Goa

Friday 8^th January

Up at 5.15 to pack for departure, although I never really unpack in hotels, so it’s a brief process. I have mild stomach issues this morning, but feel fine in myself, so have no intention of worrying about it. The taxi arrives on schedule, and the journey through the dark streets sees only large numbers of slumbering street people, and a few wanderers, getting an early start. At Chatrapathi Shivaji Railway Terminus, more pronouncably known as CST, it’s a simple matter to locate our train at platform 17. It’s less simple to locate our carriage, as the numbering system seems to follow no discernable order, but after a brief delay we find coach B4, and then our 3-tier AC berths. There is a wealth of classes on Indian trains, ranging from 2^nd class, to sleeper class, to AC (air-conditioned) chair class, to AC executive chair class, to 3-tier AC, to 2-tier AC, to 1^st class. We’ve plumped for something in the middle range, since this is an eleven hour journey, and our first foray into the world of long-distance Indian trains. We basically have a compartment, separated from the aisle and two other berths on the other side of it, by curtains. There are three berths on either side of the compartment. The bottom one is used as a seat during the day, and a bed at night.  The middle berth can be folded up into a bed, or down into a seat back for the bottom berth, and the one at the top is permanently horizontal. Pillows and blankets are provided. Having bought water on the platform, we await departure, as a man comes through the carriage selling veggie samosas. This being our first opportunity for breakfast, and not knowing when more food may be available, we purchase quite a few, and they’re delicious. As it turns out, not five minutes can pass for the rest of the journey without someone coming down the aisle with some form of food or refreshment, be it samosas, masala snacks, spring rolls, chai, coffee, or soft drinks.

We pull away from CST on time, and have only been moving for ten or fifteen minutes when one of the train staff comes through to take breakfast orders! It’s omelette sandwiches all round, which aside from being a little to oniony for my taste, are perfectly adequate. What isn’t perfectly adequate is our window.  It appears to be the only one in the carriage that is both tinted, and filled with condensation, such that it’s almost impossible to see anything out of it. I am optimistic that dawn will improve matters, but sadly it doesn’t. Still, we’re comfortable, and so far both of the upper berths remain empty (we’d booked the lower four), so we have our compartment to ourselves. Odie decides to take a lie down in one of the top bunks, but no sooner has she done so than the rightful occupants board. We put a middle berth down for her, and Jung-Ok lies down on the one beneath it while Andy and I occupy the seats on the other side.  I try to right some journal, but the train bumps and jolts so much that the effect is of turning my handwriting into an illegible scrawl.

Sometime later, Jung-Ok goes off in search of the toilet, and comes back with news that there’s a door open to the outside at the end of the carriage. With the prospect of a bracing wind and a decent view, we make for it immediately, and settle down on the edge of the steps to get wind-blown and watch India fly by at high speed. We purchase coffee from one of the many refreshment wallahs, and spend an hour or so enjoying the sights of rural Maharashtra. It’s a joyful experience; the chance to just sit back, acknowledge the country around me, and absorb the reality of where I am.

Much of the rest of the day is taken up with reading, researching, writing (on smoother sections of the track) and chatting, as we pass through what remains of Maharashtra and into the state of Karnataka. The train supplies a lunch of vegetable biryani with salad and raita, but since the latter two are cold and of questionable provenance, they are left untouched. With food out of the way, and with the sun over the yardarm, we break out the vodka, and a soft drinks wallah provides the mixers. As a result of all this, I’m feeling decidedly rosy by the time the train is bathed in the warm glow of the late afternoon light, and swings west towards Pernem station, our destination in the tiny, coastal state of Goa.

