It was only going to be so long before we fell afoul of the hideous bureaucracy that India is famous for and that day caught up with us as we decided to pay a visit to the Panjim Post Office.

We had a simple mission, and that was to find, for sale, an envelope which could make a small packet and then send it back to England. At home this would take about ten minutes at any post office.

We arrived at the post office and looked about. Despite there being fifteen counters, only about three were manned. Of these three, one marked ‘multi-purpose’ had a queue stretching back, whilst the others had clerks sat heads down clearly not wanting to be disturbed. So disturbing one of these clerks we discovered that to send a letter we had to join the long queue… fine.
Eventually we made it to the front of the line and we were told that in order to buy an envelope we had to go to counter number ten. I chuckled as this was beginning to sound familiar but took it all in my stride. I could see however that Nicole was beginning to get a bit agitated.

Counter number ten was closed for lunch and would reopen in ten minutes. Fifteen minutes later a girl arrived back at the desk and told us that they had no envelopes for sale and we would have to visit a stationary shop around the corner. Still keen to complete this simple task we left the building and found ourselves in a small, dark workshop, filled with beaten up old typewriters. Suddenly part of the furniture moved and resolved into a wiry man who apparently owned the place. He explained that he could indeed provide an envelope and asked to see what we wanted to send. Taking our packet he laid it out on a sheet of cotton, made a few folds and whisked it away into a back room where the unmistakable sound of a sewing machine started punctuating the dusty air. Nicole and I exchanged looks of astonishment as the man returned with a neat cloth packet sewn up around the edges. He then sat down, lit a candle and proceeded to seal the edges with red wax, handing back something that looked like it could have cemented peace between two warring nations.

The man then whisked up a form and showed Nicole which fields needed filling in and where everything should go. Ten minutes later, form filled out and address added to the packet we discovered that a copy of a passport would also be required for the post office to send the packet.

Nicole then crossed the road to a Xerox stand to get a copy whilst I had a look about this workshop and took some photos. I asked the man about his typewriters, some of which were laying out in the shop, and some stashed behind glass screen doors in ancient cupboards. He replied that before working as a packaging man he was a typewriter repair technician for twenty eight years. He was holding out hope for a resurgence in typewriters as he had been told that the Russians were on the cusp of getting rid of all their computers. Apparently (and he had this on good authority) Russian officials were fed up with the way documents could move from one computer to another. Of course the best way to combat this would, of course, be to return to the use of the typewriter.
I stood slightly open-mouthed as Nicole came back inside, thankfully giving me the opportunity to change the subject!

We ended up paying RS60 for the envelope which was worth it by a mile, even if it did cost more than an envelope at home, and returned to the post office and its single counter which now had an hour long queue behind it.

All the time we queued, Indians kept wandering in off the street, walking up alongside the queue and pushing in at the front. Sometimes they would linger for a moment and return to the back of the queue and other times they would just stay there and get served. At this point Nicole was boiling with rage and her protests became louder and louder, reverberating around the hall. None of the other Indians seemed to pay much attention though and it was only as we got closer to the front we saw a sign allowing senior citizens the right to push in at the sides.

Finally and after much despair we were close enough to make out the source of the slowness. Our clerk moved like treacle. A single finger ponderously tapped at the keyboard in front of him, his eyes double, triple, quadruple checked every docket another customer handed him before he carefully and thoughtfully moved to address each and every case. Just watching this man work was madness. I wanted to leap over the counter and serve these people myself just to get the job done for him.
And then we were there, at the front of the queue. Nicole and I spread out on the counter, throwing our arms out wide to prohibit anyone from jumping in at the side and distracting the clerk from our task at hand. And with that he took payment and the letter was sent.

…Two hours. Needless to say I think email has a brighter future in India than the typed letter ever will.

The last few days have been spent in Goa’s capital Panjim. The city is much more heavily influenced with Portuguese architecture than anywhere else we have been to date and the various houses sit proud in their streets, boldly painted, often with plants hung outside or little gardens to the front.

Our accommodation has been a delightful place called the Alfonso Guest House run by a busy old lady called Jeannette. Although costing more than our usual lodgings – at a pricey £16 or RS1600 a night, the rooms are immaculately clean and the linen whiter than anything we have seen so far. All in all, after a few weeks of roughing it in Arambol, this is just the ticket for using as a base to explore the city.

Yesterday we took a stroll across the city to the municipal market. This large indoor market features fruit stands on the ground level and then, a level up – and running around the circumference of the large warehouse, are smaller shops selling electrical and plastic goods as well as clothes and DVDs.

On walking in to this large building we were struck by the huge piles of colourful fruit that spanned the floor. Everywhere we looked; mountains of fruit sat atop tables, so much more than you would ever see at home. In amongst this fruit sat the vendors (also on the tables) hawking their produce at anyone walking past.

