“Hello my friend. Please come take a seat here.”

“Yes sir, I am sure you will be interested in my wares.”

“Mama you are so pretty and your skin is white white. Please try on this bracelet.”

“Hey Lady, look at me!”

These are just some of the many phrases thrown our way every day as we walk from beach to market place.
A short shake of the head or a quick “no” usually turns attention elsewhere, unless you are beset by teenagers, or children who incessantly follow you down the road or hassle you at your table.

Some sample prices for everyday goods we have encountered so far:

1 litre of mineral water – rs 20
Bag of crisps – rs 20
300ml bottle of Pepsi – rs 25
Cup of tea – rs 40
650ml strong beer – rs 100
Light shirt – rs 100
Freshly caught fish, two steaks – rs 350
Curry and rice in a tourist area – rs 180
Curry and rice elsewhere – rs 80
Night’s accommodation – rs 400 – 2800

Current rates have 100 rupees to the pound.

On Sunday morning we left the Nanutel hotel in Margao, for Arambol, by way of auto-rickshaw. The journey was 65km in total and the locals seemed reluctant to go that far. Indeed, upon reaching the rickshaw stand we had trouble convincing the two drivers sat around that it would be a good idea to take us to Panjim; another ‘city’ half way to Arambol. They both argued with each other as to who was to take the fare before the evident loser threw up his hands and invited us into his vehicle. Confusion as to why neither was particularly interested in the journey made way for clarity a few miles later as the rickshaw began to climb a hill with a steep gradient. Dropping quickly through the gears, we resulted in climbing the hill at about 5mph with a queue of traffic forming behind us, overtaking whenever possible, horns blaring as is customary in India.

The journey to Panjim was actually very pleasant as we had chance to see the countryside pass by at a leisurely pace. The rickshaw could only manage about 35mph as a top speed, so we got to observe the locals at the roadside going about their business.

Arriving in Panjim, we stopped for a drink then found another rickshaw stand where we discovered that not all auto-rickshaws are born equal. The next cab was much more powerful and steamed ahead at about 45mph, barely slowing for the hills in way of our destination. As we rounded one hill, we gained a view of the Goan coastline, laid out below us with small villages dotted just a few miles apart, glittering on the shore.

Pulling to a halt at the entrance to the Arambol beach, Khan, the rickshaw driver, turned to us and announced that he could go no further. We got out and paid our fare, then marched off down the beach with our backpacks. Our hotel (the Lotus Sutra) is based right on the beach itself with no access from the road. Checking in, we dropped our bags and walked the short distance back to the road where we found a bar called the Loekie Cafe, The establishment prepared food as well and we ordered some curry as an open-mike night started on the stage. Renditions of old classics, played out on acoustic guitars and harmonicas, filled the evening as the relaxed pace of this seaside village began to work its magic on me and I began to wind down after the long journey.

Arambol itself if full of hippies from all corners of the globe. There were large groups of Israelis, some Germans, French, Spanish and American as well as the odd Brit. The village is full of stalls selling all the lifestyle accoutrements for the counter-culture, and trance music plays out from the various cafes on the beach. Life is pretty idyllic here and we would like to pause for a while before moving south along the coast.

This morning, we decided to find some alternative accommodation closer to the main road. Luckily for us we did, as we managed to find a nice room at half the rate of our existing one! It’s certainly taking a while to get used to the correct cost of things, as they seem to vary wildly from place to place, but we are starting to get the hang of it.

We have been told about a waterfall further up the beach so we are just about to head up there with the camera, to hunt it down and get some shots.

Today has been a revelation for me. For the first time since arriving in India I have felt able to relax and have started to enjoy my surroundings.

The day began early with our complimentary breakfast being served up on the roof of the hotel. As we devoured our cereals and fruit we listened to first the roar of the wind and then the drumming of the rain on the plastic roofing as the clouds swept in from the south. This was our first real taste of the monsoon as we had only experienced light, short showers in Mumbai.

Once the rain cleared up we ventured down into the town centre and took a stroll about the markets. Piles of spices and rows of fruits were displayed alongside towering racks of clothing and rows of sparkling jewellery. One vender; a young girl, took us around her family’s various stalls showing us their wares. I found out that her family make all the jewellery being sold, most of it being very well crafted. Apparently her Grandmother was the matriarch of the family and in charge of all the designs.