It takes all of thirty seconds, once we’ve disembarked, to be offered a taxi to Arambol, the nearest beach town, and the place we’ve elected to spend the next few days doing very little whatsoever. I spend much of the journey with my head out of the window like an excited dog. The road passes through thick groves of coconut palm, past tiny villages, and over rickety bridges traversing flooded paddy fields. It could all very easily be Thailand or Cambodia. We’re dropped off on the main ‘street’ of Arambol town, a dirt track lined with stalls selling more funky Indian hippy stuff than you could shake a tabla at. Most of the people around have dreadlocks. I think I’m going to like Arambol. It’s not immediately apparent how to get to the beach, or indeed in which direction it can be found, but on passing a young English girl, I ask, and she says she’s going that way so we’re welcome to follow her. She’s very chatty, but is, I come quickly to suspect from her manner, psychologically augmented by an illicit substance or four. There’s a lot of that sort of thing about in Goa.

The beach, accessed via a narrow sandy track to the left, is simply gorgeous; a long, wide stretch of white sand, a calm sea, palm trees, and a line of rustic cafes, restaurants, and beach hut accommodations. There’s not a sign of brick or concrete anywhere, the construction staples being wood, bamboo, and thatch.  We follow the girl to Dreamcatcher Huts, which she recommends, and here the manager, a rather surly Goan named Reggie, offers us huts five seconds from the beach for Rs300. We accept, and Jung-Ok and I are soon installed in hut no.6. It comes complete with bed, mosquito net, and fan. The toilet and shower are shared, but only a few metres away in the lush little garden formed by the ring of huts.

Once freshened up and changed for beach life, the four of us head out, but only as far as the restaurant in front of Dreamcatcher. Laughing Buddha seats us at a table on the sand, and our very friendly waiter, who introduces himself as Kevin, proceeds to serve us beers and food. Things soon proceed, or possibly degenerate, to Long Island Iced Teas, which we request to be made strong. They are. Thus passes much of the rest of our first evening in Goa. Eventually the ladies retire, and following a bit of a stroll, during which I introduce my feet to the Arabian Sea (thankfully a lot cleaner here than it was off the shores of Mumbai), Andy and I have one last drink ourselves, having declined an invitation by an intoxicated and over-excited German, to “PARTY!!”

Saturday 9^th January

Awake to bright sunshine and an amazing dawn chorus of exotic birds. Reggie appears, as morose as he was yesterday, and requests our passports.  He has to get photocopies of them for the records. I might be suspicious of this were it not for the fact that I’ve recently read that the tourist authorities are cracking down on travellers overstaying their visas, and thus force hotels to produce copious paperwork which is checked (in theory) regularly. In any case, we’ve already prepared some photocopies ourselves, so we give him these.  He’s soon back, with them, and forms for us to sign in triplicate.  Administration over, Jung-Ok and I head out along the beach to find a spot of breakfast. Even now at just after 9am, it’s hot, and strolling the damp sand while the gentle waves lap at our feet is heavenly. At a random cafe we stop, and order muesli. We receive something that more closely resembles a bowl of broken cornflakes, into which someone has deposited two nuts and a raison. Still, it fills the hole, and having eaten we make our way into the tiny town, where we find somewhere to access the internet. Disappointingly, Facebook isn’t working, so I am unable to publicly gloat. A little further up the road, we are passing one of the many clothes stalls, and I have to give in to temptation; there’s simply too much nice stuff.  I end up buying two shirts and a pair of loose cotton pants.

Back at the hut, we turn on the fan. It’s considerably louder than it was yesterday, and seems to be spinning at such a speed that it shakes its fixtures, and much of the rest of the hut besides.  We lie under it for a while, but neither of us can escape the feeling that we are tempting fate under a whirling blade of death that could come loose at any moment.  I locate Reggie and negotiate a change of huts. Moments later a new arrival walks in, and Reggie gives her the one we’ve just left, for Rs50 more than he charged us!

With relaxation no longer spoiled by the threat of decapitation, Jung-Ok decides to take a siesta (well, it’s a tough life here you know) and I meet Andy and Odie at 1pm for lunch. It’s Laughing Buddha again, partly because their food is great, and partly because it’s right outside our beach huts. The next few hours involve food, a few beers, some writing, some reading, the application of lots of sun cream, and vast amounts of chilling. This is a fantastic place in which to do nothing. Still, there should be moderation in all things, and so once Jung-Ok has surfaced at about 4pm, we put an end to the nothing by going swimming. The Arabian Sea is every bit as nice as it looks from the beach.  The water is warm and calm, and there is a gently sloping, soft, sandy bottom. We spend a good twenty or thirty minutes enjoying it, before the shift change – it’s our turn to looks after the gear while Andy and Odie get their chance to dip their toes.