What really surprised me was how many of these vendors were asleep though, snuggled up aside a mountain of melons, or dozing in a pile of coconuts. This was only 3pm and entire tables of merchants were cased out on the job!

We left bemused but thoroughly entertained.

Shops commonly seem to have small sweets or chocolates in their tills. For whatever reason, these tend to replace the smallest RS1 coins which you can find about. It’s a little odd, but I am beginning to get used to being handed a few notes and a few sweets as change for payment for any goods.

The other day a restaurant couldn’t summon RS20 change so came over to the table with a bottle of water instead.

The most bizarre part of this is that there is no checking that you are happy with this arrangement, they just hand it over as if it is money and look to the next person in the queue.

We arrived on our scooter near to the top of the large hill that the fort sits atop. We parked up where the road ran out, and looked up at the climb above us. There was no path so to speak, merely a rocky, steep slope which was peppered with loose stones that slid about underfoot. The final ascent was steep so we took our time climbing up. There were quite a lot of locals headed to the summit as well and they too were struggling a little.

At one point the slope evened up and a huge fissure split the ground open, weeds spilling out of the gap.

Eventually we reached the top and walked in through a small arch. The fort is long since ruined, a wall the only structure still standing apart from a small memorial stone near the inner entrance which had weathered away. Despite the lack of anything much to see inside the actual site (save for a field of long grass I am sure was full of snakes), the views over the edge of the wall were fantastic, with eagles soaring and swooping around us, with the sleepy village and beach laid out below us.

Waking Thursday morning, Nicole and I came to the realisation we had become stuck in a time-warp.

Arambol had become for us a safe haven; comfortable, familiar and rejuvenating. Even the local hawkers had begun to recognise us by face and had changed their banter from trying to sell us things to getting to know us instead. This feeling of contentment was helped in no small way by the discovery of a recently opened establishment called the Laughing Buddha. Owned by a Lancashire man called John, this beach bar and set of huts was run like a tight ship. The accommodation was styled and clean, the service was professional and attentive and the food… the food was most excellent! We checked into the Laughing Buddha for our last few days in Arambol and I would heartily recommend it to others passing through.

Finally, however, we realised it was time to move on. This was, after all, a journey of discovery that we were on. We set off about noon in the company of two Austrian girls; Lydia and Theresa. They were staying in the hut next to us and had chosen the same day to make the trek some 20KM south to Vagator which is the next large beach along.

As luck would have it of course it took us nearly twenty minutes to locate a taxi, despite having been hounded to take one every time we left a hotel for two weeks solid!

–          Goodbye Arambol

Eventually we were away and I settled into watching the scenery slip by as the taxi wound its way along the coast.

It wasn’t long before we made the approach into Vagator. This small town was much more spread out, and its houses appeared better maintained than those in Arambol, with brightly coloured, fresh coats of paint highlighting the hotels that we sped past.

Our previous concern with securing booking before we turned up somewhere new had been dropped in favour of a more relaxed ‘turn up and see’ attitude. This, in practice, is a much better plan anyway as it allows us to make sure the rooms are in good condition, and usually negotiate a better rate than if we book online.

Stopping for lunch with the girls first, we spent a few hours dining, drinking and discussing the various tips that we had all picked up along the way. The girls had been working up in the mountainous north on a farm and had been living a much more frugal existence than us; really making every rupee count. Tales of washing their clothes in buckets of cold water and hoisting heavy loads up the mountains as mules overtook them with even heavier burdens made us realise how much we had left to see and how comfortable we still were! When we said our goodbyes, Nicole and I asked the waiter which good hotels were near-by. The waiter, a Sikh lad in a turban and a Manchester United shirt, pointed us down a nearby track to a well presented complex of small but pleasant rooms. The establishment was a little more upmarket than anything in Arambol, and not only did we have hot water but we had AC. I guess it will be a little while longer before we begin to rough it as well as Lydia and Theresa did.

That night we ate at a small restaurant at the top of the track called the Nirvana Cafe. It offered simple Indian meals and we both had some delicious curry. At midnight, we retreated to our cool bedroom and I was out like a light.

This morning we rose and planned our day. We were to take a short walk down to the beach and from there we would be able to walk north to Fort Vagator which overlooked the beach and town.

–          Vagator Beach and the busloads of tourists.

Arriving at the beach we pushed past throngs of Indians who were walking about on the rocks. More people were arriving every minute, being shipped in on large buses most of which were a little too large to traverse the narrow roads. We looked up at the fort which was high above us on a hill and decided we should find another way up there. Not only was it blisteringly hot and the route up the hill very exposed but the ascent would be steep and a quick look at our map showed a back-road which ran up to the fort another way. It seemed longer and involved heading back through the town but I expected it offered more cover. Sure enough, this route was shaded with tall trees and palms but as we got further out and we saw the fort this time much higher and even further away than before at the beach. Revaluating our position, we retreated into town.

