Feb 17th One becomes three

We fly in early morning and Paul is already here with a Taxi to take us to our Hotel, The Pajim Inn, our base for the next three days, for breakfast. The Pajim Inn is a typical old colonial style hotel in the centre of Pagini or Panaji on the creek side, and Paul has procured for us a ground floor two roomed suite, dominated by a heavily and ornately carved six feet square bed. There is a covered verandah on the side, which opens onto the ensuite shower room, air conditioning and two large overhead fans. Paul has negotiated a special deal, with a day rate somewhat the same as he usually pays for a week. I find it well worth the price.

Paul has also agreed a day rate with the taxi driver used from the airport. Our first trip is to Old Goa, a few miles further east on the creek side. This is our first experience of road travel in India. Sharing the front seat with the taxi driver was quite enlightening. What to our mind is a two lane highway, can accommodate four or more lines of traffic. Vehicles travel down the middle, move to the left when opposing ones approach, pedestrians walk down either side, mopeds and the occasional cow fill any other spaces. There can be three lines of traffic in either direction. One proceeding normally and two others over taking wherever the approaching traffic permits. This is accomplished with ample use of the horn, but not aggressively, just a musical cacophony of toots.

This is a surprisingly efficient use of road space. The traffic flow rarely stops. Intersections and the more populated sections are protected by rumble strips, that is three to five steeply graded speed limiting bumps. These reduce speed to a crawl, except for the mopeds which nip round the edges, which enables the traffic to sort itself out, and it all seems to work out okay.

Old Goa was the main town and capital for the Portuguese, from the 15th century. This Christian, Catholic community built many large and impressive churches, and the area is now a World heritage Site. The larger and older church of Saint Augustine was abandoned by the Portuguese in 1835, the main vault collapsing some seven years later, and much of the remainder in the 1930’s. The site is still being renovated, some of the larger stones are displayed in their appropriate locations and the many hundred of tonnes of rubble are being painstakingly cleared in typical Indian style by a small army, I counted over fifty on the perimeter but estimate a hundred, of bright Sari clad women each with a soft rope coil on their heads to support a circular dish loaded with about 20kg. They transport the rubble in convoy style, each for about 30 or 50 metres, then transfer it to the next in line, to a site several hundred yards away. The younger ones could carry a fair distance. The older ones only a metre or two, but they are positioned on the spoil heap and their work is up hill.

Later we visit and have lunch at the spice gardens, a more commercial run venture, but enjoyable all the same. Specimens of the various spice trees and plants were scattered over a short woodland walk and we were asked to guess which spice each tree would produce. We were more often than not surprised.

A hot spicy drink before the tour, and a lagoon side lunch of spicy dishes, washed down with inevitable Kingfisher beer, put us all in a convivial mood for the planked walk over the lagoon and back to the cars. An optional cooling shower on board an elephant which was trained to dunk it’s rider, though enjoyable to watch as a pretty Indian girl was drenched to her skin, was hardly fair for the elephant. This would have been banned as animal cruelty back home, and quite rightly too.

Mid afternoon we return to the Inn, following a thirty minute stop to buy railway tickets for Hampi later in the week, for a shower and a siesta to adjust our body clocks till the sun sinks lower in the sky. An early evening stroll to the creek side ships, then back to the Hotel for a refreshing drink and evening meal on the terrace whilst Paul negotiates the sale of his Royal Enfield bike below. We had finished eating before Paul rejoins us, the sale concluded if the cash arrives in the morning

Feb 18th taxi bikers

In the morning we take the ferry to the bird Sanctuary on the other side of the creek. The price of a guide and boat increased dramatically from our initial estimate once we were there, but with another couple to share the cost, we went ahead. and the six of us boarded the hollowed out tree trunk boat. We were too late into the day to see many birds feeding, but there was a kingfisher or two and a few others on the mud flats. We are still acclimatizing to the heat and the sun, a light lunch, a shower and a siesta beckoned back in our room.

Paul, his bike unsold, has decided to ride it to the Anjuna flea market to display it there. We follow later in an Auto-rickshaw, commonly known as a Tuk-Tuk, slowing almost to zero on the apex of the yellow town bridge with a little chapel on top. where our driver crosses himself and toots his horn. It is quite a long way, and our driver has to stop en-route for fuel. 100 rupees bought 2.4 litres of petrol to which he adds the 2-stroke oil. He yanks the starting handle, the engine fires on his third attempt, and we continue on our way towards Anjuna beach. There are rumble strips at every intersection and we stall on one with the Tuk-tuk rolling backwards and lodging between the humps. Two or three yanks of the starting lever, the engine sputters back into life but we stall again, eventually proceeding after another attempt.

As we approach the market, the traffic intensifies, dominated by mopeds and motorbikes, the lithe, bronzed thighs of their female riders pass within inches of your face and distract you from the view. We eventually get within sight of the market site so we abandon the tuk-tuk and continue on foot, jumping over the verge side dykes onto the safety of the parking field. Paul has texted us as to his location, we find him further along the road, and we continue to look round some of the stalls.

