Ooty

This is an old hill station favoured by the homesick wives of the British.  When the heat and humidity of India became too much for these dispossessed delicates the hills beckoned.  The climate and vistas are surprisingly reminiscent of home, there are meadows in which horses roam freely, and plenty of firs and pine tree woods that dominate the lake strewn hills. There is also a summer palace for the Maharaja of Mysore, which was built by the Brits for the Indian King (although it seems he was a king in name only, and it was the British who controlled his purse strings).  Looking at the pictures running along the walls of its wooden grandeur, it appears to have served more as a place for the Brits to hang out and go on a jolly good elephant hunt.  There are many pictures of boastful, pigeon breasted simpletons sat astride a slayed elephant seemingly, very pleased with their might.

Ooty is about 2000m above sea level, which means that during the day it is quite warm, although tolerable to wear jeans, but at almost 4 pm precisely, the temperature plummets, sometimes close to 0.  The main town isn’t much to write about, it is comparatively small, possibly about the size of Southampton centre, and it is as busy and noisy as any other growing Indian town.  There, as everywhere else we have been, are remnants of the old colonial era slowly decaying behind a façade of bland, simple, modern structures, built for function rather than atmosphere.  There are the rickshaws, beggars, dirt, cows and plastic that can be found anywhere else in any India town.  It is the surrounds that make Ooty so spectacular, and also popular with wealthy Indian tourists (there is a surprising lack of westerners about).  

We are staying near the boat house which is on a manmade lake from the mid 1800’s, which is just out of town.  Surrounding it are tall fir trees that stretch far back over distant hills which sit wrapped in wispy clouds.  Outside of the town, there is a constant undulating green of tea plantations and tall trees that ripple across the landscape as the hills disappear skyward.  But, travelling higher into the hills, there can be seen sharp reliefs as some of the precipices fall dramatically away into the green below.  The tea plantations are vast, neat little clumps of bushes, divided by walkways for the tea pickers to reach the leaves, repeated over and over across the steep hills.  In the walkways the bobbing heads of women, plucking leaves and tossing them into large sacks on their backs, can be seen methodically meandering.  

We have been in Ooty for over a week, and spent a few days just looking at the beautiful view of the lake from our room and enjoying a bit of peace and quiet.  The days were languid and warm, with a temperate sun, the gentle sway of the trees rustled and the wind skipped a cool breeze across us.  We went for a walk in the woods, and just as I was commenting that I felt we could have been in Alice Holt woods, just down the road from where we lived in Alton, when I came face to face with a couple of muscle clad beasts, which turned out to be bison.  They were huge!  Just stood amongst the trees munching away, until we stumbled across them.  We weren’t sure what to do, are bison aggressive?  Will they charge if bothered?  Do they just freak like cows when approached?  These were not questions that we really wanted to find answers to, and they seemed pretty jumpy, so we waited, for ages, until they wandered off and we could carry on.  However, by the end of the walk, we’d seen so many of these beasts that we became quite nonchalant towards them.

 

The only other thing we did in Ooty was take a scooter out to look at the Nilgiri’s, the name of the hill range Ooty is in.  For 4 lovely days we had beautiful weather, the day we actually decided to get off our lazy bums and do something, the cloud descended.  All we saw of the breath taking views were breath freezing clouds.  Every now and again one would thin out and we got a tease through a misty veil of the wonderful vistas we could have been delighted by, but mostly it was a few trees disappearing into whiteness.  We also had a trek booked, but this was rained off, and we were rained in for 3/4 days.  Over two of them there was a rainfall of 13 cm, 14 people died and five huge fir trees fell in the road we were staying on taking out the electricity for a few days in the entire town (apart from Domino’s who had a generator).  Fortunately we were with a few other unfortunates who were also rained in so we all got drunk on local brandy and played monopoly.  

