Our overnight trip to Cochin is hideous, to say the very least; literally crawling with bugs. And the prying eyes of Indian men, who stare at us all night. Lovely.
By the time we get to Cochin, we are kanckered and crabby, and resolve to do absolutely nothing, apart from watch dreadfully bad films. "Son of the Mask," anyone? (I know, who knew The Mask had a sequel?!)
When we do finally venture out, we discover that Cochin is actually a rather nice city. It's divided in to 2 parts; the more modern Ernakulum, and the older Fort Cochi. We are staying right by the boat jetty in Ernalkulum, but luckily our budget can just about stretch to the Rs 2.5 (2 p) ferry fee to get to Fort Cochi. Phewf.
Over on Fort Cochi, we wander around taking in the sights; the beautiful St Francis Xavier Chruch (and also burial place of the Vasco da Gama) the old spice markets and the Chinese Fishing Nets, which land catch throughout the day and sell fish and seafood to (mostly) tourists, who then take what they buy to nearby hotels, who are only too happy to cook the catch. It's a cool idea, though the seafood looks a bit limp, smells like hell and is covered in flies. Going vegetarian, for sure.
We discover that Cochin is one of the only places in Kerala where you can see traditional Keralan dance/theatre performances called Kathakali on a daily basis, so we find a performance to go to one night. Apparently it takes about 10 years to learn Kathakali, which is essentially a silent story told through the medium of dance, eye movements and hand movements. The costumes are incredible and really elaborate - men with thick (almost grotesque) facial makeup, heavy dresses with a wide skirt and lots of jangly jewellery. Unfortunately, our first experience of Kathakali is a bit disappointing. The venue is more-or-less a shed on the outskirts of Ernakulum, and there are 8 other people there to watch the one-man-show (which means escape without drawing attention to ourselves is impossible!). The actor also seems to be really bored throughout the entire performance too, and lacks energy. Throughout the whole thing, me and Lisa can't help exchanging confused looks, and mouthing "I don't get it" to each other. So when it comes to signing the visitors book, we both agree that "good makeup" is a diplomatic and fair assessment of the show.
The next day, due to a petrol-price hike there is a national strike in India, so most businesses and shops are closed. Much to delight though, we find a branch of Cafe Coffee Day - the Indian Starbucks - and head in for cake and coffee. Whilst there, we get chatting to 2 Indian guys called Paul and Joe. And this sparks of the strangest chain of events that can only be described as "classic Charlotte and Lisa."
First of all, they take us to a fake bookshop, where I can get copies of pretty much any book, at mega-cheap Indian prices. So i stock up, glad to have not been totally ripped off. From there, they invite us to Sunday mass at St Francis Xavier Church. As you do. Not usually how I get my kicks, but when in India....
The church is packed out, and as we take our seats, I can't help but feel like a total fraud. I'm not very good at religion, and I'm sure the priest will be able so sniff out my sins (of which there are many) a mile away. But we stick it out (the whole 2 hours of it!), whilst hymns are sung to the tune of Pet Shops Boys classics including "Go West" and a variety of old Elvis songs. Strange but true.
After the church-date Paul and Joe (who is has become apparent are mega-rich) take us to the Cochin Yacht Club for drinks. I look grungy and probably smell like feet, so not exactly the desired yacht club clientele, but on the promise of vodka I'm persuaded. We lounge around there for a couple of hours idly chewing the fat, before Paul and Joe invite us to Dreamz (yes, with a z...so pretentious that I am cringing thinking about it), a very exclusive nightclub in the city usually frequented by Bollywood stars. So, dressed in beachy clothes and flip-flops, the four of hit up Dreamz. Me and Lisa needn't have worried about looking out of place though, because (fashion-wise, at least) India is stuck in a time warp. Flares and inappropriately tight shirts are the order of the day. Sexy.
