Ok, let's get this out of the way first. When my Mum was studying psychology a few years ago, she decided that my Dad had an anal fixation because he was constantly talking about his arse (not out of it, although that may or may not also be true) and the things that emerged from it (happy belated fathers' day, Dad!). The content of this blog so far and Alice's general experience of our relationship will attest that this runs in the family.
On the way to Goa, I got the shits again. In the middle of the night. On the train.
In fact, from now on even if I've not explicitly mentioned it, just assume that I have one kind of stomach upset or another and that'll just save us both some time.
Anyway, Goa...
When I left you, I was on the night train to Goa. We pulled into Madgaon station at 10am. In a fit of joint stupidity we had previously booked a hotel near to the station, based on the misconception that we were arriving at 10 at night.
This is how we found ourselves at Furtado's Beach House, Colva beach, only a few kilometres from Margao. It was essentially a large seating area around a large bar, with a few cottages on the side. When we arrived, they disavowed all knowledge of our booking we'd made through Hotels.com. Their Internet connection was down for hours and even when it did come up for a few precious minutes, I could only find a UK number for them. It would have cost me almost as much as the room rate to call them and sort everything out - plus I had certain urgent toiletry needs - so I paid again for the room and collapsed gratefully onto a bed.
Alice foraged for food that night, bringing back banana pancakes. I've shamelessly stolen some photos that she took of Colva.
Colva Beach was pretty deserted, as was the next beach down, and Furtados' kitchen was closed with only a couple of places open to eat or drink. We stayed one night and decided to move further down the coast.
Although we intended to walk to the nearest town, based on some rather half-hearted directions from a barman, an enterprising taxi driver caught us sweating down a dirt road with our packs on and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. He took us to Margao bus terminal, from where we could catch a bus to Palolem.
Buses in India are an experience. Here is a picture of me in one that had snazzy seats. Yes, my face is both hilarious and unfortunate. Let's just move on shall we?
To make up for that, here's the better looking half of our duo as we left Colva.
A brief interlude while I talk about Indian bus travel...
Bus stations can be pretty chaotic, with pedestrians swarming around enormous buses that swing and reverse in a deadly ballet. Most buses have boards in their front windows displaying destinations. If you're lucky, these are in English but often they are only in Hindi or the local language.
A better way to find your bus is often to mill around in the concourse and to the listen bus drivers and conductors: you can pick them out from their brown uniform. These guys shout out destinations over and over again very quickly, like sellers in a market. Approach a group of them, badly pronounce the name of the place you want to go and look quizzical. This usually gets the desired result.
The drivers operate their vehicles with the kind of reckless surety of being behind the wheel of the largest thing on the road. The conductors collect fares from passengers. They also hang out of doors or windows when the bus comes to a stop, bellowing the destination of the bus at innocent bystanders. If you shout louder, you get more passengers.
Conductors also signal to the driver, by whistling or more shouting, when everyone's boarded and it's safe to move on. This usually involves pulling away precisely as the final boarder's foot leaves the road - not a second after. On some routes where the bus doors stay open, some people throw themselves onto the vehicle while it's still moving. I saw one chap in Bangalore trying to board our moving bus with a heavy bag in each hand, hurling them on and running along side the bus, scooping them up when they fell and lobbing them back through the doors again. Mental.
I really enjoyed that first bus ride in Goa, swinging around those roads that snaked through the greenery. As opposed to a rickshaw, you get a much better view when seated higher up in a bus.
Palolem was a marked improvement. It's a long, curved beach on the western coast of India. The southern end rises up into a hill and the small mound of an island lies just off the the northern end, making the beach feel secluded, if not quiet. Although we arrived right at the end of the season , before the start of the monsoon, Palolem was quite busy.
All the beach huts right on the beach had been demolished for the year but there were still plenty of semi-permanent cottages and huts left just a little removed from the sand. There where also a fair number of bars and resteraunts dotted along the beach. We spent most of our time in Palolem in a place called Gunu Paradise. Our room had a porch with a hammock. Awesome.
On the second or third night, we walked up to the end of the beach and forded a river flowing out into the ocean. I went first and fell into a hole halfway across, going from shin-deep to navel-deep in one step. This amused Alice greatly.
We climbed up and over, around the edge of the bay. Some other travellers had the same idea and we all sat, perched on various rocks, to watch the sun set over the adjacent stretch of coast.
The rest of our stay was spent swimming, eating and reading by the beach. I got some serious hammock time in. On our last night, the monsoon came bursting into our room through the roof. The next morning, the sea had claimed the entire beach.
