Goa

Monday 17th March – Agonda
At 5am we were rather rudely awoken and unceremoniously dumped at what we presumed was the bus stand in Palolem - an hour and a half before we were told we would arrive. Groggily we took a rickshaw to Agonda and dozed on the beach until dawn when we checked into Romance Coco-huts - lovely but overpriced huts on stilts right on the sand, with awesome sea views. There ensued a perfectly uneventful day of sunbathing and swimming. A cheerful bongo seller from Varanasi stopped for a chat even though we assured him we did not have space in our backpacks for one of his beautifully carved bongos. Apparently the police tax the hawkers Rs200 for just 3 hours on that particular beach – even more on the more busy ones – and so if they don’t make a sale then they lose money. Looking along the almost deserted beach one couldn’t help but feel sorry for his chances. I know Gill dearly wished we could buy one, it’s such a wicked, jungly sound. Just then, as I was hunting in my bag for sunscreen I discovered the funny little nut thing that the old saddhu from Kashmir had given Gillie in Singapore. The bongo seller (who’s name I have forgotten) was suddenly animated at the sight of it and told us it was the real deal and very rare and expensive, and confirmed that it was indeed a lucky charm. He said he keeps several on his person and some with his stash of cash at home to guard it against theft.


Tuesday 18th March – Agonda
After a miserable night being violently sick (I suspect from a dodgy prawn), I convalesced all day with probably one of the best sea views one could hope for from any sick bed.
Wednesday 19th March – Palolem
Although we truly were living in paradise, it was eerily quiet and the boys were determined to find some form of nightlife so we decided, before heading up to north Goa, we would try another couple of nights on Palolem. They had taken a ride there yesterday to get medicine for me and were surprised by how busy it was. The reason, they were assured by the same dodgy Indian wide-boy guesthouse manager from before, was because of the English girl who had been murdered in Anjuna – sending hordes of scared girls down south. Rather unlikely I thought. More likely the police were now under international pressure to crack down on illegal parties and actually enforce the 11pm curfew rather than accept bribes as usual. Either way, it did not bode well for our intended antics up north.
Thursday 20th march – Palolem
Another blissful day of sunbathing and swimming, with a bit of eating and shopping thrown in when we could be bothered. As usual, somehow managed to sniff out a decent Italian restaurant for some pizza – the only food I could face after my bout of food poisoning. We both knew we would get sick at some point in India, perhaps more than once, but didn’t expect it so soon or almost at the same time. It makes you look at menus in a whole new light. Everything could be the next dodgy prawn (or in Gill’s case, Greek salad) you never know where it’s lurking.

Friday 21st march – Anjuna
We were increasingly getting that forlorn sense of being in a holiday resort out of season. Even Anjuna was like a ghost town. Where are all the party people? In fact, where are all the people? It didn’t help that ominous storm clouds darkened the horizon and a distinctly English drizzle had set in by the time night fell, which culminated into a tumbling crescendo causing us to turn around and high-tail it to the nearest empty bar, all adding up to that evening’s search of any life ending in us return empty handed and very wet. Couldn’t help feeling a sense of sadness at the thought that we were walking the same muddy, dingy streets that poor doomed Scarlett did on that, her last, brutal night one month ago.
Saturday 22nd March – Anjuna
Walking in the bright sunshine to breakfast we’d forgotten it was the Indian holy colours festival, and were ambushed by a group of children, none over 6 years of age, who insisted on streaking our faces in psychedelic coloured powder paint with their tiny little hands. We hired bikes and set off on another coastal road trip, passing lush green fields and tropical forests. At Mandrem beach we spoke to a middle-aged English couple. He had been to Goa 18 years ago and seemed envious of our trip. The next, and ultimate stop, Arambol was teeming with travellers and had a lively atmosphere. A yummy fresh tuna toastie was the decider – we would move there tomorrow. Then the heavens opened and monsoon style rain pummelled the beach. The road became a river of mud, flowing down to the beach, toppling parked motorbikes. This didn’t faze the local weekend tourists in the slightest as they splashed happily in and out of the sea. The monsoon eased into a steady drizzle and we drove back in stinging rain - nasty. After the most appreciated hot shower we’d had probably since Sapa two years ago, we embarked upon an even more horrid, but unavoidable, mission to the ATM in even worse rain and terrible traffic on mud roads dodging crazy drivers - drunk from celebrating the holy weekend.