We have now finally left Ooty after a rather lethargic week and a half and are headed to Kerala (we hope to find somewhere to stay for a bit there, but it may be too expensive due to a large degree of tourism).  On the way we have stopped off at a place in Coimbatore, the Manchester of India, apparently, but it is not. It is much busier, noisier and grimier.  However, Alex and Rob (one part of the other couple we left Ooty with) have been approached to star in an Indian film.  Alex doesn’t seem so keen, so I am about to persuade him to do it………keep your eyes peeled for the new Tom Booze!!!  (We went, although Alex wasn’t in the film, another guy we are travelling with was.  I got really involved, it was a great fun, if not very long night.)

(I should also write about Hotel Darshan, or Hotel Headfuck as we have more aptly named it, with the oppressively friendly staff, and the fantasist mason that hobbled around it, who I suspect was one of those closet alcoholics, but it was a bit too weird.)

Mysore

This place smells amazing.  It is quite a large centre for Ayurvedic medicine and yoga.  Almost every five paces an oil seller daubs the tourist in the sweet scent of flowers, fruits and trees.  At the moment I smell of 3 types of jasmine, lotus, sandalwood, jacaranda, water lily and orange.  As does Alex.  We smell of a fresh spring in a flower filled field, my nose is very happy.  I wonder if it is the smells that are making me soften towards Mysore.  At first arrival, I didn’t feel much for the place.  It is a small city, the main centre being about 4 km across, made up of narrow winding streets barely wide enough for two rickshaws to pass, flanked by 3 story buildings, some built over a 100 years ago, and others in the past year, side by side.  The character of the old buildings, hidden behind years of grime and the modern ones lacking anything unique, don’t lend much of an atmosphere to the city.  There are the ubiquitous horns, the streets filled with motorbikes, rickshaws, people and food sellers, all vying for the same space.  It is very easy to get disorientated and although knowing the destination is close, it is usual to spend many frustrated moments trying to figure out how to get to it.  However, since being dowsed in calming floral scents I am warming to the bustle of the place, and I haven’t dropped my smile once.

There are many more beggars in Mysore than we have encountered elsewhere so far.  Cripples strain themselves to hobble over to beg, and urchins tug on clothes desperate for attentions.  I have seen some of the most disturbing consequences of disease that have befallen the people that lay prostrate on the streets, withered hands outstretched, beseeching eyes where the light of life has long been extinguished.  Alex and I have a begging fund which all our coins go into, and I distribute a couple of rupees to each that asks.  I have been ignoring the children who pull at my arm, which is painful to do, as I understand they are usually begging for a gang master, or parents that have little respect for their offspring.  However today I had some banana’s we had bought as a snack, and some children ran up to us, as usual, and asked for money, instead I gave them a banana each, which seemed to make them much happier than any money would have done.  Afterwards a man approached me and told me I would have good karma for my actions.  He said if I had given them money they would have had to take it home to their father who would use it to buy drink, but by giving them food they benefitted and it was a much better thing to do.  So I have now resolved to make sure I have some fruit or biscuits as well as the begging fund each time I go out.  I feel much better knowing that there is something I can offer these poor, dirty, guttersnipes.  

On a lighter note we have been finding some of the most delicious food.  There is a restaurant close to where we are staying, constantly crammed with local people, that serves the most incredible thalis.  On sitting down on one of the narrow chairs, a large banana leaf is laid out on the table, and a cup next to it.  There are a few waiters of sorts that wonder around the small restaurant, one with a large pot of rice, others with smaller pots of curry, or little ramekins of soupy type curries and poppadums .  Each approach the table and dollop a load of it onto the banana leaf, so that once their circuit has been completed there is a colourful assortment of the most fragrant and splendidly spicy curries, beautifully arranged on the leaf.  As soon as one of the curries or rice is run down, a waiter appears and spoons a little more onto the leaf.  It is an all you can eat thali fest, all for about 80p.  Amazing.  And there is no cutlery, so all feeding is done using the right hand.  (It is difficult not to engage the left hand in the process of eating, but it would put the other diners off their food somewhat seeing someone eat with what they use in place of toilet paper.)  I like eating with my hands, pulling the curries into the rice and gently massaging it with the fingers to form neat little parcels to pop into the mouth.  Feeling the texture of the food before eating it gives the meal another dimension of sensory experience.  

