getting all that much closer. We found ourselves caught in an Indo-Portuguese no man’s land inhabited by rabies infested packs of dogs. Just great.

But then he appeared. Our mutt was brown and white, with alert ears and a concerned face. For the next few miles he was our guide. We named him Banjo – it just fit – and he led us forward fearlessly. He tended to stay 20 yards ahead and only slowed down to make sure we were still following. When packs of strays would approach, he would grit his teeth, growl and ward them off. He was simply incredible.

Miles later, as we finally reached the tanker, he was suddenly gone as quickly as he had come. He had drifted behind us to ward off one last pack and, I suppose, sensing we were out of danger, let us go.

This post, at Chetan’s request, is a long overdue thank you note. Banjo, you were one of a kind. I wish you nothing but bacon bits and dozens of pups.