When Dreamz (still cringing) shuts at the very-late till of 12.30, we go back to Joe's house for some drinks (NB neither me nor Lisa had any say in this). What began the day as 2 nice guys helping some gals buy books has now turned in to a bit of a creep fest, and both Paul and Joe are pushing their luck (Paul: "Lisa, can I put my arm around you?" Lisa: "No. Don't touch me.") So we demand that they return us home, which thankfully they do. Though typically our hotel is now all-locked up, and in our drunken loudness, I think we manage to wake up half of Cochin trying to get in.
I warned you...classic Charlotte and Lisa!
Sunday, 25 December 2011
Monday, 19 December 2011
Mysore: Snake Charmers, Bribes and "Madam, I fuck you?"
We leave the comfort and solitude of Gokarna beach behind and head on the bus to Mysore, a city in southern Karnataka. Bus first, then an overnight train....
The bus journey takes us through fairly rural India, and every time we stop people smile, wave or stare at us. One woman even sends food over to us from another bus (which we accept, of course!) By the time we arrive in Hubli to catch our train, we think the attention can't really get any worse. But it does. And I am asked for my 'autograph' at the station. My first thought, obviously, is "whit?" Swiftly followed by "oh-god-am-i-in-a-porno...?" Hopefully the answer to the latter is no; like most people we meet in India, the autograph-seeker is just curious and wants to talk to us.
After a bit more pestering we catch our train and arrive in Mysore fresh and chirpy early the next morning (the last bit is a lie).
We find some cheapo accommodation in the city centre, and after a nap, head out to start exploring. First stop is the Maharajas Palace. Whilst expensive enter (if you're foreign, that is. One price for Indians, another for everyone else), it's a beautiful building architecturally, and decorated with such beautiful and elaborate designs inside. Naturally I want to take some pictures but as soon as I do the nasty wee guard appears and, this being India, I have to pay him an Rs 50 fine. Grudgingly I do, but I feel humiliated by the experience, not least because a crowd of around 20 people has stopped to watch (privacy is a thing of the past, relegated to memory. everything we do, from buying tea to tying a shoelace attracts an audience!).
Although I'm annoyed by having to pay baksheesh, corruption is endemic in India, from grassroots level right up to the very top. This is something that we witness more of later in our travels.
So, disgruntled by Mysore, we do the Western thing and go for a Dominos pizza and then to the cinema. The film itself is fairly shit, and all in Hindi, so mostly we have not-a-clue what's going on. But there is one blonde-haired western woman in it, who is essentially portrayed as a slut who sleeps around (rough dialogue - Man: "You want it?" Woman: "Ok") Both of us are pretty incensed by this to say the least, and wonder if, for some Indians, this is the only reality that they have of Westerners? It seems all too ironic when we leave the cinema and a man on a scooter kerb-crawls next to us, puts on his best sex-pervert voice and says, "Madam, I fuck you?"
Both of us are too stunned to retort, and cannot quite believe what he's said to us. But when it happens again (several times), we make sure that they know the only people they can fuck are themselves. With sharp objects.
So our experience of Mysore has been fairly disappointing; the produce market is so filled with meat (most of it rotting) that Lisa can't stop heaving. The streets are filthy and rain only makes it worse. It smells of pee. It's noisy; noisier than most cities we've been to so far. And there is only minimal evidence of the incense and sandalwood production that is so famous there. Perhaps the only redeeming feature is the snake-charmer that we see as we are leaving. It's a stereotypical image of India that's ingrained in my mind, and I'm finally happy to experience it for real. Albeit from a safe distance....
The bus journey takes us through fairly rural India, and every time we stop people smile, wave or stare at us. One woman even sends food over to us from another bus (which we accept, of course!) By the time we arrive in Hubli to catch our train, we think the attention can't really get any worse. But it does. And I am asked for my 'autograph' at the station. My first thought, obviously, is "whit?" Swiftly followed by "oh-god-am-i-in-a-porno...?" Hopefully the answer to the latter is no; like most people we meet in India, the autograph-seeker is just curious and wants to talk to us.
After a bit more pestering we catch our train and arrive in Mysore fresh and chirpy early the next morning (the last bit is a lie).