It became clear at this point that the only way we were going to visit all these places on the map was if we were to hire a bike. So far I had managed to avoid this as the idea had been a little intimidating, not so much the riding of a scooter, which I had never done before, but the driving in India has a certain… well, style might be the most appropriate word for it, and it takes a little while to get familiar and orientated with this.

Approaching our hotelier, I negotiated a rental for RS250 for the day and set off up the road solo for a half hour or so till I had the hang of it. At one point, a herd of cows came toward me and I had to slow right down. That was until one cow mounted another and they careered left and right in the road, steaming toward me, madness in their eyes! Quickly, I throttled up and darted around them leaving the horny cows in my wake.

Collecting Nicole, I had a bit more practise this time with her on the back. The weight changes completely on these little mopeds when you ride pillion but I soon had the hang of it.

The afternoon was now getting on and so we decided to defer the ascent to the fort to the next day and instead take a ride down to Anjuna Beach which is supposed to be a local party hot-spot. We set off down quiet country roads at a slow and measured pace as other more confident scooters overtook from time to time. We passed through beautiful landscapes and the countryside came alive as we wheeled past. I can see why so many people get onto bikes as it opens the world.

On arrival in Anjuna, we set off down the beach and I snapped a few shots of the beach which steeply descended into the sea. In the distance stood on a rocky outcrop was a fisherman with his pole. The sea had already come in around him, yet he seemed content enough to stand there on his tiny island of rock.

–          Only in India…

As we walked back along the beach we saw the sun was beginning to set, and so we began a hasty retreat, ensuring we arrived back at Vagator as the sun dropped behind the horizon on the Arabian Sea and night closed-in.

I have been playing around with some long exposures through the use of light reduction filters. This allows for some great effects, like pacifying an otherwise turbulent sea.

I am pleased with the following photo but have yet to come up for a name to give it. Any suggestions?

We have been in Arambol for around ten days now. This has given us the chance to meet some interesting folk and really get to grips with the local area.

A few days ago we met a Scot named Al who was holidaying for a month. He told us about how he had visited a Baba – a sort of Hindu holy man. This Baba lives up past the beaches, underneath a Banyan Tree.

Intrigued, we set off to see what this might entail. The sandy trail we had been pointed to followed north of where we were staying, up along the side of the coastal cliffs, and round the back of a fresh water lake which is fed from a small stream. Following this stream north-east away from the coast, we entered a dark woodland area lush with unfamiliar foliage and filled with mind-boggling fauna. At one point giant ants marched in single file across our path and large butterflies the size of my hand flapped lackadaisically around the shaded environ. Their wings were a shade of ebony with flashes of brilliant blue across the centres. Enthralled by these insects, I managed to creep close enough to one to capture it with my camera before the sound of the shutter scared it off.

The trail was hilly and uneven, yet quite distinct, and we met other travellers coming the other way saying that the tree was just up ahead.

Finally reaching an impasse of boulders we looked around for the path, sure enough it veered off to the right and climbed a steep hill. As we mounted the hill we could hear voices in the otherwise serene location and knew we were close. All of a sudden, the foliage cleared away and there stood a mighty Banyan tree, its branches reaching up into the high canopy.

Rounding the stump, we came into view of a small group of people. There were a few Indian men smoking away on hand-rolled cigarettes and another relaxing on a wall with his motorcycle helmet resting on his chest. A Nepalese chap was sat by a camp fire at the base of the tree tending a pot of rice which was cooking away. A Russian man was laying at the side of the circle, high as a kite, and in the very centre, behind the fire sat this Baba. The man was in his sixties and had a voluminous white beard that spilled down his chest.

We introduced ourselves to the group and took a seat in the circle. I had assumed that this man was some type of guru who would be talking in riddles and offering sage advice. It turned out he was more interested in talking about England, where he would visit every ten years or so, to live in Leicester and renew his visa! I suppressed a laugh, imagining this old man in a big old white nappy trying to get on a plane.

The Russian man stirred, and became cogent enough to beg money from me for some ‘smoke’. Firmly declining to give him any money, I stood and offered around a bunch of bananas that we had picked up from the grocer in town. Each visitor and the Baba accepted the gift, and they all sat there in stoned silence munching on their bananas.

This was too bizarre for us both, and after exchanging looks, we bid them all farewell and headed back to the beach.

Hello world.

I have been off the grid for a little while now as my computer took a spectacular nose-dive into a sea of software corruption. This took a little while to sort out, and in the meantime, we took the opportunity to get out and see some of the local sights.

I will put the stories and some photos together in my next post, but for now will leave you with some of the more interesting items we have seen on local menus.

Mushroom Stonogof
Tuna File with Pesto Sauce
Spinach Mush Sizzler
Frence Burger

There are also a range of intriguingly named desserts with the winner being:

Hello to the Queen

We may have to take a leap of faith to report back on what it actually is!

“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.