First up, all those waiting for photos (Mum and Anne) will have to wait for a little while longer. I don't wish to inflict computer AIDS on my camera using ropey internet cafes where the staff all circle like vultures waiting for you to leave email addresses open and facebookings available to hack. That and I haven't actually taken many yet. When I get to the safety of Singapore I'll clog up the blog with pics, I promise. Any pictures in this blog entry are not mine and are for illustrative purposes only.
Right, so following Mumbai and the world's longest waiting for a train (we checked out at midday, the train was at 11pm), we climbed aboard the sleeper to Goa. Goa, formerly the land of hippies, shit trance music and mile after mile of beach. As we sat on our seats a local resident popped up and said hello; a mouse appeared between the layers of double glazing. So much for nature abhorring a vacuum.
The train ride was relatively uneventful for 50% of me & Graham. I had probably about 5 hours kip in a coffin-sized bed/cot interrupted regularly, mostly thanks to the train staff coming up and down the train every 5 minutes trying to sell us snacks and (probably) disease-ridden water. Graham on the other hand, possibly taking a lead from the staff, was up and down to the bog every 5 minutes and looked a peculiar shade of waxy yellow-white in the sunshine as we disembarked a virtually on time 2 1/2 hours late at Thivim station.
A short queue for the taxi and we were off to Graham's mate Rich's villa in Fort Aguada. Graham had last visited 5 years ago, and hadn't come by train. As a result of that and his illness, his memory and directions were a touch hazy. I didn't really know what to expect of the villa, but as we got to the gates of the development it was clear we would be staying in possibly the most luxurious accommodation of our whole trip round India. On the drive up to the villa we passed the pool, and a dozen or so 4-storey mansions, albeit in some rather terrible architectural stylings. Rich had given up on us landing on time, and was just making his way out with his kids Lloyd & Ruby when we rocked up.
This is Rich's villa and he is trying to sell it. So if you have a 1.5mill kicking about, and happen to be of Indian origin, do drop him a line. Safe to say it's quite nice. Definitely, by a country mile, the best looking of the house I saw/peered at through the bushes at night on the development.
Here we were then. Goa. For those that have been, we were as far south as you could get in Candolim. Candolim, north to Calungute and beyond has experienced rapid development over the last 15-20 years, and my Rough Guide made it clear in no uncertain terms that the hippies had fucked right off.
With Graham out of action for the first week or so, I was left to explore on my own. It was clear from the people walking the streets and the beaches that the target holidaymakers now are packaged Brits and Russians. Lots of them. The Brits tended to be an older bunch, and the Russians were of all ages. The Candolim /Calungute stretch struck me as a bit of a scruffy Spanish resort, rough around the edges, still with some traditional bars and restaurants. The beach stretches for miles and is pretty much overrun by shacks selling food and drinks, until to you get to the southern end.
On top of this, some shacks decide to play LOUD MUSIC at HIGH VOLUME all the time. Seriously, Gangnam Style-bile production reaches previously unreachable levels when you hear it at an ear-crushing, mind-bending 200dB*. Particularly when hearing it more than once a day.
The main street of bars and restaurant stretches on a road behind the dunes, shacks and 5-star hotel resorts, including such authentic locals as The Sportsman and The Cricketers (it's like a hotter, dustier Bramall Lane essentially, but the cops are kinder and open to bribery). There are glimpses of traditional bars and snack purveyors, and in all honesty I only had to venture a few feet from the main drags to find them.
To aid my exploration I got myself a scooter. 200 rupee a day (2.40 a day) was a steal. I'd never got one before as those I'd been away with on hols previously had not wished to risk certain death in hiring one. But now I was here without a care in the world I got one. They are possibly the most fun I have ever had, besides the obvious (paintballing or go-karting). As a brief overview, here are some scooter stats:
Ferries taken: 1
Number of people nearly runover whilst I was undertaking: 2 (they weren't looking properly).