Sunset, or rather the approach of it, is greeted with the day’s first cocktails. Kevin, in a display of consummate professionalism, remembers, even without being prompted, to make them all extra strong. I’m hopeful that today might offer my first sun-meets-water sunset, since I’ve never managed to see one, and since we are facing dead west to sea, without a cloud in the sky.  Things looks good for a while, the view enhanced by a procession of cows that appear on the beach and settle down, gazing out to sea almost as if they’ve come specifically to watch the sunset. A fishing boat takes to the water too, drifting through the glistening reflection of the reddening sun, in one of those, ‘You’ve been paid by the tourist board to do that’ moments. Sadly, despite all the promising omens, the sun dims and disappears before ever reaching the water. Foiled again.

The evening sees us a little further down the beach, where the ladies indulge in crab and lobster barbecue, and we gentlemen partake of apple sheesha. Everybody has more cocktails. Much later, the wives having retired, Andy and I find ourselves surrounded by the late night weirdo crowd. A blonde, long-haired guy asks me for Rs70. I decline to give it to him, but he finds someone else who will, and soon afterwards, is walking around with a beer!  Who begs beer money from strangers?! He then lets loose with a general scolding to all those present that, “You people! People who can’t even spare Rs70 for a friend shouldn’t be here man!” It wouldn’t be unreasonable I think, to reply, “People who can’t afford their own beer shouldn’t be here either” but I let it lie. I suppose there’s nothing more likely to bring the freaks out of the woodwork than the early hours.

Sunday 10^th January

There’s business to attend to this morning. Our plan, following Goa, is to continue south, towards Kerala, where we’ll be renting a houseboat.  After that, we must make for the north – Delhi, Agra, and Varanasi, before moving on into Nepal. That’s a lot of transport, and it needs to get organised. We make for the travel agency in town to arrange the flight from Kerala to Delhi, largely because a large part of the trip depends on that one connection. We’d planned on flying from Trivandrum (or as it’s been unhelpfully renamed, Thiruvananthapuram), but it seems that leaving from Kochi will not only be cheaper, but could also prove more convenient. It comes in at about USD120 each, which is reasonable, and so is immediately booked and sorted – job done.

The afternoon pans out in a largely identical manner to that of yesterday, save for a greater amount of swimming, and a disappointingly unspectacular sunset. Even the cows don’t bother to watch it.  At the end of the evening, I find myself sitting alone on the beach, looking out to sea, and taking this place in one final time before I leave it. Tomorrow we move inland to the Portuguese colonial town of Panjim (or Panaji, depending on who you speak to). I’m looking forward to it, although I shall miss Arambol. I’ve never been a beach person, and the idea of spending an entire two-week holiday lying on one appals me, but this is a beautiful place, and a couple of days of sheer inactivity have been lovely.

Monday 11^th January

We’re in a taxi by 11am. Goa presents itself as a patchwork of palm trees, forested hills, dry agricultural land, and in contrast, lush, flooded paddy fields. It’s all very pleasant to behold, and within an hour or so we are being dropped outside the Chapel of Saint Sebastian, in Panjim itself. This is, I can tell immediately, one of those dislocating places that looks like it should be somewhere else. We’re in India, but everything about the crumbling Portuguese architecture of Panjim suggests we should be in South America, or perhaps a neglected corner of Europe. This may take some getting used to. On January 31st Avenue, we find the Somia Guesthouse, where for Rs600 we can get bright, clean rooms with en suite bathroom, and doors direct to the street. The owners, who live upstairs, are a middle-aged Indian couple named Rosa and Chiquito (where am I?!?) and are very friendly and welcoming, although the same cannot be said for their policy of 8am check-outs. They are also very thorough, nay rigorous when taking our details, and ask a host of questions as well as requesting that we provide photocopies of our passports. This time we’ll have to get some done, since we’ve already used the ones we brought out with us. It would seem that Panjim on a Monday afternoon is not the place to go if one is in need of a photocopier however, and we have to try three or four places before finally we succeed in finding somewhere that a) Advertises Xerox, b) Has a Xerox machine, and c) Has a Xerox machine that works. The next order of business is the internet, for our train down to Kerala, but it’s here that a snag of not inconsiderable proportions presents itself. Everything, in every class, on every appropriate day is fully-booked.  This leaves us the option of getting buses, getting on the train waiting list and praying, flying, or trying to see if there is some other way of getting our hands on train tickets. We elect to do the latter, since generally Indian trains have what’s known as a ‘tourist quota’, a number of tickets that are not available online, but only to tourists in person at ticket offices.  In Panjim that means the bus station, because that’s where they sell train tickets…obviously.