I have also had what I thought was my first real experience of racism (it turned out to be an inverted type of racism, I will explain later).  We have been eating in quite a few local places that appear to be very popular.  Often these places are so busy people queue for a seat.  Most of the tables seat four people and strangers sit happily alongside each other.  Except with us.  We are avoided, people would rather wait than share a table with us, they won’t even make eye contact, they just stand by the door waiting for other seats to become free.  The first time it happened I didn’t think too much of it, however after the third or fourth time it started to upset me.  The waiters seem happy to serve us, many of the Indians want to take our photo, and people stop us all the time to talk to us, so it felt strange that they wouldn’t want to eat with us.  Maybe, I tried to reason, they thought we would be unpleasant eaters, or more cynically, there was nothing to be gained financially by sitting with us, so we were seen as people to avoid.  I tried to ask a couple of people why this was, but my question was evaded.  It was awful to think we were not respected as people, but only as money boxes to be shaken when a few coins are required.  The morning that I pondered this experience of being viewed as a pariah had quite a profound effect on my confidence.  I began to feel uncomfortable around people as they asked for my photo or tried to talk to me, unsure as to how people were viewing me.  Was I seen as a whore because I am an unmarried woman, yet have a boyfriend?  Eventually we found a very good English speaking Indian in a shop who could explain to us why we were shunned in restaurants.  According to him there is a view amongst Indians that western tourists think they are superior so will not want Indians sitting next to them, and they are also embarrassed that they do not speak English.  These are the reasons we are left alone in local restaurants.  So now, we try and engage the people around us, and will start asking them to sit with us if we see they are waiting.  Even though the attitudes of the people turned out to be more self-deprecating than irrationally offensive, it was interesting to experience a small inkling of how those that are treated poorly due to their skin colour.  It is certainly unpleasant and I can see how self-confidence is seriously undermined by racism. 

Other than the smells, and the lovely thali, Mysore boasts a huge palace that still belongs to the Maharajan family that once ruled here from ~500 years ago.  The original palace was made of wood, and although it survived hundreds of years without accident, a fire broke out in 1897 that destroyed it totally.  The princess that lived there commissioned another palace to be built, this time out of granite.  A British architect was chosen for the job, and pulled influences from Islamic, Hindi and Victorian architecture to build one seriously opulent palace, which in places literally takes the breath away.  The craftsmanship that has gone into this place is outstanding, the ivory inlaid doors and beaten silver work make even the observers eyes sore when looking at the minutiae of detail that has gone into decorating them.  Unfortunately we weren’t allowed to take a camera into the palace, but the pictures from the outside hopefully give some idea of the scale, from the grandness in size, to the intricacy of detail.   

There is also a hill with pretty spectacular views of the city, a large, ugly, gothic style cathedral, lots of incense stick makers, a busy colourful market and silk pashmina shops. 

Alex has been making use of his time here, and has begun exploring potential new professions. 

Hampi

This place is almost unbelievable.  The boldness of its beauty is just breathtaking.  The heart feels overwhelmed.  Hampi , as it is now, is just a small village, there is a bazaar with narrow streets that feel cluttered and erratic, lined with cows and small shops selling jewellery, clothes and general commodities, a few guest houses and very little happening, but there is a sense of serenity here, and calmness that rests on the soul upon arrival.The place feels quite surreal, and I finally feel I am getting closer to the Indian experience.  From the motorised buzzing of the yellow and black rickshaws that chase the tourists around, to the magic baba’s with painted faces and orange robes, plucking golden trinkets from thin air, coughing up huge stones and the village elephant decorated with colourful painted patterns.  All the senses are tantalised.  There are the sounds of a procession, trumpets, flutes and drums as they meander around the village announcing the marriage of a young couple, the music lasting three days (there have also been the sounds of their arguments when the alcohol has got too much and the women and men screech ‘you bitch’ at each other in their local language from the roof tops).  There are smells of sandalwood and jasmine as thick whorls of joss stick smoke twist from the houses and restaurants into the street.  The feel of children as they run up to touch the skin of a strange white giant.  The taste of real Indian cooking, not food adjusted for the sensitivities of the westerner, but spices that set the lips tingling like hot coals, and chilli that builds an inferno in the mouth long after the meal is over.  And there is the visuals, oh, my weary, happy eyes.The world here seems vibrant and fantastically peculiar.