Progressing on we found a small restaurant called ‘The Penguin’. We approached the manager who was sat at the door and asked if we should seat ourselves. The jolly man replied in a loud voice “Of course you can, it’s all yours”. Inside they sold a wide selection of local foods which all looked like fine treats. Nicole had a rice and mushroom masala and I had a pav bhaji which was a potato curry with bread I also took some samosas on the side. Both were excellent meals and I am keen to return to dry the dosa (which is a large pancake that extends past the width of the plate) and the bhel puri (which is a puffy doughball which looks a bit like a Yorkshire pudding).

After the meal we decided to return to the hotel for a rest when the heavens opened and the rain poured down in sheets. Up above us we could hear the power lines arcing between themselves with metallic twangs and cracks. We arrived at our hotel lobby dripping wet, Nicole announcing our arrival with screams which caused quite the stir amongst the doormen.

Retreating to the hotel room, we watched the storm out of the window for a while, until, all of a sudden we were plunged into darkness along with the rest of Margao. After a while the lights would come back up only to disappear as quickly. We had heard about India’s rolling blackouts but until now had not experienced them. The lack of light did nothing to stem the flow of traffic outside of the window, some just merely turned on their hazard lights and continued forth adding even more confusion to the ever present chaos on the roads.

Yesterday we woke early in order to check out of our hotel and arrive at the train station in good time for our 11:40am train out of Mumbai. We were headed to Margao in Goa and by this point I was desperate to leave Mumbai. The close mugginess, the constant noise and the permeating smell which defines the city had taken its toll and I began to feel anxious about having to spend any more time there. In fact the idea of spending my days lounging on a beach in the coastal community further South seemed like just the medicine I needed to remedy my mental agitation, so as the alarms we set sounded in the morning we bounced out of bed and settled up our tab. The manager of our hotel called us an auto-rickshaw (which is essentially a motorcycle with a carriage built around it) to come pick us up. These vehicles run much more cheaply than standard cabs and our journey of 2.4km to Lokmanyatilak Terminus cost us a mere 39 rupees (effectively 39 pence). We tipped the driver the remainder of our 50 rupee note and ascended to the platform where our train was already waiting over an hour before departure.

Our transport for the day, the Netravati Express was a monster of a train which stretched as far as the eye could see down the curved platform. We found our carriage about halfway up and located our names on the passenger manifest which had been pasted to the outside of the door of the carriage. As we had reserved a ticket and were travelling in 2nd class air conditioned our carriage was locked; presumably to keep out any chancers, so we headed into the terminus to find some refreshments.

On our way we met two girls, Karla and Hannah, both travelling to Goa, originally from Germany. They had like us spent the last few days in Mumbai and like us were looking forward to heading south. Finally the train doors opened and we boarded the train. Our carriage was made up of small blue berths approximately 6 foot long. The layout was such that our berths faced out into the corridor which meant we had a constant stream of hawkers from the platform, staff and passengers moving back and forth in front of us. The hawkers were largely alright to deal with, taking the hint and leaving us alone with the exception of a small group of teenaged lads who once realising that we had no intention of buying their soap stood about trying to convince me to buy them cigarettes. It took me having to hold the door open and telling them in a loud voice to leave for them to finally get the picture and they moved on to harass someone else.

Looking out of our windows I saw that they were double glazed, dirty and included an odd film which gave everything that you could see a yellow caste. Despite my quibbles; as the train pulled away I relaxed into my berth and let out a sigh of relief that I could see mirrored in Nicole’s face.

With Mumbai fading into the distance we studied the countryside which moved by at a slow but steady pace. The train (which could only have averaged about 40 miles an hour during this stretch) ploughed along past a lively landscape with fecund fields and small grass covered hillocks that stood out from the meadows below. Occasionally farmers would be seen holding water buffalo in rivers and dotted along this magical scenery stood small temples no larger than garden sheds though much prettier being sculpted into bulbous cones painted in vivid shades of yellow and blue. There were few roads covering this landscape and you could occasionally see little dirt bikes setup next to small homes which must have been the main method of getting about.

The journey was due to take twelve hours point to point and so after a while of soaking in the scenery we settled in for the long haul and I went off in search of the toilet. There were two located at the end of our carriage, one an Indian style squat loo which I didn’t feel quite ready to attempt yet and opposite a fairly standard western toilet. Upon finishing up I looked about to see how the tap operated. With no valves near the tap itself I traced the pipe back along the inside wall to the top of the toilet cistern where a large button said ‘PUSH’. Feeling vindicated in this action I pressed the large button which produced a worrying gurgling sound followed almost immediately by a horizontal jet of water which sped out of a small rupture in the pipe and splashed all up my leg soaking my shorts. Cursing loudly, I fell out of the small room into the end of the carriage where the docile attendant woke from his slumber. Looking me up and down he broke into a grin, and gave me one of India’s finest head-wobbles (more on these later). Feeling defeated by this simplest of actions, I retreated to my bunk and a few hours sleep.