It’s very hot and humid as we follow the Moravi River towards the Kedamba Bus Stand, which after some confusion we find on the other side of a strip of wasteland that smells of urine and something that’s been dead for a long time. In the busy Konkan Railways office, we pay Rs10 to join an electronic queue. It’s currently registering 219. We are 242. By consulting the guidebooks and the complex, almost indecipherable chart on the wall, we manage to ascertain the name and number of the train, and can then fill in the all-important little form, without which you can achieve nothing in an Indian ticket office. After a wait of an hour or so it’s our turn, and it takes all of twenty seconds to confirm that the train is full, that there is no tourist quota, and that if we join the waiting list for the train we have about as much chance of getting on it as we do of it going to Saturn.  That leaves buses, or a plane. Considering that the train takes thirteen hours or more, the length of the bus journey doesn’t even bear thinking about, so reluctantly, but with no alternative whatsoever, we all agree to shoulder the extra financial burden of flights. I think it’s clear that every one of us is hot, tired, and sick of dealing with ‘business’ today, but until we get this sorted out, we can’t relax, especially as the Kochi-Delhi leg is already booked, and we have to make that connection. So, in Mercenes Travel, chosen because it’s the first agent we could find, we secure tickets for about USD150 each, which is a lot, but also our only realistic option.

Now that the afternoon is almost gone, we can finally allow ourselves to see a little of this city. Panjim, Goa’s state capital and its third largest town, has a population of around 65,000. From 1843 to 1961, when the Indian state annexed Goa, it was the administrative capital of Portuguese India. These days it’s a rather sleepy place, but with an architectural heritage that leaves its history in no doubt. The Church of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, which has stood since 1540, is among the oldest in all of Goa. It stands on a hill, approached by two winding, ornate stone staircases, and is pure white, such that it is almost dazzling in the bright sunshine. It’s locked unfortunately, so we are unable to glimpse the interior. Still, the streets of Panjim are an experience in themselves. Many are still lined with old colonial buildings, and while some of these are being maintained with obvious care, the majority have now taken on a rather moth-eaten air, as if the whole city is crumbling away inexorably. It’s bizarre to see a sight so South American, buzzing with all the hectic life of India. Somehow my brain isn’t sure what to make of rickshaws and stray cows passing by beneath these colonial relics. It would, I suspect, be rather like seeing a llama at the Taj Mahal.