Sunday 23rd March – Arambol
In the sunshine of the next morning Anjuna beach looked lovely. Lots of sleepy cows – some with coloured bindhis painted on their foreheads from the day before. Had the best breakfast so far at the Shore bar before returning the bikes and grabbing a taxi to Arambol. There were still groups of Indian men jumping in and out of the sea like kids in their tatty pants, or gawping openly at the bikini-clad foreigners. Gill’s mum called to remind us it was Easter Sunday and we wondered what kind of celebrations might be happening in a largely Catholic state such as Goa. The beach lulled us into that never-never land of the lotus eaters state and we once again forgot the time, the day, or even which country – a beach is just a beach after all. Apart from when we’re on the road and see the mad colourful sights you are reminded you are actually in India (even though Goa is supposed to be very different from the rest of India after its colonial, hippy and now tourist invasions) on beaches you really could be anywhere in the world. The sun, sea and sand are just slightly different heats, shades or transparency.

Monday 24th March – Arambol
Rained all day. Watched a bizarre holy cow dance on a saddhu’s knee while another man played a flute. A power cut affecting the whole town, including internet shops and travel agents (we really needed to book our train ticket to Bombay), more British style rain and the wine shop being closed meant an afternoon of updating the blog on our balcony until the laptop battery died. That evening we enjoyed playing pool in a bar on the beach until some hustler locals beat us off the table. The power returned and we tried to book our train tickets for the next day to be told the train was full but we could try going to the station the next day. For dinner we ate the most amazing pizza at an Italian restaurant called Fellini’s that was so popular, mostly with an old-school Italian traveller crowd, that we had to wait for a table. I realise our trip so far seems to involve a fair few Italian restaurants, but there are only so many times you can eat the rich, greasy curries before you crave something more familiar. I am also trying to document the names of any good restaurants (and guesthouses and beaches) to help other travellers. While planning our trip I found the most relevant information through Google blogsearch rather than the unreliable Lonely Planet.
That evening ended with the killing of the music at 10pm, as promised, and our polite but firm ejection from the Loeki café at 11pm – the manager fearful of the police after another bar had actually had its license revoked the previous night. It seemed ridiculously heavy-handed, particularly as we had been drinking in the bar he spoke of (Dreamcatcher) earlier the night before, and although they were banging out trance music there were only about 5 other people there. A stoned young crusty who was learning firesticks (but hadn’t progressed to the lighting stage yet) told us he was playing guitar on the beach at midnight and was moved on by the police. How this infraction could possibly bearb any relation to what happened to that poor girl is beyond me.
Tuesday 25th March – Arambol
Another grey day set the mood for getting up to Bombay as quickly as possible. I waited at the guesthouse while the boys went to the station to try and secure tickets for that evening. After a massive sketch they returned with tickets for the following night.
As we’d already checked out of our guesthouse, we found a new place tucked away in a labyrinth of muddy paths and staircases that I got lost in every time, feeling like I was in an Escher painting.
We ended up having dinner on the beach with our new neighbours, a guy and girl (just friends) from Sydney who seemed pretty sound. They’d come down from the north and hadn’t been to Hampi yet so we exchanged information. They also recommended Amristar, much further north than we’re planning on venturing - close to the Pakistani border in Punjab – which sounded so awesome we’re all considering trying to make it there.
Wednesday 26th March - Anjuna
After breakfast, our new friends (Emily and Anthony) amazingly gave one of their Lonely Planets! I must have mentioned that we’d lost ours. Even more sorted - they offloaded another book, City of Djinns, to replace The Great railway Bazaar I was reading and also sadly lost. Drove to Anjuna for the famous (and we discovered last of the season) flea market. Indian hawkers crooned their wares lyrically – “silver, carving, painting, sarong...”, whilst nonchalant western stall owners silently offered their overpriced clothes, that were suitable only for a party that didn’t exist, along the narrow dusty lanes of the sprawling ramshackle beach-front bazaar. Most of the Indian paraphernalia on offer had obviously travelled from Rajasthan so we resolved to collect it later on. Very sweaty and shopped out we met up with Emily and Anthony in Looda bar, evidently the place to see and be seen, packed full of serene old timers unfazed by the combined cacophony created by a jesus crew on electric guitars battling it out with a warped sound-system on the opposite side. It was a fittingly raucous end to our, albeit short encounter anyway, and we said goodbye over a few beers and burned it back to Agonda to collect our bags and make for the train.

Goa and Hampi

Monday 10th March – Varkala – Goa
We were keen to embark upon our first Indian railway journey, and the 20hr trip from Varkala to Canaconda, Goa, did not disappoint. Once we figured out the complexities of assigned berth numbers, we relaxed into the rolling motion of the train as the lush tropical scenery, dotted with shanty towns and farms whizzed past the window. We whiled away the day reading and sharing stories with a well-travelled German couple named Ooly and Yasmine on the bunks above us who provided us with useful local knowledge. As night fell we climbed into our bunks and, once I had assembled enough hanging sarongs to block out the inevitable curious stares, were rocked to sleep.

