At the moment, I’m elbow deep in the internet room of Anjuna Palms, my trusty bag of tech goodies in play to help me try and get a decent enough connection up and running to upload photos. I’m feeling frustrated and enraged and very much like a spoilt westerner.
Goa is very rural, beset like a lot of the country by frequent but short cuts in power and communications. Today is one of those days but we’ve been lucky and surprised up to now. Lucky as we were only out of touch so far in Hampi (and that was by choice, everyone can and will sell you a net connection there) and surprised as to just how connected India is.
With massively booming tech and biotech industries India is no backwater and we knew that. But beach huts, bars and hostels with wifi are a boon for me. I shouldn’t inflict the same venom I reserve for Virgin Media back home for whenever I can’t upload a photo because there IS a way to go here before their info revolution is properly revolving for all and everywhere.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately on what I’ve seen and how we’ve coped. We started sensibly and have worked our way up to acclimatisation; the last 7 years stuck in offices and studios had done nothing for our constitutions.
Weather
We’re witnessing the back-end of the monsoon here in Goa and it’s something else. Biblical proportion stair-rods for hours on end, making it a very humid place indeed.
When it’s hot and sunny you had better watch out, as I have to constantly for Lucy, who is an undercover ginger and burns easily. But missing a winter is something I’ve been longing for years through increasingly severe Seaonsal Affective symptoms. It’s not the cold of the UK more than the early darkness. We get a slightly better deal on that down here with the need for a lot of underwear removed into the bargain.
Hygiene
Because of the weather, this is a constant battle which requires a welcome routine. Don’t keep it clean or not dry it at the right time and you’re likely to become a walking pathology lab. We’re getting through clothes in bales still, after three weeks, but we’re also needing air con less and less and can walk further without being entered into wet T shirt contests against our will. I’m preparing a post on equipment and methods of survival on this and other lines.
Mosquitoes have been a problem for me but not Lucy. Until I started experimenting this week with mild chemical insecticidal treatments and garlic capsules, my legs and arms have been viciously attacked. I refuse to douse myself in DEET like many others; I do not trust it and we’re in bug country for a long time. I had been using the fabled Royal Marine favourite SkinSoSoft but I’ve found it too greasy and short-lived.
Gastric-wise I’ve been very lucky but my anti-malarial tablets are a broad-spectrum antibiotic and I can’t shake the thought that they’ve shielded me from worse than I’ve experienced today, which has been the first time I’ve had trouble. Lucy has had none either.
Indian keyhole toilets are a wonder. Experience at Glastonbury festival has braced me for the worst we’ve seen but the mechanics of it require new skills. Shorts positioning, water hoses, jugs, fear and entry-level yoga positions are all involved.
Routine, food & drink
This week we passed the line of being away from home longer than at any other time, home being the UK. This has found us bored and a little homesick for the first time too; most definitely, the time we pledged for just vegging has naturally passed and we’re now keen to head North, especially as Goa is still a few weeks from the peak season.
That said, our time has been spent in glorious laziness for the most part. I’m reading with a hunger and speed I haven’t felt for years. Food is magnified as both something routine to do and take huge amounts of pleasure in. Goan restaurants are generally excellent and I’ve sampled a very wide range of nosh with a slightly cavaliere approach. The fish and dahl dishes stand out.
The same establishments, as bars, have been good. Kingfisher is the staple beer and it goes down pretty well, if a little weakly. The Goan hooch Feni, a moonshine-like beverage made from coconuts or cashews, is pretty pokey though.
The country itself
I think I may fall in love with India but She’ll not court me, I don’t think. By this I mean it will be as easy as it will be hard and I like that. I can get easy in Cambridge, believe me.
What little of Her we’ve seen so far has not disappointed in any way and there’s a lot more out of her out there.
I know that this job of getting some shade of a grip on India socially and intellectually, if you like, will take longer than the 4 months we have but that will give us a greater feel for Her than a package holiday so I will hold most of my thoughts for a while as they will be informed, instructed and revised. For many tourists, this is obvious to me, the pitfalls are magnified larger than the more numerous joys.
What I’ll say for now is two-fold; firstly, litter and rubbish is such a problem here I can’t begin to do it justice if you haven’t seen it or similar for yourself. It really does spoil an epic country and for people who were clipped round the ear for the slighest littering offence when growing up, it really stings the eyes.
Secondly, the road infrastructure is pretty shocking. No it’s bloody shocking, I beg your pardon. Sorting India’s roads would demolish its carbon output and improve productivity so much that its rise on the world stage would probably mean all British kids a couple of generations down the line would speak Hindi as their second language.