Food and refreshment are called for after the heat, humidity and hassle of today. Unfortunately, it appears architecture wasn’t all the Portuguese left behind. Panjim has a siesta, which is why almost everything, including all the cafes and restaurants, is now closed until 7pm. We grab a few snacks from a grocery store to tide us over, and then retire to the hotel, where Jung-Ok and I get to discussing options for the next few days, our last in Goa before we move south into Kerala. Andy and Odie plan to head to Palolem, another of the state’s idyllic beaches, and while I could take this or leave it, Jung-Ok doesn’t want to do any more beaches, which is entirely fair enough. Central Goa looks a bit thin on the ground with things of interest though, and it’s now that she notices Hampi, an apparently grand relic of the Hindu empire, nestled amongst a landscape of surreal rock formations in neighbouring Karnataka.  Logistically it would be tight; we’d have to get an overnight bus tomorrow, then spend the following day looking around Hampi, before leaving the same evening on another overnight bus back here. I go upstairs to consult the owners. Chiquito very kindly offers to take me across town to the bus station on his moped, and buzzing through the streets reminds me immediately of Hanoi by xe om, if slightly less perilous. Once there we soon establish that tomorrow’s night bus is already full. The only other option is the government bus, which runs during the day. Chiquito screws his face up at the mere mention of it, such is its reputation for discomfort, unreliablility, and general awfulness. Back at Somia, Rosa is a little more positive. She is, or at least she looks to be, considerably younger than her husband, and indeed is a very attractive woman. Perhaps it’s this little advantage of youth that has her seeing the government bus as an adventure rather than a torment. Jung-Ok’s enthusiasm is dampened slightly by the prospect of two twelve to fifteen hour bus journeys in as many days, but she’s still up for it. Chiquito even suggests changing our flight, and on realising that we booked it at Mercenes, offers to call his sister-in-law, who works there, to find out if it’s possible. While this is certainly incredibly helpful of him, I don’t really want to get into anything that complicated, so for the time being we leave it, with the most likely option being an attempt on the government bus tomorrow.

We dine tonight at Viva Panjim, a restaurant that comes highly-recommended by the guidebooks, and by Rosa and Chiquito. The owner, Linda de Souza, is by all accounts a bit of a local legend. Certainly the authentic Goan food is magnificent, and Linda, when she comes to our table to check that everything is ok, is a person full of personality. Somehow, over dinner, Jung-Ok begins to have second thoughts about the whole Hampi thing, particularly when I mention the possibility of getting stuck there and missing our flight if the government bus back here is full. We therfore decide to stay in Panjim, and explore Central Goa, while Andy and Odie go to Palolem. At the end of the night we bid them farewell until Thursday evening, when we shall reconvene in advance of our early morning flight to Kerala on Friday.

Tuesday 12^th January

A bit of a lie-in this morning, and why not? After a modest breakfast of oranges and the sort of tiny, dwarf-like bananas one only tends to find in more tropical climates, we set out to climb Altinho Hill, which should give us a good view across the city. En route, we pass the Jama Masjid, Panjim’s mosque, although it is without doubt the least impressive mosque I’ve ever seen, and looks like a dilapidated warehouse with a crescent moon on the roof. This is followed by the Mahalaxmi Temple, which is better, but still nothing to shout about. On the way up the hill, the houses to our left are large, grand residences, with Bougainvillea, Jacaranda, and Hyacinth growing in profusion in well-tended gardens. To our right, down the slope of the hill, small, rickety dwellings cling to the gradient; a patchwork of corrugated roofs knitted with sheets of polythene. At the top there is, sure enough, a nice view of Panjim laid out below us, but it is detracted from by a smell of death very reminiscent of the waste ground next to the bus station.

We have lunch back in the city at an all-vegetarian restaurant, where I order a Goan Breakfast Thali. It consists of dosa (a kind of crepe), vada (a savoury lentil doughnut), and idli (a savoury rice cake) along with a coconut raita, two curries, and an utterly indescribable, but delicious sweet. On the way back to the hotel I begin to feel a worrying twinge in my right leg. For some years I’ve had this occasional, sporadic , and sometimes quite incapacitating pain, which appears without warning, lasts anything from a few minutes to a few days, and then may not return again for months. It’s usually near my hip, and is sometimes on the right and sometimes on the left. Whichever side it’s on, it’s the last thing I need now, and I can only hope it doesn’t get worse.