We are staying in a brightly (a bit too brightly) coloured guest house by the river next to the bazaar.   In the mornings the villagers head down to the river to wash themselves and their clothes.  The river is accessed by a grand set of ancient steps that boast the importance of water, and the river itself has to be one of the most sightly rivers I have seen.  The width is only around 20 metres, but it curves subtly with the calmly flowing water, easing itself around large boulders and gently wending into the distance.  And it is the boulders that give Hampi its beauty.  As far as the eye can see there are jumbled hills covered in huge rocks, many as big as houses, interspersed with palms, where they found gaps in between the big, big stones.  The rocks are piled high on top of one another, some seeming to defy gravity, others, somehow weathered so the underside has been eroded and the boulder rests precariously on a miniscule, natural, plinth.  The colours of them are warm too.  Shades of orange ranging from those with a pinkish hue through to hints of brown that meld across the cool grey of the rocks.I feel my words to the natural wonder of this place are no justice.  Sat atop one these boulder strewn hills, looking at the phenomenal landscape, no further explanation is needed to understand why the people of the 13-16^th century chose this place to build their monuments to their gods.

And what monuments they are.  As visually impressive as the landscape they are set into.  From our guest house it is possible to see the temple to Shiva, a colossal, yet profoundly intricate structure set at the bottom of one of the hills.  Its unashamed conspicuousness towering skyward tells of man’s wish to honour the integrity of the surrounding landscape.  The reliefs carved from the stones making up the temple show a more liberal and licentious attitude that the ancient Indians had when compared to the prudishness that binds the people in more modern times.   The monkeys that scamper around it with seemingly mischievous intent appear more in touch with the essence of the place than the people now living around it.

There are many other temples and small buildings around Hampi, there is a circuit of around 12 km in which they are all contained.  There are many much smaller monuments that, although built with grandeur and flair, regardless of their scale, all of them seem to fit harmoniously into the environment.  They are sat upon the boulders, around them and somehow with them.  Maybe it is because the Hindu’s incorporate many elements of nature within their belief system that they were able to build something so in-tune with the scenery it is set in.  There are temples dedicated to Ganesh the elephant headed god, Hanuman, the monkey-man god, and to the many incarnations of Shiva, Vishnu and Krishna.  There are also Islamic mahal’s and mosques, grand stables to house elephants and bazaar upon bazaar, where simple columned structures are lined into the distance from the entrance to the temples.  In the Hampi bazaar these old columns are still being used.  People have filled in the gaps and turned them into houses and shops.  This absorption of the ancient into present day shows continuity, there seems to be something quite honest about using these buildings for practical purposes rather than just to admire. 

The most impressive of the temples is the Vittal, more for the size of the complex than the craftsmanship, which is as intricate and as splendid there as the other large temples in the area.  On walking into the entrance the visitor is greeted by a huge stone chariot, which apparently functioned as a moving vehicle at one point, which on seeing the density of stone sat upon the beautifully carved wheels seems impossible, but India seems to be the place where the impossible can happen.  There are pillars and shrines, all carved with such delicacy and beauty it is, after a whole day of looking at these wonders, exhausting to the eye.  

We hired push-bikes for the day to explore the ancient complex which was the perfect way to see the sights.  It was a leisurely tour through the majesty of nature and man combined.  I have been here for three days now and still feel overwhelmed by the immensity of the place.  We have sat in the shade of decadent temples, and wondered at the precariousness of the huge rocks as we rode past them.  And the place, at the moment, is quiet too.  There is no bustle of people being shuffled around; some places, being devoid of anyone but us, which means we could sit and feel the place envelope us in its grandeur.

There is also one of the loveliest places to see the sunset I have ever been to.  There is a hill next to the Shiva temple near our guest house, which is littered with spectacular boulders and ancient monuments, at the top of which, is a large boulder jutting out over an edge.  Sitting at the end of this boulder and watching the sun set behind the irregular hills, the reds and purples spewing gloriously into the darkening clouds, and the silhouettes of bats over a metre in span passing with strong beats of their wings, is a treasure no money can buy.