We find some cheapo accommodation in the city centre, and after a nap, head out to start exploring. First stop is the Maharajas Palace. Whilst expensive enter (if you're foreign, that is. One price for Indians, another for everyone else), it's a beautiful building architecturally, and decorated with such beautiful and elaborate designs inside. Naturally I want to take some pictures but as soon as I do the nasty wee guard appears and, this being India, I have to pay him an Rs 50 fine. Grudgingly I do, but I feel humiliated by the experience, not least because a crowd of around 20 people has stopped to watch (privacy is a thing of the past, relegated to memory. everything we do, from buying tea to tying a shoelace attracts an audience!).
Although I'm annoyed by having to pay baksheesh, corruption is endemic in India, from grassroots level right up to the very top. This is something that we witness more of later in our travels.
So, disgruntled by Mysore, we do the Western thing and go for a Dominos pizza and then to the cinema. The film itself is fairly shit, and all in Hindi, so mostly we have not-a-clue what's going on. But there is one blonde-haired western woman in it, who is essentially portrayed as a slut who sleeps around (rough dialogue - Man: "You want it?" Woman: "Ok") Both of us are pretty incensed by this to say the least, and wonder if, for some Indians, this is the only reality that they have of Westerners? It seems all too ironic when we leave the cinema and a man on a scooter kerb-crawls next to us, puts on his best sex-pervert voice and says, "Madam, I fuck you?"
Both of us are too stunned to retort, and cannot quite believe what he's said to us. But when it happens again (several times), we make sure that they know the only people they can fuck are themselves. With sharp objects.
So our experience of Mysore has been fairly disappointing; the produce market is so filled with meat (most of it rotting) that Lisa can't stop heaving. The streets are filthy and rain only makes it worse. It smells of pee. It's noisy; noisier than most cities we've been to so far. And there is only minimal evidence of the incense and sandalwood production that is so famous there. Perhaps the only redeeming feature is the snake-charmer that we see as we are leaving. It's a stereotypical image of India that's ingrained in my mind, and I'm finally happy to experience it for real. Albeit from a safe distance....
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Gokarna: The Worst Hotel in History, an Ant Infestation and Stranded Overnight on the Beach...
Our train from Palolem to Gokarna, although short, is a struggle. It's jam-packed and there are people spilling out from every seat, with people sneakily taking pictures of us (looking burnt and hideous, I might add!) Though, by now, this is just standard India.
Although Gokarna is 'beachy', it's a bit off the tourist trail and considered to be a very spiritual and sacred place in India. We arrive early evening and share a rickshaw form the station to Gokarna town with Marlise and Gaya, a Dutch mother-and-daughter who are living in Goa, but taking their Diwali holidays in Gokarna. We arrive in the town and fins the first 'decent' looking hotel possible. Which turns out to be the biggest rat-pit going. (I swear the concentration camp I visited earlier this year looked more comfortable...) Nonetheless we take the room, and suffer a very uncomfortable night sans fan. We leave quick-sharp in the morning and take a rickshaw to Kudlee beach, near the town, where we check in to a yoga lodge for a few nights (though I can assure you that no actual yoga took place during our stay there... Far too many dreadlocked neo pseudo hippies milling about for us to even attempt it right now...)
The yoga lodge is set in a tropical forest on a clifftop above the beach, and takes about 10 minutes to walk down to the sand, along a very rocky and very dark path. The practicalities of this do not strike us until later in our stay though, when we are having dinner at a restaurant right on the beach. We sit for hours, chatting, eating and reading, and as we are about to leave around 11 pm, we realise that the tide has come in. Right to the steps leading to the restaurant. And it's high; too high to walk in, especially as it's pitch black and the beach is deserted. Problem...
We decide to wait it out for an hour or so, and sit with a couple of Israeli guys who are staying in the accommodation next door. When they offer us a bed at theirs for the night (to spare us certain death-by-drowning), for some utterly inexplicable reason, we politely decline. Why, I have no idea. They are Hot Israeli Babes for one, and have a fuckload of ganga for two. (NB, 'Fuckload'; the technical term of copious amounts of cannabis. Equivalent of 2-3 ounces, at least).