There is a riot of colour. Row after row of stalls on either side, with racks of clothing up to four rails high. Another section has gold and jewellery displayed on carpets laid out on the bare earth, a further area sells spices and teas.

Paul has not sold his bike, so we hire another. Then with Barbara riding pillion with Paul and myself with the taxi-bike, we ride to Anjuna beach to watch the sun go down, an evening meal there and then another taxi-bike back to our Hotel.

Feb 19th Beach

In the morning, a taxi bike ride to the beach. The first we tried, Dona Paula, was deserted, the second was more like a five star hotel, the third was more our scene, palm tree lined with a little shanti-cafe, some loungers and sunshades on a gentle sandy shore. Later, after a light lunch and a couple of beers there, we returned for showers and siesta,. An evening meal in Panaji and an early night to be ready for the next day.

Feb 20th Hampi
N15.33609, E76.46036 Rocky Guest house

Our train journey starts from Magao at 8 a.m, but our taxi driver wanted us up at 6.

The station platform was quiet on arrival, but soon filled up with seething mass of colour and spectacle. Traders hawked their wares, beggars pleaded, food and drink trolleys trundled along.

The train arrived, and we found our carriage and reserved seats easily. Each compartment has six seats with two bunks over on one side, and two seats with one bunk over on the other. A Danish couple and a young Russian couple were already there, seated in our numbered seats, closer examination of our reservations revealed that we had been sold tickets for the one month ahead. The Danish couple say “ But Hey – never mind, plonk your cases down with ours, sit yourselves down and we’ll sort out any problems as and when they arise.”

So we settle in, the train sets off and we are on our seven hour way to Hospet. The ticket inspector arraives, insists we pay again, but can claim a refund at our destination ticket office, and we could keep our seats until the next station.

It transpired that the seven of us were all going to Hampi; the Danish couple who were on a 4 month tour, would then be continuing on, the Russian couple on an overnight visit and return. However, and as we discovered ourselves later, they could not buy return tickets from Hampi. This is the sleeper train all the way to Calcutta, a journey that takes several days, and is invariably full on the return. So they have booked tickets on the overnight sleeper bus, a twelve hour road journey at 700 rupees each, twice the price of the train! We commiserated with them, until, as we found out later, we would have to do the same.

The train steamed on through the Indian countryside, soon entering a tropical forest of mountain peaks and waterfalls. It dived in and out of tunnels, twisting along on the steep hill sides so that you could often see the carriages behind appear to be travelling in the opposite direction, but never once did we see then end of the train. There was little sign of human habitation till suddenly a shack or to and a few men on the line side. They were small and wiry, dressed only in that rough Indian cloth which is wrapped once round then between the legs and tucked in round the waist. Were they Pygmies?

We plunge back into the forests, emerging into farmed land, small plots levelled on the sloping land, solitary figures working them by hand. The fields become larger and rectangular, oxen drawn ploughs are used, small stacks of maize straw surround the farmsteads. The suddenly we are on black fertile and irrigated fen land, with crops of sugar cane and rice. then roads and lorries and sidings and we are there, at our station at Hospet, where we disembark.

We hire a Tuk-tuk from an affable English speaking guy for Hampi, about 12km away. The rickshaws here are more basic, they have no doors or speedos, but they travel just the same and this one is fuelled by gas, the cylinder just behind our backs.

We arrive in Hampi, through the partly opened entrance gates and down the earth surfaced stall lined thoroughfare to the centre of the town. The tuk-tuk threads its way through the tightly packed dwellings to a potential guest house. Paul and Barbara get out to check one out, the tuk.tuk, suitcases and I take a route round the backs, a maze of passageways left and right till we see Paul waving from a guest house in front. This one had a bigger room with space for a third bed, and an ensuite shower with hot water! Which is exactly as stated, namely a cold shower, but with a hot tap nearby which dribbles scalding hot water into the shower flow.

Our Tuk-tuk driver offers to take us to see the setting sun from Malyavantha Hill, and the Raghunatha temple on the top so we arrange to meet him about six-o-clock.

The world heritage site of Hampi is surprising and fascinating archaeological find, a cluster of Volcanic rock with huge boulders packed precariously over an area of several square miles. Our tuk-tuc struggles up the steeply sided hill and we settle down on the huge smooth stones to watch the setting sun. This is a ritualistic event for Mediators and Yoga enthusiasts; the sheer scale of it all becomes evident as the sun sinks below the craggy horizon

We return to the bazaar lined central thoroughfare and arrange to meet the next day.

We have an excellent evening meal at the Shanti restaurant, recommended by others; a passing cow looks in. We search for our guest house in the tangled complex of dwellings, but we have to ask the way, then experience the deluxe shower facility and collapse into the mozzie netted bed.