Candolim and the North Goa Beaches

CANDOLIM

To say this was the Benidorm of Goa might be a trifle unfair, but then we arrived here a couple of days before the ‘season’ started.  Over the weekend the first tourist coaches arrived, clogging up the roads and depositing fat westerners, like plaque on an artery, onto its worn and broken pavements.  Where Palolem was geared up for independent travellers and back packers, this place is for the package holiday.  The long stretch of road running parallel to the beach is lined with large hotels that vary in their degree of palatability.  There is a supermarket with queues that wind impatiently through the aisles, bars with big screens to show two football matches simultaneously, soon to be packed with Bacardi Breezer swilling apes, restaurants boasting their selection of fried breakfasts, roast dinners, steaks, chicken tikka masalas, and karaoke, and the sandy run up to the beach, litter strewn with plastic of differing shapes and sizes.  And then there is the beach itself, the plastic waste blended with the large gritty sand, that is lose and an effort to walk upon, scratching between the toes.  Sunbed upon sunbed lined row upon row, as far as the sun dazzled eye can see, all looking out onto the sea.  The sea with its pounding waves and fierce currents.  The sea with all of Goa’s cargo ships sat waiting to be let into port, the silhouettes of those furthest away looking like little grey monopoly boats.

There is also the sex tourism, which although it existed in Palolem, the women there were slim, attractive and the same age as the men they chose to indulge in a little Indian romance with.  Here however, it is not uncommon to see a handsome young Indian, hand in hand with some barrel shaped woman, with neon blonde hair, coarse from years of bleach, and a shiny, pink face, 20, 30 years his senior.  I must admit in Palolem it didn’t dawn on me that the pretty young white women seen with equally pretty young brown men was to do westerners and Indians until I spoke with one of the men that worked at the beach huts we were staying in.  He was particularly distressed one day as he had seen the girl he had been chasing with some ‘dirty smelly Indian that didn’t wash’.  He was clean he insisted and couldn’t understand his rivals appeal.  I learnt through a few other barmen that to come and work on the beaches during the tourist season was a no brainer for young single Indian men.  I naively thought that it must be the money that drew them from all parts in India to work, but it turns out that the lure of scantily clad pale flesh, looking to offer itself to smooth talking lothario’s is a fairly attractive pull also.  The women offer them drinks, meals out and finally their beds for a week or so, and in return they get a real taste of India.  One thing I do find curious though, is why aren’t all the Indian men in Palolem?  Without wishing to sound fatist/ageist/not sure what, but something ‘-ist’ I expect, but the ascetics are far more pleasing around those parts.  I suppose the older they are, the more likely they are to have a bit of cash, or is that being too cynical?

I am being a bit mean about Candolim.  We have been here for almost a week, and we are having a fine time.  We have a lovely room, off the main roads, with a large balcony that looks out onto a small garden with palm trees and greenery.  I have seen woodpeckers, eagles, a mongoose and butterflies as big as my hand visit our little oasis regularly, and the woman who owns the place is wonderful (she is also obsessively clean so no unwelcome beasties, my man sleeps soundly at last).  The beach road is nice enough, with yet more fairy lights, less traffic, and friendly shopkeepers and waiters, all of whom remember your name and say a cheery hello as you walk past (apart from the scarily serious Faroque who works the shop closest to us and asks us with great intensity what we are doing every time we pass him).  And if you turn right on the beach it possible to leave the industrial vistas behind and inch a little closer to paradise

.  

We have taken a couple of days out of Candolim, once to explore the northern beaches, and the other to drive around a little and explore the villages and countryside.  Driving around the countryside is wonderful.  There is something really liberating cruising along quiet back roads, the greens bursting from the roadside and across the fields, the russet earth skilfully blended by mother nature to provide a colourful contrast, the dust lightly flicking the face, and the warm air rushing past and through the hair.  It is truly a simple, but exhilarating pleasure.

ANJUNA

The party beach.  Where Goa goes and goes and goes.  Apparently.  Just not right now.  