Stubbornly, we decide that cos-we're-scottish-and-therefore-fucking-hardocre, we can make it back.
This turns out to be a hugely naive decision, and half way along the beach, we realise that we are definitely not going to make it back the hotel. The sensible thing to do is to admit defeat and turn back. Only we can't. The sea has surrounded us in such as way that we are now essentially stranded on a sandbar, on a beach in India, in the middle of the night. A little bit stoned.
Well, c'est la vie! Luckily, it's a beautiful night, and after my crabbitness subsides, the shooting stars that pierce the black sky, the lightning storms on the horizon and the lazy fireflies that drift past us more than make up for the waiting game we're playing.
About 4am, we do our best Bear Grylls impressions and brave the hike home. Success! And hopefully, lesson learned. Must not be so thick in future...
We manage an epic sleep, and all seems to be going just swimmingly again until we come back from the beach one night to discover a mass infestation of ants, mostly in and around Lisa's bag. They are swarming everywhere, and it takes a fair effort to get rid of them. Ok, so I know they're not exactly poisonous or particularly harmful. But they're a pain in the ass! Sadly though, this is just the start of many ant nightmares in India.
Bag cleared of creepy-crawlies, we pack up our lives again and get ready to go to Mysore in Southern Karnataka. It's city-time again, though only because it's fairly impossible to enjoy the beach with such bad sunburn....
Although Gokarna is 'beachy', it's a bit off the tourist trail and considered to be a very spiritual and sacred place in India. We arrive early evening and share a rickshaw form the station to Gokarna town with Marlise and Gaya, a Dutch mother-and-daughter who are living in Goa, but taking their Diwali holidays in Gokarna. We arrive in the town and fins the first 'decent' looking hotel possible. Which turns out to be the biggest rat-pit going. (I swear the concentration camp I visited earlier this year looked more comfortable...) Nonetheless we take the room, and suffer a very uncomfortable night sans fan. We leave quick-sharp in the morning and take a rickshaw to Kudlee beach, near the town, where we check in to a yoga lodge for a few nights (though I can assure you that no actual yoga took place during our stay there... Far too many dreadlocked neo pseudo hippies milling about for us to even attempt it right now...)
The yoga lodge is set in a tropical forest on a clifftop above the beach, and takes about 10 minutes to walk down to the sand, along a very rocky and very dark path. The practicalities of this do not strike us until later in our stay though, when we are having dinner at a restaurant right on the beach. We sit for hours, chatting, eating and reading, and as we are about to leave around 11 pm, we realise that the tide has come in. Right to the steps leading to the restaurant. And it's high; too high to walk in, especially as it's pitch black and the beach is deserted. Problem...
We decide to wait it out for an hour or so, and sit with a couple of Israeli guys who are staying in the accommodation next door. When they offer us a bed at theirs for the night (to spare us certain death-by-drowning), for some utterly inexplicable reason, we politely decline. Why, I have no idea. They are Hot Israeli Babes for one, and have a fuckload of ganga for two. (NB, 'Fuckload'; the technical term of copious amounts of cannabis. Equivalent of 2-3 ounces, at least).
Stubbornly, we decide that cos-we're-scottish-and-therefore-fucking-hardocre, we can make it back.
This turns out to be a hugely naive decision, and half way along the beach, we realise that we are definitely not going to make it back the hotel. The sensible thing to do is to admit defeat and turn back. Only we can't. The sea has surrounded us in such as way that we are now essentially stranded on a sandbar, on a beach in India, in the middle of the night. A little bit stoned.
Well, c'est la vie! Luckily, it's a beautiful night, and after my crabbitness subsides, the shooting stars that pierce the black sky, the lightning storms on the horizon and the lazy fireflies that drift past us more than make up for the waiting game we're playing.