Fines imposed: 1 (1300 rupees)
Helmets worn: 1, once the fine was paid and the rozzers gave me one.
Scooters used: 3 (one lacked headlights, one got a puncture, one wouldn't start and had no wing mirrors, then I got the punctured one back, fixed)
Illegal immigrants in the UK as a result of me giving my passport up for the duration of 2 week hire: c.65
Rich recommended a visit to the Anjuna Wednesday market, and so I tootled along. By Christ it was a backtwatters wet dream. Like a giant hippy-spunk spattered through a hairy muff of trees behind the beach lay stall after stall of massively overpriced tat. I'd barely parked my scooter up before the first scammers made themselves known: The Ear Cleaning Scam. "Excuse me sir, excuse me, you have something in your ear". I didn't even respond, the first five times, vowing to ask Rich exactly how this scam took your cash when I returned to the villa. By the 10th time of "Excuse me sir, excuse me, you have something in your ear" a terse "just fuck off pal" was uttered. They did not, perhaps, put me in the best frame of mind for wandering through the scorching sun looking at stalls. On to the stalls then; billowy trousers? Check. Shit collarless shirts with Om symbols on? Check. Blankets with stitched elephants and tassles and sequins on, destined to become wall hangings covering rampant damp in some over-populated terraced house in a student slum somewhere in Northern England? Check. Endless 'genuine silver that turns your wrist/ear/neck green' jewellery stalls? Check. You could clothe hundreds - if not thousands - of gap-yearing Taras and Henrys in one afternoon here if you so desired. I did not.
In amongst the Indian stallholders were the remnants of the 'original' marketeers. Westerners - who had long since turned on, tuned in and dropped out - peddling trinkets and jewellery they'd cobbled together from beads, string, dreadlocks and driftwood and having the gumption to charge 20 quid for it. I stayed for approximately 20 minutes and left, vowing never to return. On the return to my scooter there was just time for one more scam - even the Cornetto men are out to rob you - charging me 100 rupees for an ice-cream that should be 35. Sithee kid.
A few days later me and Graham (who was back in the land of the living) decided to try the Saturday night market, which was supposed to be closer to the original ethos and vibe of the Wednesday market: ex-pats and hippies trading secondhand stuff, tales of acid trips gone bad and tips on getting that four decades in the sun look inside 2 years. This took place inland, away from the Wednesday market site, which bode well.
We arrived, parked up and wandered in through the metal detectors (?!). It was much like the market areas you find at music festivals, stocking clothing you would never have any intention of wearing again unless you lived on a bus with 7 others, bean-based foodstalls and lots and lots of shit hair. It was a distilled, concentrated version of the Wednesday market in short, all soundtracked by very loud trance music. We wandered around for about 10 minutes, concluded it was full of hippies and returned to our scooters. Free love is all fine and well and I'm sure the the atmosphere - if you're in to it - is great, but its not really for me. I did find that free love and a relaxed approach to life did not extend to exiting the car park. As I pulled away a very annoyed female hippy sternly told me "You are using the wrong gate, this is the entrance!". "Shit happens, love" was the reply, as I accelerated away.
Besides this, much of the time in Goa was spent lazing around the pool and eating pizza. Very little was done except for relaxing. We knocked about with mates of Rich and ended up drunk more than twice. A good bunch generally.
Goa - and I say this understanding that I visited only a tiny part of it - is probably not for me. The sun and beach was nice, but it's just gone too far down the package route. I am sure that if I had gobe further south, to Palolem or even Kerala I may have a different opinion. Oh, and don't believe a word about there not being hippies there. They are there, in the hills or behind rocks. They only come out to play a couple of times a week though.
Next up - Jodhpur, Jaipur, Agra, Varanasi and Calcutta. It's a bit of a whistlestop tour so there won't be a blog for a while. Get over it. The next update will come from Singapore, when I visit my sis! Ace!