Tuesday 11th March – Palolem
We arrived at Canaconda station at 5am and caught a motorised rickshaw to Palolem, the nearest beach. We sketched around for a while, looking inside the first shabby huts on the beach (the manager had a bizarre faux London accent) until conceding we were too tired, and the hour too early, to hunt for better options.
After a couple of extra hours sleep we took a stroll to the southern headland and over the rocks to a couple of tiny, quiet neighbouring beaches. Our first impression of Palolem was of a one-time typical traveller beach with ramshackle coco-huts that was rapidly succumbing to tourism. You could easily mistake it for any beach in Thailand.
The north end of the beach however was much quieter and less developed and we resolved to stay for a couple of days. That evening we met two Russian girls – one pretty little thing, that Si was quite involved in talking to, and her less attractive friend, who I did my best to distract in an effort to increase his chances. Gill for his part concentrated his attention on an English guy who also seemed to have his eye on the pretty Russian girl. The night ended fruitlessly for Si however when she received a phone call from her - before unmentioned - English boyfriend.

Wednesday 12th March – Palolem
The next day we hired bikes and rode up the coast to investigate some different beaches. We fell in love with beautiful Agonda, a clean stretch of white sand, with a handful of shacks and a much more laid back vibe. Further north we came upon an ancient Portuguese fort on the tip of a peninsular overlooking the sea for miles around. From there we could spot some idyllic little white-sand bays and set off to find them. According to our rubbish Rs20 map one of these should have been Betul beach, but after several wrong turns, dead ends, baffling signposts and directions from locals we just couldn’t seem to find it. At one junction we asked a row of three peacefully resting locals - a leather-faced old woman and two men, who pointed back up the path we’d come from to the main road and down a dirt track we’d previously dismissed. Following these instructions we careened down the hill to find ourselves right back at the same junction facing the same three bemused faces and realised we’d just driven in a circle. I will always remember the wrinkled face of the old woman as she shrugged slowly and gazed at me with sad but kindly eyes. This quest for an elusive Shangri-la had become a frustrating but hilarious mission, and just when we’d finally conceded defeat and were heading back to Agonda for lunch, Si stopped to ask an old woman waiting at a bus stop if she needed a lift and she replied no thanks, she was going to Betul beach!
Thursday 13th March – Hampi
As the train approached Hampi, the golden afternoon sun lit up the famous boulders, piled up in curious formations like peaceful Buddhas all around. Hampi is a small village close to the ruins of an ancient city, with hundreds of temples scattered about the lush landscape of rice paddies, banana plantations and swaying coconut palms, all set against the dramatic backdrop of the surreal giant boulders.
Friday 14th March – Hampi
I sensibly spent the entire day resting my ankle while the boys soaked up some culture in the temples. I was pleased we had been advised to stay on the ‘other’ side of the river and from our Mowgli guesthouse I had a most beautiful view to distract me all day, and the company of a pair of Swedish stoners, Erica with a strangely Bristolian accent apparently acquired from an English boyfriend, and dreadlocked Eric, also bizarrely with a Californian drawl from an American father.
Saturday 15th March – Hampi
Today we hired bikes and set off into the countryside, climbed over 200 steps to the Hanuman temple (where one cheeky monkey stole Si’s glasses); took a million photos of cows, colourfully dressed rural villagers and gorgeous scenery; gave school-pens to hordes of excited children and jumped off a huge boulder into a deliciously cold lake.

Sunday 16th March – gill sick, Hampi-Agonda sleeper bus
Poor Gill spent the whole of the next day in bed with food poisoning, but was recovered enough for our overnight trip back to Goa. The Indian sleeper bus is like something I’ve never seen before. Two levels of comfortable bunks, not quite narrow enough to be singles, nor wide enough to be classed as doubles, line both sides of the coach, creating a veneer clad plywood corridor with the occasional opening where you can spy a foot, a hand or a head. The heat inside was unbearable until we managed to force open the windows and the bus got moving. It did feel rather strange lying on a bed with the roadside squalor and deafeningly honking traffic whizzing past - certainly not as pleasant an experience as the sleeper train. Our scheduled stop at about 8pm was a fairly dark moment, with probably the most sketchy toilet experience ever as a German girl and I took it in turns to shine a torch for each other with crowds of curious truck drivers lurking furtively in the dark.

Kerala

Saturday 1st March
We arrived at Kochi airport at midnight. Gill’s sheer relief that his feet were securely on the ground overcame his excitement and he slept as the car sped through the sultry night, whilst I peered in vain out the window for the first glimpses of this mysterious new land, and bombarded the driver with questions.
Our pre-booked guesthouse, Ballard’s Bungalow, in a heritage building, was predictably lovely – being well over budget to guarantee that necessary first-night comfort.