There is a large flea market that is held there every Wednesday, that was started by the hippies many years ago.  It reminds me of the North African souks of Morocco.  Stand upon stand of vendors selling similar wares to their neighbouring stalls, lined up along winding roads, flanking either side of it.  As one travels past the make shift shacks containing bright clothes, smooth silky looking wood, cheap trinkets and aromatic spices, there are the calls of the vendors desperate for the attention of the hapless tourist, ‘Cheap, cheap.’, ‘Good quality, come look, just looking.’, and ‘Cheaper than Adsa!’.  The sellers are savvy and outrageous with their starting bids.  I asked about an old coin that was with many others in a cardboard box, the starting bid was 650 rupees (almost £10), I smiled and told him that I would pay about 70 rupees, and he immediately reduced his price to 250 rupees.  (I still didn’t buy it.)  But it just shows how unbelievably ruthless they are at prizing money from the tourists pocket.  

There are also the ear ‘cleaners’ too.  Pesky little parasites, who accost you as you walk past by grabbing your ear and launching towards it with a long spike and a dirty cotton bud.  I watched it happen to someone, who being a little more tolerant to being poked and prodded around, let this man scrape around in the insides of his ear as the man pulled vast swathes of orangey looking gunk from it, before finally producing a small stone.  They then pass a card to the stunned and violated victim stating that if they extract stones from the ears they need to be paid a vast sum of money, around £20.  This is all a con of course, and they use a slight of hand to produce the revolting looking ‘wax’ and little stone, and the dumbfounded dupe is left with a lot less money, and a dirtier ear for the pleasure.

After the market we walked back up along the beach and were greeted by some upbeat and inviting bass lines from one of the bars.  We went inside for a couple of beers, it was early so there were only a few people around.  We were told that things would liven up around 9, so we decided to stay around and see what the party scene at Anjuna was like, considering its reputation as the 24 hour, full power party paradise.  We hung around, a few drunk Russians turned up flailing their burly bulks around, and then the music stopped, at 11.30.  That was the party.  I understand that when the tourist season really gets going, around Dec, Jan, Feb and Mar, things go on a little longer, and the bars get rammed.  I am just glad we didn’t come to Goa looking for a party; we would have peaked far too soon and missed the main action.

CALANGUTE

Hell on earth.  Hot, rammed, noisy, dirty, an assault on every sense.  The sea is packed with paragliders and jet skis bouncing around off the waves and swimmers heads.  Don’t ever go there.

The rest of the beaches are a mixture of picturesque calm, silky sand stretched along the shoreline or busy, bustling throngs of people, looking for the next bar/sunbed.

We leave Goa today, to go and explore India.  xxx

The News

Petrol shortages:

I was shocked the first time we hired a scooter, and found that 2 litres of fuel was almost as much as the hire of the machine for the day.  We were told by the scooter lender that for one litre it would 80 rupees, just over a pound.  Thinking we would be naïve and foolish to pay such ridiculous prices I told the vendor that the price was crazy and that he shouldn’t try and take advantage of us, he insisted he wasn’t.  It turns out he wasn’t.   There is a real fuel crisis in Goa at the moment.  People are queuing for hours on end to fill up, and many of the petrol stations are empty.  Over the past couple of days there has been panic buying and it is being sold by unscrupulous traders for 150 rupees a litre at the moment, that is £2 per litre, £2!!!  I honestly don’t know how people afford to run their vehicles here. 

Above average temperatures for November.  No sign of any winter chill, says the paper, these are summer temperatures.

Illegal Mining:

This seems to be a really big problem in Goa.  There is estimated to be around 40 illegal mines operating in Goa at the moment.  They are mining for iron ore.  And there is big money to be made out of mining, it is thought that 25 000 crore has been made over the past couple of years (a crore is 10 million rupees), and the government seem to being having a problem on stopping illegally operating mines.  I am not sure why this is as they must be pretty obvious, I would imagine that corruption makes a fair contribution.  The illegal mining leads to the dumping of a lot of toxic waste products that pollute land and cost much to clear up and these mines are destroying vast swathes of protected forests.  Even the legal mines are big problems for local farmers, taking fresh water away from the land and land as well.

Not enough coconut climbers to harvest coconuts in Kerala.