*NB You are likely to die from a 200dB soundwave hitting you. Don't do it.
Right, so following Mumbai and the world's longest waiting for a train (we checked out at midday, the train was at 11pm), we climbed aboard the sleeper to Goa. Goa, formerly the land of hippies, shit trance music and mile after mile of beach. As we sat on our seats a local resident popped up and said hello; a mouse appeared between the layers of double glazing. So much for nature abhorring a vacuum.
The train ride was relatively uneventful for 50% of me & Graham. I had probably about 5 hours kip in a coffin-sized bed/cot interrupted regularly, mostly thanks to the train staff coming up and down the train every 5 minutes trying to sell us snacks and (probably) disease-ridden water. Graham on the other hand, possibly taking a lead from the staff, was up and down to the bog every 5 minutes and looked a peculiar shade of waxy yellow-white in the sunshine as we disembarked a virtually on time 2 1/2 hours late at Thivim station.
A short queue for the taxi and we were off to Graham's mate Rich's villa in Fort Aguada. Graham had last visited 5 years ago, and hadn't come by train. As a result of that and his illness, his memory and directions were a touch hazy. I didn't really know what to expect of the villa, but as we got to the gates of the development it was clear we would be staying in possibly the most luxurious accommodation of our whole trip round India. On the drive up to the villa we passed the pool, and a dozen or so 4-storey mansions, albeit in some rather terrible architectural stylings. Rich had given up on us landing on time, and was just making his way out with his kids Lloyd & Ruby when we rocked up.
This is Rich's villa and he is trying to sell it. So if you have a 1.5mill kicking about, and happen to be of Indian origin, do drop him a line. Safe to say it's quite nice. Definitely, by a country mile, the best looking of the house I saw/peered at through the bushes at night on the development.
Here we were then. Goa. For those that have been, we were as far south as you could get in Candolim. Candolim, north to Calungute and beyond has experienced rapid development over the last 15-20 years, and my Rough Guide made it clear in no uncertain terms that the hippies had fucked right off.
With Graham out of action for the first week or so, I was left to explore on my own. It was clear from the people walking the streets and the beaches that the target holidaymakers now are packaged Brits and Russians. Lots of them. The Brits tended to be an older bunch, and the Russians were of all ages. The Candolim /Calungute stretch struck me as a bit of a scruffy Spanish resort, rough around the edges, still with some traditional bars and restaurants. The beach stretches for miles and is pretty much overrun by shacks selling food and drinks, until to you get to the southern end.
 |
| Figure 1: Hippies. Unlikely to be seen in Candolim. Source: Stinking hippycam. Probably. You can nearly see the flies. |
The main street of bars and restaurant stretches on a road behind the dunes, shacks and 5-star hotel resorts, including such authentic locals as The Sportsman and The Cricketers (it's like a hotter, dustier Bramall Lane essentially, but the cops are kinder and open to bribery). There are glimpses of traditional bars and snack purveyors, and in all honesty I only had to venture a few feet from the main drags to find them.
To aid my exploration I got myself a scooter. 200 rupee a day (2.40 a day) was a steal. I'd never got one before as those I'd been away with on hols previously had not wished to risk certain death in hiring one. But now I was here without a care in the world I got one. They are possibly the most fun I have ever had, besides the obvious (paintballing or go-karting). As a brief overview, here are some scooter stats:
Ferries taken: 1
Number of people nearly runover whilst I was undertaking: 2 (they weren't looking properly).
Fines imposed: 1 (1300 rupees)
Helmets worn: 1, once the fine was paid and the rozzers gave me one.