Yet more business this afternoon. I have agreed to book tickets for the four of us on the Agra to Varanasi train. Although this is a long way off, we have no intention of getting caught out again, so want to get all of the connections from here on out organized well ahead of time. In a small internet place near Somia we sort everything out, and get all the way through the long process of booking Indian train tickets online, right up to the point when I click ‘Buy Now’, which is, with tragic inevitability, precisely the moment the connection goes down, leaving me not knowing whether the credit card purchase has gone through or not. It looks like it’s going to be down for a while, so we head across the road for a beer in Cafe Venite, a charming establishment with balcony tables just about large enough to accommodate a couple of amply-proportioned hobbits. Online again sometime later, I’m able to establish that the previous attempt didn’t go through, and so can comfortably try again, this time with success. Tickets for the thirteen hour journey, costing Rs3000 for the four of us in 3AC are secured, so that’s another link in the transport chain dealt with. As an aside, while I’m booking all of this, there’s a small black box mounted on the wall behind me. It has a picture of Shiva in it, and plays what I can only assume to be a devotional tune, endlessly, on repeat. It’s a good tune, but I’m growing weary of it after only half an hour, so I can’t imagine the effect it must have on the people who work here, for eight hours a day, every day.

We take a siesta (When in Rome…) and I wake to discover that my leg pain is worse – significantly. It’s an effort to get down to Viva Panjim, but we’re rewarded with an outdoor table in the charmingly-illuminated garden, and more great food in the form of vegetable xacuti, and chilli prawns. On the way home we stop at Cafe Venite again, and over a Goa Libre (a cocktail made with Feni, Goa’s local firewater) and what is apparently the worst Mojito ever, get talking to Eun-Jeong, a Korean of 42, who’s travelling solo having quit her I.T. job in Seoul. She’s managed somehow to find a hotel half the price of ours, with AC, a TV, and a fridge! Still, I’m willing to bet the owners aren’t as helpful as ours, and when we walk her back a little later, she has to bang on a shutter to be let in; swings and roundabouts. It’s only a short distance round the corner back to Somia, but we are met by a large group of stray dogs, that stop and stare at us as we approach. Discretion being the better part of valour, we backtrack and go the long way round.

Wednesday 13^th January

Oh dear. It was an agonizing night. My leg was as painful as I can ever remember it being. There wasn’t a single position in which I could find comfort, and trying to move between them was even worse. At one point it took me about ten minutes just to get out of bed and make it to the bathroom, since every step sent a searing pain right down my leg from hip to toe. It’s not much better this morning. We’d planned to go to Anjuna, on the coast, for the weekly flea market, but right now I doubt if I could make it to the end of the street. I spend much of the morning resting on the bed, but approaching lunchtime I’m feeling a little better,  and I’m determined not to waste the day, and that Jung-Ok isn’t going to miss out because of me. I down a couple of painkillers, and we head for the bus station through another swelteringly hot and humid day.

I have visions of hunting for an age through the bus station, with all of its honking, belching, fume-filled chaos, for the bus to Mapusa (pronounced Mapsa), but we’ve barely arrived when we hear a guy shouting, “Mapusa! Mapusa! Express!” and realise the bus is right next to us. The Rs8, twenty-five minute journey finds us at Mapusa’s equally hectic bus stand, but another pleasantly brief search locates the bus bound for Anjuna, and we’re soon on our way to the accompaniment of Hindi pop music, and the endless bouncing of the bus. Most of the journey takes us down quiet country roads, and through small villages.  Approaching Anjuna, we see the first elephant of the trip. It’s standing by the side of the road, amongst the palms, its head painted in orange and white.

Anjuna is the last stop, and is preceded by about a mile of hotels, tattoo parlours, clothing stores, Ayurvedic massage outlets, and yoga courses. Not much changes in the town itself.  Anjuna is strung out along the coast for a couple of kilometres, starting at a group of rocky cliffs to the north, and continuing down to a wide, sweeping, sandy beach in the south. We’re dropped off at the cliff end, and make our way south. There are more dreadlocks than you could shake a comb at, but it’s also immediately obvious, if only from the music coming out of the cafes and restaurants, that Anjuna has a very different vibe to Arambol. Where the latter is ‘chilled’, the former is ‘trance party’. Having patronised the Guru Bar and Restaurant for lunch and a beer, which while nice, took an age to arrive, we hit the sand via a few purchases at another clothes stall. Progress of only about ten metres has been made when a small local girl begins walking beside us. She introduces herself as Anna, and for a while, engages us in polite conversation, although this does include telling Jung-Ok that she is, “Very white.” Predictably this is all a precursor to asking us to come and see her stall, “Just looking ok, you no like you no buy, only looking ok?” We follow her up off the beach and very handily, her stall proves to be in the flea market itself, which we might otherwise have walked right past, it being set back from the beach and very well-camouflaged.