About 4am, we do our best Bear Grylls impressions and brave the hike home. Success! And hopefully, lesson learned. Must not be so thick in future...
We manage an epic sleep, and all seems to be going just swimmingly again until we come back from the beach one night to discover a mass infestation of ants, mostly in and around Lisa's bag. They are swarming everywhere, and it takes a fair effort to get rid of them. Ok, so I know they're not exactly poisonous or particularly harmful. But they're a pain in the ass! Sadly though, this is just the start of many ant nightmares in India.
Bag cleared of creepy-crawlies, we pack up our lives again and get ready to go to Mysore in Southern Karnataka. It's city-time again, though only because it's fairly impossible to enjoy the beach with such bad sunburn....
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Palolem: Ayurvedic medicine, Diwali and some very nasty sunburn....
So, it doesn't take us long to find accommodation in Palolem - as expected, there are oodles of people just waiting to take us to verrrry verry nice hotels madams, with running waters and fans in rooms. Imagine - running water! The luxury of it all!
We ditch our bags and head down to the beach for a paddle in the water and some food in a beach bar. As standard, the sunset here is beautiful, and we intersperse our evening watching that and ridiculing men on the beach who are wearing far-too-tight speedos. Sadly, this sight is all too common in India, and I fear my eyes may never be the same again.
Most of our time in Palolem is spent lazing on the beach, reading and (big surprise) wandering around the markets. We're barely there a day and I'm beginning to suffer from some pretty sore stomach cramps (oh the indignity of it all!). The pharmacy that I've brought with me doesn't seem to be helping either, so I decide to scrap Western medicine and go Ayurvedic. This means asking a little man (have you noticed that all my descriptions of Indian men start with "this little man"....? I digress...) on the street if he can fix me up with some herbal remedy. He mixes up a concoction of powders from unmarked tubs (they could be anything) and tells me to add the mix to hot water and drink 3 times a day. Duly noted, and I do so for the next few days. And to my delight, I genuinely do feel better.
Slightly disheartened by our respective lack of tans, me and Lisa decide to dedicate a full day to lying on the beach, trying to get some colour. But of course, the path of a golden tan never runs smoothly, and by nightfall, the extent of just how burnt we have gotten is revealed. Both of us are red-raw. Deep fried. Cremated. Not only is it hideous (we look as though we are wearing white knickers), but it is truly excrutiating. We can't sleep/shower/move without great difficulty, and I feel like an old woman hobbling about. But of the course, the worst thing about being this burnt is the fact that it is like a wearing a massive ID card, proclaiming "LOOK! WE'RE FROM THE UK!" The "Brit's Abroad" look is shameful, but we try to accessorise it as best we can. With alcohol, obviously. (Specifically, a couple of Wet Pussy's at a beach bar, watching incredible lightning storms over the ocean).
Whilst we're in Palolem, the Indian festival of Diwali is taking place. It's a pretty big deal here, and for the weeks in advance kids are out constructing paper mache demons, setting off firecrackers and decorating the streets with candles and tealights. It looks beautiful, but turns out to be fairly uneventful (for us at least) as we lie tending to our burns....
Lesson learned, and after a few night in Palolem, we're finally done with Goa. Next stop Gokarna, in Karnataka!
We ditch our bags and head down to the beach for a paddle in the water and some food in a beach bar. As standard, the sunset here is beautiful, and we intersperse our evening watching that and ridiculing men on the beach who are wearing far-too-tight speedos. Sadly, this sight is all too common in India, and I fear my eyes may never be the same again.
Most of our time in Palolem is spent lazing on the beach, reading and (big surprise) wandering around the markets. We're barely there a day and I'm beginning to suffer from some pretty sore stomach cramps (oh the indignity of it all!). The pharmacy that I've brought with me doesn't seem to be helping either, so I decide to scrap Western medicine and go Ayurvedic. This means asking a little man (have you noticed that all my descriptions of Indian men start with "this little man"....? I digress...) on the street if he can fix me up with some herbal remedy. He mixes up a concoction of powders from unmarked tubs (they could be anything) and tells me to add the mix to hot water and drink 3 times a day. Duly noted, and I do so for the next few days. And to my delight, I genuinely do feel better.