Dinner was served some point later and we had chapattis with chicken in a sort of gravy. It was fairly filling and revealed an underlying hunger I hadn’t felt whilst in Mumbai. Finally after many hours, we arrived at Margao about an hour later than scheduled; stepping off the train into fresh and invigorating air. As it was about 1am at this point, we took a cool-cab over to our hotel at an extortionate 150 rupee rate.

The hotel Nanutel was a shock to walk into. Well attired boys welcomed us into the plush lobby. Marbled floor reflected our steps as we found our way up to our room on the fifth floor with the inside a sight to behold; being in stark contrast to the basic utilitarian design of our Mumbai hotel. The first thing I did was to have a long soak and rid myself of the smells of the big city before passing out on the fresh white linen provided.

All Indian money features Gandhi with a cheeky grin. It also gets longer as the denomination increases and dirtier as it decreases!

It is also Ghandi’s birthday today. This means that most shops are closed and restaurants do not serve alcohol as it is considered a public holiday of sorts.

I awoke this morning to the chronic blaring of horns which are slowly becoming a steady out-of-focus backdrop to this weird city.

I rose from my slumber and went in search of the manager to find out why we have no hot water coming out of our taps. It was explained to me that to generate hot water I must first switch on one of many unlabelled switches on the wall in the bedroom quite outside of the bathroom. This would in turn begin a slow heat of the water. We wanted to get out as soon as possible to explore Mumbai centre so decided on two cold showers then headed out for the sights.

Before we left we planned out our journey. We would walk a couple of hundred yards to the local Metro station Chembur East. From there we would purchase two first class tickets and head South into the city. We would alight at the famous Victoria Station now renamed Mumbai Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus in honour of a celebrated Emperor. Finally we would walk to the Gateway of India – a huge archway right on the harbour front. On paper this journey looks quite easy. The distances seem manageable and the trains offered a first class ticket which we assumed would offer an element of comfort.

Arriving at Chembur East we stood on the platform for a while waiting for the first train to come in and studying the make-up of the crowd. One end of the platform was full of typical locals, dressed smartly enough but often without shoes. The other end had more business men stood with polished shoes and pressed trousers. As we approached the end of the platform we found ourselves surrounded by ladies and realised we must be where the ladies only carriage draws to a halt. ‘Too late’ we realised. We were too far up the platform as the train arrived and the crowds surged towards the inbound carriages. As the train drew to a halt men threw themselves at the small entrances, pushing themselves ahead of others. The train lingered at the platform for a short breath before pulling away with many men hanging to the edges of the doors wobbling back and forth as they tried to keep balance. Those who were not forceful enough fell back to the platform looking defeated.

This show left Nicole and myself standing there aghast. How were we orderly folk supposed to compete with this barbarity? As luck would have it I spotted that the carriages we had seen this disorder at were all marked as second class. As the train built up speed the first class carriage passed and much to my relief I saw that the doors had only a smattering of people present and looking out. Filled with a renewed confidence we progressed back down the platform to where we estimated that the first class carriage must stop and awaited the next train. A few minutes later we were aboard without incident and seated on cushioned benches as we pulled out of the station.

Our journey South took us past towering gas containers and large tower blocks in what seemed like a commercial district, then without any transition we were passing the slums and a sickly smell came flooding into our carriages. Children and women in various states of undress sat at the train tracks washing clothing in small muddy streamlets which came down from the elevated highways up above the tracks. Vast amounts of rubbish had built up banks with multicoloured striations above and beyond what must have been at the edge of the rail tracks before. Beyond this barrier stood the shanty building piled high atop each other looking like a matchstick creation. One small gust and you could see it all toppling down. None the less the people there had forged an obvious community with a row of small shops present and in front of these stood braziers manned and serving up food, the faint smell of spices mixed in with the overpowering corrupt scent. Soon we had passed out of the slums and the rail track mixed in with the tracks serving the outbound railway. Suddenly vast trains with sleeper carriages swept into sight running in tandem alongside us for a short while. Within minutes we pulled into the terminus and our rail journey was at an end.

Victoria Terminus was built in 1887 to commemorate the Queen’s Golden Jubilee and is a stunning piece of architecture. Partially Gothic in design with Indian trappings thrown into the mix it dominates the local area. We spent a good while just stood about taking it all in and finally made our way outside of the grand ticket hall into the bright daylight.