Much larger than we’d expected, Anjuna’s weekly flea market is a Shangri-La for lovers of all things Indian. Clothes, silks, hats, textiles, bags, jewellery, carvings, ornaments, sculptures, incense, pottery, flowers, food, beer, fake cigarettes – it’s all here in profusion. Jung-Ok begins by haggling mercilessly for a lovely Pashmina scarf; so mercilessly in fact that when the guy finally agrees, she feels guilty and almost refuses to take it! We make a few other small purchases, but most of the afternoon is spent just wandering around enjoying the atmosphere and the sights, the most entertaining of which by far is a cow that keeps trying to eat from the small basket of vegetables an old woman is selling. She starts by gently shooing it away, but when this fails she begins shouting at it. The cow meanwhile doesn’t seem to give two hoots about what she does, and comes back again and again with trance-like determination. Eventually the old woman and her friend are forced into slapping the cow every time it does so much as look in the direction of the vegetables. It reluctantly saunters away, but I’m sure it’s just regrouping. Towards the end of the afternoon , vendors start getting desperate, and cries of, “Anything for Rs50!” start to fill the air. It would be tempting, but most of what’s being offered at this late stage is tat anyway.

As we walk back along the beach, the leg starts to twinge again. It’s been fine all afternoon, and I was hoping it had done its thing, but apparently not. By the time we get back to Panjim things are back to very bad, and other than braving the short journey to a nearby restaurant for an entirely unremarkable dinner, the rest of the evening is spent on the hotel bed, trying not to move.

Thursday 14^th January

Well, a much better night than the one before, but the problem hasn’t gone away. It’s not all bad though, as my stomach, which hasn’t been quite right since we arrived, does seem to have sorted itself out. We decide, leg issues notwithstanding, to go to a spice plantation near the town of Ponda some way to the east. It’s a Rs15 bus journey that begins by skirting the Moravi River before carrying us up over the hills and then down into Ponda itself. Nearing the town a bald, bespectacled gentleman in his late-forties, and carrying a blue leather folder boards the bus. He comes over to us immediately and says, “Are you going to Ponda? Spice farm?” We reply that we are, and he pulls from his folder a leaflet for the ‘Tropical Spice Plantation’, which fortuitously, is exactly where we were planning on going. It’s not clear if he works there, or indeed who he is at all, but he tells us we can get a local bus there for Rs5 each. We’d been planning to take a rickshaw, which would’ve cost a lot more, so we decide to go with the flow and put ourselves in his hands. Before Ponda itself we stop at a quiet local bus stand, and Bald Man tells us in an imperious but somehow still friendly manner, to get off the bus. We’re then directed to a pink bus across the way, in which we sit for 10 minutes, before being told to go back to where we started, since there’s a bus there that’s leaving sooner. Bald Man, whose name, it transpires, is Raju, gets on and spends most of the fifteen minute journey speaking loudly and yes, imperiously, into his cellphone. At a place in the middle of nowhere, the three of us get off. There seems to be no-one, and nothing around other than trees. Happily though, I notice that there is a sign for the Tropical Spice Plantation, so the idea that this may be some intricately complex form of rural kidnapping is put to rest. After walking down the road with us for a few minutes, Raju suddenly jumps on the back of a passing scooter, shouts, “Turn right up there!” and is gone as quickly as he appeared.

The first things we see as we make the right into the plantation car park, are two elephants, standing amongst the trees. A dirt path leads past them, and down some rough-cut steps to a tiny wooden ticket booth, next to which another elephant us busily soaking some tourists by sucking up water and blowing it all over them. To get to the plantation we have to cross a log bridge over a long, narrow lake. At a point about half way across, it suddenly dawns on me how beautiful this place is. Entirely surrounded by dense stands of palm trees, the lake stretches off into the hazy distance, its waters lush with lilies and water hyacinth.  It is, in short, a tropical paradise, and I’m sure the pair of cows swimming lazily through the lilies would, if asked, attest to that.