Slightly disheartened by our respective lack of tans, me and Lisa decide to dedicate a full day to lying on the beach, trying to get some colour. But of course, the path of a golden tan never runs smoothly, and by nightfall, the extent of just how burnt we have gotten is revealed. Both of us are red-raw. Deep fried. Cremated. Not only is it hideous (we look as though we are wearing white knickers), but it is truly excrutiating. We can't sleep/shower/move without great difficulty, and I feel like an old woman hobbling about. But of the course, the worst thing about being this burnt is the fact that it is like a wearing a massive ID card, proclaiming "LOOK! WE'RE FROM THE UK!" The "Brit's Abroad" look is shameful, but we try to accessorise it as best we can. With alcohol, obviously. (Specifically, a couple of Wet Pussy's at a beach bar, watching incredible lightning storms over the ocean).
Whilst we're in Palolem, the Indian festival of Diwali is taking place. It's a pretty big deal here, and for the weeks in advance kids are out constructing paper mache demons, setting off firecrackers and decorating the streets with candles and tealights. It looks beautiful, but turns out to be fairly uneventful (for us at least) as we lie tending to our burns....
Lesson learned, and after a few night in Palolem, we're finally done with Goa. Next stop Gokarna, in Karnataka!
Thursday, 8 December 2011
A Bumpy Ride, Palm Reading and a Slightly Gropey Massage...
Our last few days in North Goa are typically blissful, and spent lazing around the beach, zooming around the coast on our scooters, buying sackfuls of tourist tat and sitting around in beach bars watching sun-sets. It's a tough old life! So tough, in fact, that we decide to treat ourselves to Ayurvedic massages at a little clinic (aka shack) behind where we are staying. It's only Rs600 (about 7 quid) for a 1 hour full back massage, so really it would be rude not to...
We stride in and are taken in to separate rooms - Lisa gets a proper massage bed with a female masseuse, whereas I am stuck with a sheet laid out on the floor and a small suspicious looking Indian man. Nonetheless, I strip down to my knickers and lie on the sheet (oh the glamour!) whilst my masseur sets about working all the knots out of my back. Just as I am beginning to relax and actually quite enjoy it, my knickers are pulled half-way down and my bottom and inner thighs kneaded to within an in of their lives. My mind is racing. Is this normal? Is Lisa getting the same treatment? Why is he continuing to punch my ass? I swear people have less contact during sex.
When our time is up, we stagger out of the 'clincic' and can barely look at each other for laughing. Turns out, the groping wasn't just for me; Lisa has been equally violated. Not an entirely unpleasant massage though. Just a tad unexpected!
So the time has come to move on to South Goa, and a beautiful beach we've heard about called Palolem. We have to catch a few different buses to get there - out first Indian bus experience. And what an experiecne it is! Just when you think that they cannot possibly fit another soul on the bus they manage to squeeze and pack a few more on, and I'm pretty sure the drivers are half-drunk most of the time (or at least their crazy driving and complete disregard for road rules/safety/other traffic would suggest so). The buises here make for pretty uncomfortable journeys too - rather like sitting on a pneumatic drill for a few hours.
Our last bus trip is actually rather interesting though - for me at least. I wind up sitting next to a friendly little Indian man called Albert, who just-so-happens top be a palm reader. What are the chances! So over the course of the 2 hour journey, he studies my hands and makes some very precise and interesting predictions and readings. I won't bore you with the details (of which there are a lot!), but I am completely taken aback with some of what he has to say. As well as being pretty accurate in terms of my personality etc, according to him I've got a happy future ahead. Phewf.
I've also taken some time during our various bus adventures to try and consolidate a few thoughts on India so far....
* It is a lot dirtier and smellier than I imagined it would be. There's barely a bin in sight, so people tend to just throw rubbish wherever. And a lack of public toilets and sanitation means that there is an overriding stench of urine in most places. Men stopping for a piss in the middle of the street are ten-a-penny.
