Category Archives: South India

[Re end of last post – false alarm.]

Hmmm. Goa is a bit of a conundrum. After a day I wanted to leave; in the end I decided to stay for 6 days. I’m glad I did. (If nothing else, to learn how to ride a scooter – more on that tomorrow).

Goa is the smallest province in India by some way. It is without doubt predominantly a tourist resort. At times the worst of British peeks its ugly shaven head from behind the idyllic beaches – a restaurant offering “Sunday roasts”, a Manchester City FC flag flying at the bar on one of the remotest beaches, even a Domino’s Pizza franchise for God’s sake.

But two other nationalities are starting to dominate here. I had been warned in Mumbai that the place was run by Israeli and Russian mafia, but no-one told me they would form a large proportion of the tourists too. The evidence is everywhere – try the “Gagarin” bar for instance, or the adverts for restaurants subtitled “All foods served – Russian, Israeli, Chinese Tandoori”. Or just stand on the beach and look – and listen.

The locals I talked to confirmed this growing trend. Rajan works as a conservationist. For 70p a day, he protects the Olive Ridley turtles that return in dwindling numbers to Morjim Beach in North Goa. “The Russians are buying everywhere” he says, pointing across at the recently built and massively conspicuous Casablanca resort that has cropped up in one of the more remote areas of the coast. “The government loves them and their money, not me” he adds – not great news for the turtles, who aren’t the biggest fans of trance music at 3 in the morning while they are quietly trying to lay their eggs.

On the positive side, Rajan is just one example of the good natured Goans. My hosts in the Arjun Villa, Godfrey and Joan (Christians converted by the Portuguese like 50% of the Goan population) have been welcoming and engaging. They both worked in Oman for 10 years before returning to Goa and gave an interesting explanation as to why so many Goans go overseas.

India’s 27 states have more than 60 languages. Despite the governments efforts to promote Hindi (and latterly to re-promote English), these local languages still predominate. As a result, if an Indian company hires a CEO from Gujarat, he tends to employ people he can understand – Gujarati speakers. When a CEO from Maharashtra province (where Mumbai is) takes over, out go the Gujaratis, in come the Marati speakers. And so on. Goa, being tiny, suffers from having very few “godfathers” in business, so they all go overseas to the Middle East for work. QED.

I’m glad I stayed. It is proving to be really informative, even if by all accounts Goa is an anomaly from the rest of India. The beaches and the sun are stunning, and are definitely a great way to step off the conveyor belt.

And finally… India may be making an impression on me, but I’m making my own impression too. Every time I take out my notebook and start writing, Indians stop and stare with incredulity. They’ve never seen a left-hander writing before. Combine that with my mal-coordinated attempts to eat right-handed, and I am definitely leaving an impression, even if it’s only on the tablecloth laundry bill.

[In the previous post, I also meant to say that Ravi Bopara looked in particularly good nick in the Mumbai nets. For the record, given Bopara’s 54 n.o. and Collingwood’s (predicted) failure, I am willing to make myself officially available as England coach.]

Departure from Mumbai was almost as early in the morning as the arrival. I caught the 06.55 “Mandovi Express”, which wends its way down from Mumbai to Karmali in Goa, moving from the slum outskirts of Bombay, down the Maharashtra province coast, eventually reaching the lush green countryside of Northern Goa in early evening.

Already, Indian trains are proving to be a great experience. Thanks to the advice of Jake in Snow and Rock High Street Kensington, I had the best seat for day-time travel – a side lower bunk seat, along the side of the train giving room for snoozing and reading in equal measure.

The trains are wide, unfeasibly long, and totally packed. As the wide carriages rumble down the track, the blue-shirted porters amble up and down offering various foods, chanting their names in monotone voices “Sa-mos-a”, “Pan-i”, “Bhaj-i Bhaj-i-a”, “Gul-ab Jam-un”. Best of all, with an admirable disregard for Health & Safety, the doors are left wide open, so you can lean out of the doors hanging on to one of the handles as you look up the tracks. 11 hours passed before we arrived a (respectable) 75 minutes late, drawing in to Karmali as the sun disappeared behind the stunning Goa countryside.

After a night and a day in the main town in Goa (Panjim), two 10p buses, each of an hour, took me down to Anjuna beach where I stay for a few days. 10p buses reminded me of the No.26 to Gilmerton. (Obscure reference for former Edinburgh schoolboys).The traveling is all.

A number of kind email enquiries have come in about the state of my digestive system. The truth is that it feels rather like a phoney war – I am fully aware that the monent of truth will arrive; just not sure when. The Australians I met in Mumbai suggested running a book on the time of the reckoning, but that would be inviting disaster… oh… hold on… must dash…

[Answer to previous question: lots of people. The reason being that Helsinki is on the flight path from US to India. So there.]

Arriving (on time) at 4.25am yesterday had one major compensation, enabling me to watch Bombay wake up – surprisingly slowly.

On a jetlag-dazed hour-long walk up to the station (Bombay’s main train station operates as a choke point between the suburbs in the North and the commercial areas in the South), newspaper sellers piled up their copies of the Times of India ready for the commuters as the roads slowly filled up with taxis, buses, cars and beeping horns. There were also momentary glimpses of the poverty that pervades this city as shapeless rags stirred on the pavements, and street-children brushed their teeth in the gutter. Seeing kids playing cricket at 7am in the Oval Maidan was also more than a little bizarre. I reached the station at 8.30 in time to witness the mass of human traffic emerge from huge carriages(exits both sides). Quite an eye-opener and slightly overwhelming – the city has an estimated 6.1m commuters crammed into these trains each day. And I saw most of them.

Later, I called a contact I had been given by someone I met at a wedding three weeks ago. And promptly got an invitation onto a boat party. (Thanks Priya). This turned out to be on a Dhow owned by one of the richest men in Bombay, for 65 first cousins from a Gujerati family who by all accounts aren’t short of a penny or two. Insightful conversations, great food, Bollywood music and a rare chance to see Bombay at night from the sea. I fell on my feet. There was a slightly nervewracking moment when the coastguard paid a visit; but as 1-litre bottles pre-filled with Whisky & Coke and Vodka & Lemonade were flung to the thirsty policemen, I was assured that this was merely a pre-arranged visit to collect their pre-arranged bribe.

Today’s been more about settling in, and learning two important lessons:

#1: Don’t stand under the ledge of buildings in Bombay if you can help it. (The pigeon missed the bullseye of my head, but it did manage to glance my ear and leave an unstatisfactory splodge on my shoulder).

#2: Don’t ask an England cricketer how they did if you don’t know the answer. (I went to the stadium after the end of England’s warm-up game against a Mumbai team, happily enquired of England wicketkeeper Matt Prior, Paul Collingwood and Ravi Bopara how they had done, and was met with a terse “We got rolled for 100” and some fiercesome glares. Oops. Prior got 3, Bopara 8, and Collingwood 9. And for the record, Collingwood was struggling in the nets).

Leaving for Goa on Friday morning on the Mondavi Express. 2nd Class AC is the interesting choice.