We’re welcomed to the plantation with garlands of Jasmine flowers, and glasses of lemongrass tea, taken in the dining area, an open plan arrangement of rough-hewn darkwood tables and benches. Shortly afterwards, the tour begins. The first thing we are shown is a device used for distilling feni from cashews apples. Basically the fruit is crushed, placed in solution in a stoppered clay pot, and then heated. The vapour passes down a bamboo tube and condenses in another pot at the other end.  It can then be redistilled to make arak (40-50% alcohol) or used at this point as feni (about 20%) I get the impression from the guide that feni is to Goa what tea is to England, or gimchi is to Korea, in that life without it is unimaginable. At one point he says, “If you cut a Goan, they bleed feni.” As we progress through the plantation we’re shown vanilla, cinnamon, bay leaves, betel nut, coriander, aloe vera, pineapples, turmeric, lemongrass, and probably other things I’ve forgotten. There’s also an opportunity to try paan, the chewing mixture Indian men are commonly seen spitting red gobs of onto the pavement, with the effect that most of India looks like it’s covered with bloodstains. It turns out to be composed of many ingredients, including but not limited to, betel leaf (the wrapping), areca nut, kattha (an extract from the acacia tree), lime paste, cardamom, saffron, coconut, cloves, and tobacco. I’m tempted, but I don’t want my teeth turning red right now, so resolve to try it somewhere else down the line. The tour ends with a display by the endearingly named, Human Monkey, a betel nut gatherer who has spent the last twenty years shinning up trees. Apparently, in a normal working day, he’ll climb a tree, harvest the nuts, then move to the next one by swinging the tree he’s in like a metronome until it’s close enough to reach another. He’ll harvest about sixty trees in this way without ever coming back down to the ground. As we watch, he shins up a thirty foot tree in about five seconds flat, swings into two more in succession, then slides back down at what looks like a suicidal speed, but happily isn’t.  Before our complimentary lunch, the guide invites us to have a spoonful of cold water dripped down our backs to refresh us. It’s actually remarkably effective, and sets me up nicely for a buffet feast of rice, vegetable curry, dhal, sweet rice, cooked cabbage, fried potato, salad and popadoms, all served on a banana leaf and washed down with a Kingfisher.

Following lunch we decide to spend Rs600 each to get soaked by an elephant. The process, overseen by two mahouts, takes place in a large pool, and Jung-Ok is first in.  Once she’s on its back, the mahouts give the instruction, and the elephant takes a trunk-full of water, and throws it back all over itself, and my wife. This is repeated a number of times to Jung-Ok’s apparent delight. I take my turn, and sure enough it is a very refreshing and enjoyable experience, but does, as I dismount, set my bloody leg off again, it having been fine all day. Raju suddenly appears and tells is, imperiously, that the bus back to Ponda is due in fifteen minutes. As we’re waiting by the roadside, he turns up again, once more on the back of a scooter, to tell us it’ll be here in five. The journey back is uneventful, save for the fact that bizarrely, about half way back to Panjim, a hand is suddenly thrust through my window, and when I look out, I find Raju attached to the other end of it. The man is like a bloody Jack-in-the-Box. “My friend! My house here!” he exclaims, before disappearing into the throng, never to be seen again.

Back at Panjim, my leg is very bad, again. I’m still lying on the bed when Andy and Odie return in the early evening. I score a few strong painkillers from Odie, to add to the Tylenol I already have in my system, and then while they go out for dinner, Jung-Ok becomes an absolute trooper. She goes off to find a pharmacy and comes back with some prescription only pills that look very powerful indeed. She then goes out to get take-away. Despite the discomfort, I actually have quite a fun evening, and Jung-Ok manages to get quite merry on the beers she’s bought. I go to bed hoping for better health tomorrow.