On the way to Goa, I got the shits again. In the middle of the night. On the train.
In fact, from now on even if I've not explicitly mentioned it, just assume that I have one kind of stomach upset or another and that'll just save us both some time.
Anyway, Goa...
When I left you, I was on the night train to Goa. We pulled into Madgaon station at 10am. In a fit of joint stupidity we had previously booked a hotel near to the station, based on the misconception that we were arriving at 10 at night.
This is how we found ourselves at Furtado's Beach House, Colva beach, only a few kilometres from Margao. It was essentially a large seating area around a large bar, with a few cottages on the side. When we arrived, they disavowed all knowledge of our booking we'd made through Hotels.com. Their Internet connection was down for hours and even when it did come up for a few precious minutes, I could only find a UK number for them. It would have cost me almost as much as the room rate to call them and sort everything out - plus I had certain urgent toiletry needs - so I paid again for the room and collapsed gratefully onto a bed.
Alice foraged for food that night, bringing back banana pancakes. I've shamelessly stolen some photos that she took of Colva.
Colva Beach was pretty deserted, as was the next beach down, and Furtados' kitchen was closed with only a couple of places open to eat or drink. We stayed one night and decided to move further down the coast.
Although we intended to walk to the nearest town, based on some rather half-hearted directions from a barman, an enterprising taxi driver caught us sweating down a dirt road with our packs on and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. He took us to Margao bus terminal, from where we could catch a bus to Palolem.
Buses in India are an experience. Here is a picture of me in one that had snazzy seats. Yes, my face is both hilarious and unfortunate. Let's just move on shall we?
To make up for that, here's the better looking half of our duo as we left Colva.
A brief interlude while I talk about Indian bus travel...
Bus stations can be pretty chaotic, with pedestrians swarming around enormous buses that swing and reverse in a deadly ballet. Most buses have boards in their front windows displaying destinations. If you're lucky, these are in English but often they are only in Hindi or the local language.
A better way to find your bus is often to mill around in the concourse and to the listen bus drivers and conductors: you can pick them out from their brown uniform. These guys shout out destinations over and over again very quickly, like sellers in a market. Approach a group of them, badly pronounce the name of the place you want to go and look quizzical. This usually gets the desired result.
The drivers operate their vehicles with the kind of reckless surety of being behind the wheel of the largest thing on the road. The conductors collect fares from passengers. They also hang out of doors or windows when the bus comes to a stop, bellowing the destination of the bus at innocent bystanders. If you shout louder, you get more passengers.
Conductors also signal to the driver, by whistling or more shouting, when everyone's boarded and it's safe to move on. This usually involves pulling away precisely as the final boarder's foot leaves the road - not a second after. On some routes where the bus doors stay open, some people throw themselves onto the vehicle while it's still moving. I saw one chap in Bangalore trying to board our moving bus with a heavy bag in each hand, hurling them on and running along side the bus, scooping them up when they fell and lobbing them back through the doors again. Mental.
I really enjoyed that first bus ride in Goa, swinging around those roads that snaked through the greenery. As opposed to a rickshaw, you get a much better view when seated higher up in a bus.
Palolem was a marked improvement. It's a long, curved beach on the western coast of India. The southern end rises up into a hill and the small mound of an island lies just off the the northern end, making the beach feel secluded, if not quiet. Although we arrived right at the end of the season , before the start of the monsoon, Palolem was quite busy.
All the beach huts right on the beach had been demolished for the year but there were still plenty of semi-permanent cottages and huts left just a little removed from the sand. There where also a fair number of bars and resteraunts dotted along the beach. We spent most of our time in Palolem in a place called Gunu Paradise. Our room had a porch with a hammock. Awesome.
On the second or third night, we walked up to the end of the beach and forded a river flowing out into the ocean. I went first and fell into a hole halfway across, going from shin-deep to navel-deep in one step. This amused Alice greatly.
We climbed up and over, around the edge of the bay. Some other travellers had the same idea and we all sat, perched on various rocks, to watch the sun set over the adjacent stretch of coast.
The rest of our stay was spent swimming, eating and reading by the beach. I got some serious hammock time in. On our last night, the monsoon came bursting into our room through the roof. The next morning, the sea had claimed the entire beach.
you didn't visit all the beaches in Goa, did you?
ReplyDeleteNah, we only made it to two of them. Lots close in the off-season, we were told.
ReplyDelete