Feb 21st Hampi temples

The next day we have a guided tour of the many temples on this World Heritage site, Paul and the guide on a motor bike, Barbara, I and our suitcases following by Tuk-tuk. Later, our tour completed with a river trip in a grass boat, and our young enthusiastic Tuc-tuk driver runs out of gas so we transfer to another, the second tuk-tuk driver pushing the dead one all the way back to Hospet (12 km) with his foot. On approaching the many rumble strips, he gives an extra push to bounce the dead one over, and to negotiate the oncoming traffic with repeated toots of the horn.

We are back in Hospet in plenty of time for the overnight sleeper bus. It is mid afternoon, siesta time, we sit on a stone on the shady sight of the street opposite the bus stop and wait. Various children, a mother with baby in arms and others beg at our feet, but we ignore them and they drift off.

Then we are approached by a cripple. He has stumps where his feet should be and swings himself along on these and one deformed arm, his body inches from the ground. What a sorry sight but how can we help him? We have no food to offer, we have just shared our last orange, and if we succumb and give him money all those other beggars will return, clamouring for some too.

An air conditioned luxury coach arrives at the stop. This doesn’t look too bad, so we cross the street to get on. But this one isn’t ours. So we recross to the shade and wait again.

Eventually the next bus arrives. An open-windowed model of indeterminate age and of Indian manufacture. A front panel is missing, there is a roof rack on top, alongside we can see through the ill-fitting panels to the prop shaft, the rear door to the boot is broken and has to be lifted by two people and then propped up. We place our cases in the cavernous hole, though others decline, and get on board.

The bus has two tiers of beds, doubles on one side, singles on the other. It transpires that there are seven more passengers than bed spaces. So, first come, first served and we three share one lower double bed. Paul and I share the pillow end, Barbara takes the tail.

Eventually, all are settled and by 7 p.m. we are moving. We sit up initially – there is just sufficient headroom for us to do so, and with the sliding windows fully open, we peer outside. But the opposing traffic passes perilously close, so we prudently decide not to. There is no illumination on the lower deck, reading is impossible without a torch. We are soon into the unlit countryside. There is little else to do.

After one hour, we stop for food at a transport cafe. We order some curries, nan bread and a bag of chips. The curry arrives, looks greasy and over cooked, so we leave most of it. The chips arrive on a page of newspaper, so we take them back on board and wash them down with water and a bottle of Sprite.

We set off again. There are no dual carriageways on this route, just unlit two laned roads. A rumble strip, consisting of four or five steeply pitched speed bumps, precedes every crossing and every settlement. The lack of air suspension is evident.

Indian lorries travel at night and have to negotiate these rumble strips carefully, so long queues soon build up. I counted over 100 lories in line as we approached a larger town. Our bus overtakes at every opportunity, often forcing approaching traffic off the edge of the road. But the opposing lorries do not give way and we become stranded in the middle and watch the lorries which we have just overtaken, undertake us on the inside.

We settle down, Barbara using my ankles as a pillow. I lay on my back, bracing my feet against the bulk head to absorb the heavy braking when an overtaking opportunity has to be suddenly curtailed. We drift off to sleep.

Around midnight, there is a toilet stop. It is unlit countryside, a few bushes and a roadside dyke. The lorries which we have struggled to overtake are now overtaking us. The driver’s mate flashes round with his torch, and, satisfied with the number, we set off.

Paul and Barbara swap ends. Maybe the transport cafe curry was not such a good idea, but at least I haven’t eaten much of it. I decide to sit up for a bit, but just as we mount a rumble strip and I bang my head on the metal struts of the bunk above. At least that takes my mind off my stomach, we settle down, and the bus lurches on.

We drift off into intermittent sleep, sometime later there is another toilet stop, and then we all sleep soundly after that.

The bus stops, the torch is flashed round. And we wake up, don our sandals and stumble outside. Dawn is arising, but we are not yet at Panaji, so we get back inside, Paul moves into one of the just vacated bunks, and we journey on.

We arrive safely a little after seven-o-clock, surprisingly refreshed as we had slept soundly later on. We have been on the coach for over thirteen hours.

It has been an unique experience, but we are in no hurry to sample it again.

Feb 21st Goa again
N15.49546, E73.83151 Panjim Inn Hotel

We arrive back at the Pajini Inn for breakfast whilst our room is prepared. This time we have an even larger suite, with four poster bed. We shower, and change, and send our outer garments for laundry as we are covered in dust.

We visit an excellent museum on the local architecture, have an excellent lunch at the Zest restaurant back in town, book and later sail for the sunset river cruise.

Feb 23rd relaxing

We visit the town market in the morning, spend the late afternoon on the beach and after sunset, return to the Inn for one last dinner and an early bed. Tomorrow is an early start for the Airport, and the journey home.

Paul has looked after us brilliantly. We are fortunate to have such good sons.

We wish Paul all the best for his continuing venture, and for Abi and him to enjoy the delights of Malaysia in a few weeks time.