Scooters used: 3 (one lacked headlights, one got a puncture, one wouldn't start and had no wing mirrors, then I got the punctured one back, fixed)
Illegal immigrants in the UK as a result of me giving my passport up for the duration of 2 week hire: c.65
 |
| Figure 2: Fruit stall, Panjim |
Rich recommended a visit to the Anjuna Wednesday market, and so I tootled along. By Christ it was a backtwatters wet dream. Like a giant hippy-spunk spattered through a hairy muff of trees behind the beach lay stall after stall of massively overpriced tat. I'd barely parked my scooter up before the first scammers made themselves known: The Ear Cleaning Scam. "Excuse me sir, excuse me, you have something in your ear". I didn't even respond, the first five times, vowing to ask Rich exactly how this scam took your cash when I returned to the villa. By the 10th time of "Excuse me sir, excuse me, you have something in your ear" a terse "just fuck off pal" was uttered. They did not, perhaps, put me in the best frame of mind for wandering through the scorching sun looking at stalls. On to the stalls then; billowy trousers? Check. Shit collarless shirts with Om symbols on? Check. Blankets with stitched elephants and tassles and sequins on, destined to become wall hangings covering rampant damp in some over-populated terraced house in a student slum somewhere in Northern England? Check. Endless 'genuine silver that turns your wrist/ear/neck green' jewellery stalls? Check. You could clothe hundreds - if not thousands - of gap-yearing Taras and Henrys in one afternoon here if you so desired. I did not.
In amongst the Indian stallholders were the remnants of the 'original' marketeers. Westerners - who had long since turned on, tuned in and dropped out - peddling trinkets and jewellery they'd cobbled together from beads, string, dreadlocks and driftwood and having the gumption to charge 20 quid for it. I stayed for approximately 20 minutes and left, vowing never to return. On the return to my scooter there was just time for one more scam - even the Cornetto men are out to rob you - charging me 100 rupees for an ice-cream that should be 35. Sithee kid.
A few days later me and Graham (who was back in the land of the living) decided to try the Saturday night market, which was supposed to be closer to the original ethos and vibe of the Wednesday market: ex-pats and hippies trading secondhand stuff, tales of acid trips gone bad and tips on getting that four decades in the sun look inside 2 years. This took place inland, away from the Wednesday market site, which bode well.
We arrived, parked up and wandered in through the metal detectors (?!). It was much like the market areas you find at music festivals, stocking clothing you would never have any intention of wearing again unless you lived on a bus with 7 others, bean-based foodstalls and lots and lots of shit hair. It was a distilled, concentrated version of the Wednesday market in short, all soundtracked by very loud trance music. We wandered around for about 10 minutes, concluded it was full of hippies and returned to our scooters. Free love is all fine and well and I'm sure the the atmosphere - if you're in to it - is great, but its not really for me. I did find that free love and a relaxed approach to life did not extend to exiting the car park. As I pulled away a very annoyed female hippy sternly told me "You are using the wrong gate, this is the entrance!". "Shit happens, love" was the reply, as I accelerated away.
Besides this, much of the time in Goa was spent lazing around the pool and eating pizza. Very little was done except for relaxing. We knocked about with mates of Rich and ended up drunk more than twice. A good bunch generally.
Goa - and I say this understanding that I visited only a tiny part of it - is probably not for me. The sun and beach was nice, but it's just gone too far down the package route. I am sure that if I had gobe further south, to Palolem or even Kerala I may have a different opinion. Oh, and don't believe a word about there not being hippies there. They are there, in the hills or behind rocks. They only come out to play a couple of times a week though.
Next up - Jodhpur, Jaipur, Agra, Varanasi and Calcutta. It's a bit of a whistlestop tour so there won't be a blog for a while. Get over it. The next update will come from Singapore, when I visit my sis! Ace!
*NB You are likely to die from a 200dB soundwave hitting you. Don't do it.
 |
| Figure 3: View from the villa's roof terrace as sundown |
Piss my sides, this cheered me up.
ReplyDeleteI have had all of that tat at one point...including obligatory green wrist inducing definitely-not-silver. All gone the way of good taste...the tip.
TAKE photos - post in Singapore. Until then, keep on keeping on.x