Our walk south took us past several buildings of note. The Reserve bank of India and the Royal Mint were both heavily guarded by humourless men in military uniform. Their suspicious eyes viewed us from behind the fortification that their mounted machine gun posts afforded them and any attempt to raise a camera to any of these buildings was met with a sharp shout and a frantic waving of arms. Clearly these were not people to be trifled with so we moved swiftly on. We then passed the Police Headquarters and then the Port Authority. The same rules seemed to apply to these buildings too, although we were met with less threatening body language.

As an aside; roads in Mumbai are hugely challenging to cross. They have designated crossing points much like a zebra crossing, but with a lit up countdown spelling out the seconds to the next green man. You would think that this indicates a safe point to cross the road but in reality it just reduces the flow of traffic by about a third! Consider it safe to say that you end up viewing any crossing with mortal suspicion and haste not seen in Britain’s towns and cities. Pavements on the other hand, whilst offering some respite from the traffic, continually surprise you with loose stones, missing drain covers and puddles of unidentifiable gunk which are best avoided at all costs. Therefore movement through the most affluent of Mumbai’s streets is rather comical to the fly on the wall with many a hop, skip and a jump required to traverse safely.

We arrived at the Gateway of India which is arguably Mumbai’s most famous structure. Built during the British Raj to commemorate the landing of King George at the jetty it is situated on, it was thereafter used as a welcoming point for any other governors or dignitaries to be accepted onto Indian soil. This large archway stood with a beautiful backdrop of blue water and small sail boats. We stood and appreciated the view till our attention was bought back to the horde of Indian tourists who all wanted their photos taken with us. Once we realised that they were not after our money as usual, we relented and let them form up next to us as their companions snapped photo after photo. Perhaps they mistook us for the famous, perhaps the conspicuous lack of other white folk inspired this odd behaviour but whatever the reason we soon grew bored and retreated to some stone steps where we could take a seat and set-up the tripod for some long exposures. I have on my person an Infra-Red filter for my lens and was keen to try it out on some of the more rare sights we would be seeing. Despite my keen attention on the task at hand we were still continually bothered by Indians who kept crossing in front of the current shot. One Indian lad was insistent that I had dirt in my left ear and made it his personal mission in life to try to remove it for me. A I fought him away Nicole pointed out that he was trying to remove my ball-earring which is placed on my scapha. Bemused and tired we packed up and began the haphazard walk back to the terminus.

Dusk had settled in  and the many birds which hunted for scraps on the streets were gone, replaced by large web-winged bats that circled high above. These creatures looked huge as they flew from high rooftop to rooftop so I feared their appearance at a more personal distance. The image was stunning though and one I will never forget. As we approached the terminus the sight of them circling the high spires was almost clichéd and deserving of prominent place in a horror movie.

Hoping for a swift and painless journey back; as tiredness had really set in with vengeance, I was sorely disappointed to find that our first class carriage was almost full with standing room only. To my shock and horror my definition of full was rapidly contested as we reached station after station and yet more people crammed themselves on to the small carriage with none seemingly alighting. After a while, the look on our faces became a topic of conversation amongst the homeward bound Indians and a few with better English skills began to ask us questions as to where we were from and which station we were headed to. Falling into guarded conversation I heard the information I was telling them (for example that we were headed to Chembur station) bandied around the carriage with shouts of “Chembur, Cembur” from one Indian to the next.
Eventually a kindly looking man took pity on us and offered up his and his friend’s seat so that we could gain some respite from all the pushing and shoving. Accepting his offer gladly we took seat next to him as he engaged me in conversation, he gave up sound tactics for escaping this hellish environment which involved standing up at the station before our destination and pushing forward shouting “Chembur”, as we approached the exit we were to push ahead at full speed between anyone in the way as the train slowed down so that we would pop out like a cork before it took off once again. Following his advice we surged forward at the required time and staggered out onto the platform gasping in the sudden and very welcome fresh air. We both immediately vowed that that was an experience best done just the once.

Today has been a long day for the both of us and has had a fair few ups and downs,

It started at the airport waving farewell to our families. A strange feeling swept over me as I passed through the departure gate and it dawned on me that this was finally happening after months of planning. Nicole was equally stunned by the concept and we had a cup of tea in the departure lounge to ground ourselves. I didn’t consider it at the time but this was probably the last cup of English style tea I was going to have in quite a while,

We boarded the plane which was a large twin jet and settled in our budget seats. As I became accustomed to the cramped conditions, the lights dimmed and started changing colours as relaxing lounge style piano music rang out over the tannoy. The flight took about eight hours and contained a little drama with a passenger falling ill and an announcement for a doctor to announce himself if present playing out. Luckily for our fellow passenger, a couple of oxygen tanks and the attention of about ten cabin crew seemed to sort them out and soon enough everyone on the plane was getting some kip with the exception of Nicole and I; too wired and cramped to even attempt it.