Sunday 2nd March – Fort Kochi
Breakfast was followed by the unexpected arrival of Amanda and Ben, followed shortly by Simon, and the new travel crew eagerly attempted to catch up on the last two years over a celebratory bottle of wine.
Fort Kochi is a beautiful little fishing town, with a rich Portuguese flavour. Looming cantilevered Chinese fishing nets creaked skywards, groaning with the weight of their catch. Bustling chai stalls conducted a roaring trade; the sweet tea poured expertly into tiny glasses from a great height at impressive speed. Uneven pavements of rubble gave way to ornately tiled promenades. Catholic schoolgirls in their regulation crisp white shirts and flowing blue skirts scuttled past crumbling colonial mansions that offered glimpses of the port town’s former decadence with their sun-bleached colours and European features. Our first taste of India couldn’t have been more relaxed, with the unhurried daily life of a sleepy fishing village unfolding before us. Tuesday 4th March – Alleppey
The five of us must have collectively viewed about 10 boats, all in various states - veering from luxury to sinkable, before settling upon our trusty vessel and home for the next two days. We chugged away from the docks and the lush tropical canopy soon gave way to open water as we traversed a large lake, busy with local and tourist traffic. Flashbacks of the congested tourist trap of Halong Bay in Vietnam were soon dispelled once we cleared the initial gridlock and felt we were indeed embarking upon a journey into the heart of darkness. But Joseph Conrad surely never experienced such an idyllic landscape - with women beating clothes clean in the same calm waters as children bathed and fishermen wreathed in their nets. There is possibly nothing so relaxing as this - simply lazing on the sundeck or in hammocks, with riverside life drifting past and our working life in Singapore fading into the realms of distant memory.


Wednesday 5th march – Keralan backwaters
Day two was much alike the first, with swimming, eating, reclining, chatting and reading the general order of the day. Just as well for me - having sprained my ankle on the darkened stairs the night before. Whilst moored for lunch, Simon gave our chef a swimming lesson and the sight of the funny little man splashing ineffectually but enthusiastically in his lifejacket was the cause of much amusement to all on board. Tiny Indian women impressively rowing leaky canoes offered us fresh seafood, but none of the river hawkers were quite as remarkable, or to us as welcome, as an old man, wearing nothing but a sarong fashioned in the local style to resemble a kind of nappy, selling the locally brewed coconut rum in a metal urn. Apparently it ferments inside a plastic bottle, attached to the tree somehow by a tap that collects the sap. It tasted like slightly carbonated coconut juice, but with a pleasant kick that roused us from our mid afternoon lethargy. We discovered we were moored for the night close to our super-friendly captain’s house and somehow invited ourselves over to meet his family. We were greeted warmly by his shy, smiling wife and beautiful five-year-old daughter. The tiny house was built in the local colonial style, with a veranda fronted by grand columns where the five of us were seated on all the available chairs and served chai and a platter of peanuts and Bombay mix (not sure if that’s the proper Indian name for it). The kitchen was a lean-to shack with a tin roof, separated by several feet from the living quarters. Our hosts were overwhelmingly hospitable, although with almost no English, and from what we could spy inside the house, lived very simply in only three small, cluttered rooms. It was a fascinating experience to actually see into the lives of some of the people who lived on the river, and humbling that our captain lived so modestly, and welcomed us so gladly to his home, whilst we exhibited such decadence on board his boat.

Thursday 6th March – Varkala
We docked after breakfast and headed straight to Alleppey bus station for the next leg of our journey: south to Varkala. We had originally determined to travel by train whenever possible, it being the most civilised, comfortable and safest form of transport, but we would have had to wait two hours for the next one and were assured our destination was only 1.5 hours away. Six hours, two buses (one of which we had to abandon after the lunatic driver crashed us into a truck) and one taxi later, we arrived in the pretty little seaside town, perched on top of a crumbling cliff overlooking the turquoise ocean crashing onto an inviting strip of golden sand.

Friday 7th March – Varkala
Realised we would have to lose a few days here for my ankle to recover, but there are definitely worse places to be stuck in, with the added bonus of spending a few more precious days with Mindy and Ben, who were leaving for Chennai in two days. Varkala is probably the least developed of the Keralan beaches, with the package tourist hordes discouraged by the steep access to the beach, but is quickly becoming a new stop on the India beach trail. We found it very relaxing, with a chilled hippy vibe, lush seafood, good sunbathing, although very rough sea, and all the usual yoga, Ayurveda and Tibetan handicrafts. The Indians we had encountered so far were all incredibly friendly, with every question answered by a comical, somewhat ambiguous head waggle that seemed to either mean ‘yes’, ‘maybe’ or ‘whatever’. All the children we met gave us big genuine smiles and waves, sometimes shouting ‘hello!’ as we passed.

Saturday 8th March – Varkala
Sunbathed, swam. Wicked little bar where we befriended a waiter to give us super-strong cocktails whilst another one, wearing a gay biker’s cap and a huge grin under his even bigger moustache, danced wildly on the porch like a Bollywood star. This became our regular sunset spot for the next three nights.