Water Shortages:

There is already a problem with water conservation.  With the ever developing tourism, and influx of rich Indians who have made their money abroad are building massive properties in the Indian paradise, it is thought that there will be severe water shortages for the state in the next 10-20 years.

Two men stabbed in Mumbai for defending a female friend who was being harassed in a paan shop.

Radiography Conference:

Organised to teach radiographers in the dangers of radiation would you believe.  Apparently there are no education criteria to be met to be a radiographer in Goa.

The beheaded bodies of children found in Lucknow believed to be human sacrifices.

China:

Concerns about Chinas supply of nuclear warhead, 4 of which are apparently aimed at India.  A challenge of an Indian warship in the South China Sea by the Chinese.  And a map released by a private Chinese company that shows part of India to actually belong to China.

Inequalities between the burgeoning middle classes and the poor, still in many states, damned by the supposedly outlawed caste system.

Criminal Politians:

The government is proposing new reforms concerning who should be allowed run as candidates in elections.  As it stands at the moment, only people convicted in a trial court and sentenced for more than 2 years in prison are not allowed to run for government.  So a person on trial for multiple murder charges is able to contest elections.  And if a current MP is convicted of an offense and sentenced to more than 2 years in prison, they can still continue to represent the people.

The continuing efforts of ‘Team Anna’ to expose and eradicate corruption within the upper echelons of government.

Security to prevent terrorism:

The amount of paper work that is required by hoteliers/guest house owners and internet cafes to track travellers is extreme.  The Indian government seems particularly paranoid, and every time we move to a new play to stay, there are 3 forms that need filling in detailing all our passport and visa details, where we’ve come from, where we plan to go, when we arrived and our address and contact numbers in the UK.  The guest house owners then have to take this information along with 5 photocopies of out passports to the police station within 24 hours of our arrival.  Then there are the internet cafes that are required by law to take down our names, addresses in India and England and occasionally our passport details; however no one has demanded that yet.  They also have to keep all their internet browsing history and log books for 6 months.

And finally, Katie Price, aka Jordan, likes being single.  Yes, that really has been reported in the Times of India.

Panaji and Old Goa

PANAJI (PANJIM)

We are currently sat in an exquisitely restored typically Goan house waiting for some dinner.  The Portuguese influence pervades all the buildings here, and the inside of the restaurant is coloured in bright terracotta orange and lemon paint, with wonderfully crafted dark wood furniture with intricate flower designs, including the heavy door and a cool, grey, veined marble floor.  The walls are adorned with pictures distinctly European in their subject matter, as are the ornaments and statuettes in the alcoves within the walls.  The atmosphere is intimate, and the friendly waiters are clearly enjoying the music that is being played loudly – if my ears serve me correctly I believe it is the Venga Boys, but I could be wrong.  I understand Vasco De Gama conquered the beaches of Goa in the 16^th century enthusiastically singing ‘I wanna have sex on the beach, come on everybody!’ and thus brought Euro-pop charm to India.

After almost a couple of weeks happily entrenched in Palolem, we finally got the gumption to say goodbye to the Goan beach holiday.  We could feel the next 6 months slipping away into a pleasant sandy coma with the days coming and going as gently as the tide.  But, it was getting much busier, and we were getting upset that ‘our’ space in the sea for frolicking was being increasingly encroached by the ever growing number of tourists; many of whom were Indian, and would ask to pose with myself and Alex while friends took picture of us.  It was like getting hounded by the paparazzi.  Our departure was made even timelier by the guest we had on our last night.  At about 1 am Alex was tickled into arousal by an amorous intruder, and he awoke to a cockroach whispering something about a ménage a trois into his ear from his pillow.  Alex was not impressed, as the torch clicked on the roach stared back at him with incredulous curiosity.  ‘What you don’t want me here?’  it seemed to ask, its little antenna wiggling around suggestively.  Alex chased him off the bed with a slipper only to find a number of his much larger mates having a party around my backpack.  They all legged it, apart from one unlucky beast, when they saw the slipper being swung towards them.  The rest of the night Alex took vigil to ensure our decency remained intact, and we were not sullied by the naughty little pests.  Every hour or so the violent twitching of a man determined to remain untouched by the filth of the roach, followed by the click click of the torch alerted me to the fact that my man was protecting us, if not letting me get any sleep while doing so.  (There is also the story of a thoughtful rat that left me the present of a little poo on my pillow, but I feel these incidents could become numerous over the next year to recount every one.  Hopefully Alex’s responses will become more accepting in nature as we continue our travels – the diary of neuroses is getting very full!)