* My clothes are spattered with a small red dots that look like blood. Thankfully not blood, but paan, a red digestif that is chewed here by pretty much everyone, then spit out on the pavements. Have been caught in crossfre a few times.
* Seems that Indian men are perpetual masturbators. Seriously - everywhere we turn there's someone with their hands down their trousers having a right good fiddle.
* There are powercuts almost every day. And they enrage me.
* There are cows everywhere, and even traffic waits for them.
* If we have to answer question about jobs/salaries/husbands/boyfriends etc any more, we're probably going to scream...
Anyways... the time we arrive in Palolem, it's late afternoon, so we head off to find somewhere to stay. The search begins...
We stride in and are taken in to separate rooms - Lisa gets a proper massage bed with a female masseuse, whereas I am stuck with a sheet laid out on the floor and a small suspicious looking Indian man. Nonetheless, I strip down to my knickers and lie on the sheet (oh the glamour!) whilst my masseur sets about working all the knots out of my back. Just as I am beginning to relax and actually quite enjoy it, my knickers are pulled half-way down and my bottom and inner thighs kneaded to within an in of their lives. My mind is racing. Is this normal? Is Lisa getting the same treatment? Why is he continuing to punch my ass? I swear people have less contact during sex.
When our time is up, we stagger out of the 'clincic' and can barely look at each other for laughing. Turns out, the groping wasn't just for me; Lisa has been equally violated. Not an entirely unpleasant massage though. Just a tad unexpected!
So the time has come to move on to South Goa, and a beautiful beach we've heard about called Palolem. We have to catch a few different buses to get there - out first Indian bus experience. And what an experiecne it is! Just when you think that they cannot possibly fit another soul on the bus they manage to squeeze and pack a few more on, and I'm pretty sure the drivers are half-drunk most of the time (or at least their crazy driving and complete disregard for road rules/safety/other traffic would suggest so). The buises here make for pretty uncomfortable journeys too - rather like sitting on a pneumatic drill for a few hours.
Our last bus trip is actually rather interesting though - for me at least. I wind up sitting next to a friendly little Indian man called Albert, who just-so-happens top be a palm reader. What are the chances! So over the course of the 2 hour journey, he studies my hands and makes some very precise and interesting predictions and readings. I won't bore you with the details (of which there are a lot!), but I am completely taken aback with some of what he has to say. As well as being pretty accurate in terms of my personality etc, according to him I've got a happy future ahead. Phewf.
I've also taken some time during our various bus adventures to try and consolidate a few thoughts on India so far....
* It is a lot dirtier and smellier than I imagined it would be. There's barely a bin in sight, so people tend to just throw rubbish wherever. And a lack of public toilets and sanitation means that there is an overriding stench of urine in most places. Men stopping for a piss in the middle of the street are ten-a-penny.
* My clothes are spattered with a small red dots that look like blood. Thankfully not blood, but paan, a red digestif that is chewed here by pretty much everyone, then spit out on the pavements. Have been caught in crossfre a few times.
* Seems that Indian men are perpetual masturbators. Seriously - everywhere we turn there's someone with their hands down their trousers having a right good fiddle.
* There are powercuts almost every day. And they enrage me.
* There are cows everywhere, and even traffic waits for them.
* If we have to answer question about jobs/salaries/husbands/boyfriends etc any more, we're probably going to scream...
Anyways... the time we arrive in Palolem, it's late afternoon, so we head off to find somewhere to stay. The search begins...