Eventually we descended through the cloud and emerged in the bright sun of a new morning. The Mumbai landscape was stretched out below us and much to my surprise a wooded hilltop stuck out from the East of the city around which was clustered thousands of shanty buildings made of corrugated metals and splashed with flashes of blue paint. Around this very deprived area stood towering constructions of half-finished sky scrapers and commercial properties. In fact everywhere I looked huge cranes signified the massive transition that Mumbai is undergoing yet juxtaposed the obvious poverty at the same time. The sight was breathtaking and filled me with apprehension upon landing. After clearing customs and pre-booking a taxi to our hotel we had our first run-in with the constant blag that seems to go on here. A man at the taxi stand looked at our prebook form and waved us over to the relevant taxi cab. Hand on the side of our luggage cart he then demanded a tip from us as we reached the cab. I declined to give him one which drew instant ire from the man. Our driver then intervened with a bark which sent him on his way.

The following trip to our hotel was perhaps the most stressful journey I’ve ever taken. Clutching the seatbelt (which had no corresponding buckle) with white knuckles our driver tore off at high-speed along pot-holed and half paved roads. As soon as we were out onto the main streets a horde of tuctuc motorcycle-cum-taxi cabs joined us in the bustle each one overtaking then undertaking, darting in and out between each other. There was no order to this process. No lanes of traffic were observed and at times did not even exist, yet every vehicle just aimed for what little space it could see leaving just centimetres between themselves and the next car. Several times I felt my heart race as a bright red bus or a speeding taxi came swinging round a corner and luckily grinding to an abrupt halt inches away from me. It wasn’t just vehicles causing problems as pedestrians would decide to walk down the middle of busy roads and the ‘Holy Cows’ which the Indians revere would stand idly by in the centre of a carriageway as the swarm of motors would wind quickly around them.

I was ashen after just a few miles, Nicole however seemed to be quite enjoying the ride, gleefully pointing out the colourful sights along the way.

We were dropped off at the hotel about half an hour after leaving the airport. Despite the fare being paid up front for the taxi, our dour driver still hassled me for a further tip once we alighted outside our hotel. I gave him a ten rupee note which incensed him presumably for not being enough and he stormed off shouting behind him. I suspect I need to do some more research into the tip culture!

We checked into our hotel and I collapsed on the bed, tired and stressed and not having a good time. a few hours of sleep seemed to sort us both out a bit and we decided to venture out into the chaos once again, I took a few moments to accost the manager and get a power charger off of him along with the wifi password. After making a few calls we set out to find a local restaurant which had some good reviews. We didn’t realise that the monsoon had begun to pour and that it had turned dark during our down time. None the less, we set out to explore the area. We are staying in a locale called Chembur. It’s out of the way of the centre yet despite being a suburb was totally packed with people. Each street and alley was teaming with throngs of Indians putting Oxford Street on a Saturday to shame. Still despite the huge amount of people I found it great fun to walk between the various street vendors selling clothing or frying up some fantastic looking food on their small hotplates. The sheer noise of all these people and the incessant blaring of horns was initially daunting but soon grew into an exciting environment that I was keen to explore further. We reached our restaurant shortly after and settled down with the menu. Most dishes cost about 250 rupees (£2.50) so we naturally assumed that they were small dishes akin to tapas… no…
We ended up spending £12.50 on our meal and had two main courses each and a couple of large beers. It was around this time that I decided that perhaps India isn’t so bad after all!

Today began with a cup of tea followed shortly by a manic re-sort of our possessions. Sudden realisation of what was happening today made me a little apprehensive, but I’m also excited and keen to get out there at the same time.

We are headed up to the airport now so that we are not rushed for time. Our flight leaves this evening so I need to find something to read.

Supposedly Mumbai is still in the middle of the monsoon. I am going to try to grab a window seat to see the action as we descend.

Friday began with a trek into London to pick up our visas. We were both slightly apprehensive as no indication had been given whether or not our applications had even been approved.

Finally our number was called and the chap at the counter told Nicole to sit down before checking the contents of the sealed envelope. A final look at each other’s faces mirrored in slight worry and we retrieved our passports with the visas in place as hoped. Immediate relief surged through my body and the trip became even more real. The Indian Consulate is allowing us six months in the country which is going to make up the most of our time away.

Since then time has passed like lightning. We have visited friends and family and have said many of our goodbyes. Now we sit in our room packing our bags with as little as we can realistically get away with.