The people
Indians are large of heart and big on smile, in the main. Now we’re dealing with the culture shock of our environment we’re talking with more and more, some often very keen to practise their English, especially with a couple of the Queen’s best, like us.
Holiday makers seem to need you on their camera cards, it’s hard to say no as they look very dejected when you do. We’ve stopped saying no.
Touts and hawkers are a bit rough on the earhole down here in Goa but if you look up, smile, say no thank you then you get a smile and a thank you back. The next time you pass it may turn into a conversation, a tip, a shared laugh.
I’m looking forward most to being so comfortable with myself here that Indians outside of the tourism circles come more naturally into our horizons.
Other travellers
Why am I getting slightly defensive on behalf of these guys? That’s due to other travellers.
What I’m about to say is the product of a lot of people-watching, increasing personal interactions and should in no way be applied stereotypically through your perspective and maybe your preconceptions too. I’ve seen and had some very positive encounters with all the nationalities below. (can you tell I’m shoring up for some flak from this?)
Americans – drop your grim gaze from the horizon from time to time and start by just acknowledging the Indian talking to you in the street, you’re in their yard for crying out loud. The end goal is laughter, it may take a while but it’s possible. They may try to sell you something, yes, but you are having the dollars isn’t it? Bit rude really and seen very often.
Israelis – if you ask for milk chai, don’t be surprised if you get a milky drink. If you order from the Indian part of the menu then expect it to be spicy, Indians like spicy food. Certainly don’t expect them to remember you from the countless other Israelis they’ve served of late nor your particular expectations of masala proportions. Taking every little deviation from your tastes and wants and subjecting the waiter to a diatribe like it was a personal infraction…also not good. Being a trustafarian cod psycho-spirtual nob-head? You can pack that in too please.
NZers and Brits, as you were chaps, you’re all doing sterling work.
We survived Mumbai.
As I expected, it’s hard to sum up the largest city I’ve ever visited. We stayed in Andheri, a large slum in the north that is currently experiencing incredible change. But that’s India all over by what I can see, read and what the few people we’ve had chance to speak to so far tell me.
The problem for us was that the area is far away from the main tourist traps and when I say far, I mean it. Fortunately, we only had three nights (two of those taken up by adjusting body clocks and getting rid of what felt like nitro-narcosis from the flight) and so didn’t feel we missed out on much because we simply didn’t have the time.
We were picked up at the airport and seamlessly taxied out to our hostel through traffic that has its own rules. If you don’t let go and abandon yourself to it immediately you’re just going to up end up as a scarf, wrapped around your driver’s head and screaming, which will get you killed. They know what they’re doing.
There is no right of way, lights mean nothing unless there’s a traffic cop and even that’s optional because they very often turn up on each other’s patches and start competing for domination, negating any directing effect either might have had.
The smell was the first thing that struck me (after the heat of course, which was fierce at 34C) – I thought it was dusty, smoggy and initially lemony but the citrus undertone was one end of a spectrum, the other being unadulterated sewerage.
We stayed about 2 kilometres from the airport, at a tiny hostel called the Anjali Inn, nestled down a side street between a wire extrusion shop and a grill bar. This was typical of the way space is used across much of the city; little units recycling bearings or cardboards right next to showrooms packed with HD 3D LCD TVs. If the means are available to them, Indians love their technology.
Our room was clean, if a little rickety, and we had satellite TV and intermittent, but fast, wireless net access. I was very glad to discover that the Radio 4 portion of the BBC iplayer was accessible and duly caught up on the latest episode of The Unbelievable Truth.
Our hosts were friendly, helpful and full of advice on what to do and at the cheapest prices.
The cost of most things we bought was comparable to the UK, except street stall food such as chai (sweet, milky and spicy tea that alleviated both of our raging caffeine-withdrawal headaches) and dosas (nommy little pancakes packed with things like cheese and veg, served on a steel tray with three types of sauces). We held out on diving into such stuff until we found a stall that was surrounded by Indians; heed this advice.
We ventured out on two major reccies. The first was on our first night to find a hotel for a beer. This was a major culture shock. Within 2 minutes we were picking our way down a major avenue through piles of rubbish, open sewers, prostrate dogs, browsing goats and subsiding pavements. A gent walked past us and shouted over the endless car horns – “welcome to India!” – and laughed his arse off.