Saturday, 3 December 2011
Goa: Scooters, the Sadness of Indian women and the Bloated Corpse of a Cow
After a sweaty early morning trek, me and Lisa arrive at the Sea Horse beach bar and check ourselves in to one of the bamboo huts they have there. Right by the ocean and free from creepy crawlies (mostly). Perfect! We ditch our bags and head for an early morning paddle (bliss!) then settle beach-side for some breakfast. We've barely started eating though, when a small boy, no more than 2 or 3, comes over to our table and dances to the beat of a drum being played by this mother (who is also carrying a new born baby), then literally climbs through a tiny metal hoop. Afterwards, his mother sends him round all the tables to collect money. Easily the saddest thing I've seen in a long time, but simply a way of life here. Something we quickly discover is the immense sadness of the lives of a lot of Indian women. At the flea-market, for example, we speak to one stall holder called Gita, who is only 24. Married at 15 (an arranged marriage) she is now 8 months pregnant with her 2nd child, and out working ridiculously long days in the blistering heat. When asked where her husband was, she just laughed and said that he lies at home all day watching cricket on the TV. In her next life, she hopes to be reincarnated as a western woman, because of all the freedoms that we enjoy. Another girl (Anita, aged 12) wishes that she could go to school, but instead she has to sell bangles and beads on the beach. School, she says, is preferential for boys. She has no choice but to work. Despite their circumstances though, none of the women or girls that we meet are particularly downtrodden or downbeat. They are resilient, strong and hopeful of something better for their own children. As cliched as it may sounds, I have never appreciated my freedom so much.
And deciding that we need to make the most of our freedom, me and Lisa rent out scooters, at the cost of about 2 pounds per day. Goa is the perfect place to explore on a scooter; OK, so the traffic is still typically Indian (ie mental), but the roads and long and wide and the scooters easy to use. We drive all over the Goa, exploring all the other beaches - Baga, Calangute, Arambol and even a lovely deserted beach on the far north called Keri, where we stop and sunbathe in total isolation. So far so stunning, until the bloated and absolutely rancid-smelling corpse of a dead cow washes up on the shore. Of course, Lisa whips her camera out, so I's sure pictures will follow. Needless to say, we don't stick around there long, both of us wretching and heaving as we zoom off on our scooters.
We decide to keep the scooters for the duration of our stay in Goa - they're too much fun and far too cheap not too. Back in Anjuna we decide to end our day with a few beers on the beach, and end up drinking with a couple of Swiss guys (more Swiss! Nice but dull...). They invite us to a Goa trance party at the far end of the beach. And oh-dear-god is is horrific. I can hardly find the words to describe how terrible the music was, how many fuckwits were there and how overpriced the whole thing was. I can't think of a single person I know that would enjoy it.
So we make our excuses and leave (the music isn't the only problem....the Swiss political and economic chat doesn't exactly enthrall either of us!), ready for bed and more exploring. We only have a couple more days in North Goa, and definitely do not want to waste them sleeping....
And deciding that we need to make the most of our freedom, me and Lisa rent out scooters, at the cost of about 2 pounds per day. Goa is the perfect place to explore on a scooter; OK, so the traffic is still typically Indian (ie mental), but the roads and long and wide and the scooters easy to use. We drive all over the Goa, exploring all the other beaches - Baga, Calangute, Arambol and even a lovely deserted beach on the far north called Keri, where we stop and sunbathe in total isolation. So far so stunning, until the bloated and absolutely rancid-smelling corpse of a dead cow washes up on the shore. Of course, Lisa whips her camera out, so I's sure pictures will follow. Needless to say, we don't stick around there long, both of us wretching and heaving as we zoom off on our scooters.
We decide to keep the scooters for the duration of our stay in Goa - they're too much fun and far too cheap not too. Back in Anjuna we decide to end our day with a few beers on the beach, and end up drinking with a couple of Swiss guys (more Swiss! Nice but dull...). They invite us to a Goa trance party at the far end of the beach. And oh-dear-god is is horrific. I can hardly find the words to describe how terrible the music was, how many fuckwits were there and how overpriced the whole thing was. I can't think of a single person I know that would enjoy it.
So we make our excuses and leave (the music isn't the only problem....the Swiss political and economic chat doesn't exactly enthrall either of us!), ready for bed and more exploring. We only have a couple more days in North Goa, and definitely do not want to waste them sleeping....
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