But I have digressed.  Panjim; what a stunning city.  It is the capital of Goa and has been since the mid-19^th century.  As I mentioned earlier the Portuguese character is absorbed into many of the buildings.  You see the beauty of the city flaking in its once startlingly coloured paint, now fading, peeling from the walls of the old buildings, contrasted with the freshness of the new houses, faithful to the old style of architecture.  The houses themselves are vibrant, even those in their age, crumbling into the narrow streets that weave through the town, reminiscent of a medieval Europe.  There are tall arched windows set into flat, smooth walls, and on the upper floors verandas with wrought iron, or stone balustrades stretch along the buildings.  Along the broken roads that snake lazily around the houses, there are vivacious greens from the weeds breaking up the tarmac, and even in the abandoned looking houses, mould blackened from the humidity, nature enlivens the exterior with beautiful greens and the occasional flower.  Bright, bright white churches, placed here and there around the lanes and roads seem to defy the process of time happening around them, standing as beacons around the fading glory of the city.

It appears to be quite a small, but wealthy city; we have spent a couple of days wandering around it now and have yet to stumble on any extremity of poverty, that is not to say there isn’t any, but it seems to be either better hidden, or at a lower level than other places I have been to.  We have found some incredibly opulent areas though, with great colonial style mansions, many faceted buildings standing strongly atop hills looking proudly across the town below.

We like it here; the environment is unthreatening and friendly, at night it is well lit, Diwali lanterns flutter gently in the warm night breezes and many coloured fairy lights adorn the houses.  During the day, as long as one stays amongst the back streets, it is atmospheric and the history seeps into to your pores, clogging you with nostalgias for times gone by (the main roads are busy and really noisy with the cheap car engines and endless horns).  I think I could stay here for a long time, it feels familiar and inviting; but we are moving onto another beach shortly to meet with friends coming for a two week holiday from England, not before we go and explore Old Goa though.  It is said to have rivalled Lisbon for culture in the 17^th century.  I can’t wait…..

OLD GOA

Well it turns out I could have waited.  All that is left of Old Goa is a few large cathedrals that were built in the 17^th century, each one a grander version of the preceding one.  It looks like the Portuguese had a cathedral off.  There was none of the atmosphere and feeling that oozes out of Panjim, apart from one small section of road.  There you could see the faded grandeur of what once existed; and if that one section of road was anything to go by it would have looked truly awesome.  However, despite its lack of vibe, it has been designated a world heritage site and there were tourists aplenty suffering the brutal midday sun to go and look at statuette after statuette of crudely executed, sad looking Saint Francis of Assisi. 

By the amount of times I was asked to be photographed I don’t think the Indians were that impressed by the pride of Indian Catholicism either.  I think I was the most photographed ‘attraction’, second only to a dead saint lying in a box that apparently never decomposed despite being dead for the past 5 centuries.  I am not sure what that says about me or the Indians.  I have resigned myself to this draw of fascination, and have started charging people 5 rupees to have their photo taken with me.  They find this a little bemusing, but I do insist they part with their change if they want to pose with me.I then pass on the 5 rupees to the next beggar I come across that asks me for money.  And this is not just young men who approach me, women, children and families all ask as well.  There are those that don’t ask too, some even go to the great lengths of orchestration in order to make it look like they are being photographed with me.  For example, and this happened a couple of times, people would pose just ahead of where I was going to be walking, their friends ready to take aim, and as I passed they got their shot.  Everywhere I looked I saw eyes quickly averted and cameras flashing.  It was amusing enough today, but I am not sure how patient I am going to be if this is a regular occurrence over the next year.

As for Alex, he’s pretty happy, he’s found Jesus.