After 10 minutes I had seen more rats than in my entire life, including stomping hard right on top of one by accident. By its yelp, I thought I’d broken its back but it kept on trucking.
We ate at one hotel restaurant, vegetable kebabs. Tasty as but the lesson was, the blander the veg the more fiery the spice. Approach cauliflower with asbestos gloves and silvered welding mask.
Later, we went on to another hotel that had a bar the like of which I wouldn’t get into if I were delivering napkins to it back in Blighty. Watched India woop up Australia in the first cricket test and chatted to some import/export guys who explained about the massive investment currently going on in Mumbai. The road we had just picked our way down is overshadowed by a vaulted superhighway being built along its middle. This is happening in a lot of places and I worry about the life down at ground level when these are finished. It’s bloody tough now for working classes/castes but when the money is flowing seamlessly 50 feet above them, what then? In 5 years, they said, it will be a different city. Of that there’s no doubt.
Our second sojourn was into the main city the next day. We took a terrifying taxi ride from Andheri to the Hanging Gardens, some 30 clicks away. I’m sure our driver Dinesh did it just for larks but I shall now never forget his traffic jam aversion skills. This amiable nutter saw a blockage, stopped and reversed the wrong way down a 3 lane dual carriageway. Soon after he nipped over the central reservation and drove 200m the wrong way down the other side, into traffic going at least 40mph. I was very glad then that no right of way exists.
The Hanging Gardens sit on a rock above the city, just up from Chowpatty beach. They’re pretty basic, plant-wise, but have shade and crows and dragonflies by the truckload. I do wonder about British dragonflies, which seem to keel over at the slightest environmental touch. The double-hard Mumbai versions thrive on the air which by now was strafing my throat and making my teeth taste funny. Couples (chaperoned and not) mingle here with bunches of students and families, lazing around and chatting in the shade. A tout came up to us and tried to ply postcards, which as soon as he found out we were British quickly turned into abridged versions of the Kama Sutra. Go here to escape the madness for sure.
We then ambled, via a nosh stall, through a park for kids on the other side of the road and down the hill to Chowpatty beach for sunset. This was good, seeing Mumbai families relaxed and eating sweetcorn, paddling in the sea (do not do this, we’re told – very toxic with city run-off) and harassing French travellers to speak to their kids in their native tongue.
From there we went down Marine Drive and witnessed a change. Elsewhere the people have the minimum of body fat but here it was mostly middle class and mostly portly people exercising with pedigree dogs, which as far as we could tell involves donning trainers and walking slightly faster than the average.
I saw a sleepy-looking street dog and set myself up for a point of view camera shot as he slumbered between his outstretched front paws. This enraged the beast and he chased me with the loudest, most primal sounds I’d ever heard a dog make, much to everyone’s amusement.
Marine Drive is long and well-lit along the sea front and leads into a massive commercial area with skyscrapers and the promise of a future India. We treated ourselves to pizza at a place recommended by Lonely Planet and decided, stupidly, to take a walk. This is where it got a bit scary. We got totally lost within 5 minutes.
It got hotter by the step and darker by the turn. In the end we were starting to panic, realising how far we were from home. Flagging down taxi drivers firstly resulted in vile looks and refusal or demands of 1000 rupees (c.£14) to take us back. Not much you might think, but seeing as we got there for 450 Rs, it was taking the piss. In the end we got a driver to agree to take us to the airport for 450 then got a motorised tuktuk from there back to the hostel for 30 Rs. We got back a bit shaken but we’d won and quite cheaply.
The next night we were gladly off, our friend Ed’s advice not to stay in Mumbai ringing in our ears because we were tired, hot and soaked with sweat. The smell of the Mumbai slums sticks to you too.
Our mate Dinesh picked us up at 3:30am the next morning to get the reserved express train to Anjuna in Goa, our next stop and from where I gladly write to you now. Driving through Mumbai in the dead of night was an experience – the place does kind of sleep between 1am and 4am, with only massive trucks dropping off industrial quantities of marigolds and coriander as the main activity.
We had an air-conditioned carriage that bore our names (and everyone else’s) on a piece of paper on its side. The chai and tomato soup flowed all day, with breakfast and lunch too. Spoilt children fought over their parent’s laptops and we devoured books, slept and got annoyed, in the end, by all of this and the 2 hour delay.
We’re now in an edgy paradise, staying in a friendly Goan family’s complex of guesthouses with AC, good wifi and a more nature than you can chuck citronella at. I’ve spotted 3 types of ant and spider so far with butterflies as big as your hand, as standard.
Life, so far, is good.
