GOA - INDIA

23rd - 26th Dec 2011

Main square in Margao, Goa.

Another train ride leaving Trivandrum at 2040hrs ( 22nd Dec ), via Mangalore, to Margao ( Goa ) started off in a 3AC compartment ( 6 bunks ). It was due in at Margao at, coincidently, 2040hrs the following night. We co-compartmentees assembled and sat down for about an hour before reconfiguring the bunks for sleeping. The back of the bottom seat is raised to form the bunk of the middle berth. Very simple. There was an obviously Islamic couple in my compartment. The lady, I presume it was a lady, because not much was visible, was wearing a black tent and only her eyes were showing.

Her partner/husband/guardian/father/uncle/brother/mother or whatever had a large black beard. When we lay down to sleep I was on the bottom bunk and across the aisle, scarcely two feet away, was kipping the black-shrouded lady. I don't know where her man had gone. I expect this is the nearest I will get to sleeping with a lady muslim. By the time I woke up at about 0800hrs the next morning they had all disappeared! I was the only one left in the compartment. My snoring was undoubtedy to blame but at least they hadn't, as others have done, thrown their shoes at me or hit me in the middle of the night.

The train stopped in Mangalore at 1130hrs, and the connection to Margao was not until 1440hrs. I had time to go into town to suss out what Mangalore had to offer for lunch. This place is not to be confused with Bangalore, or even Pussygalore for that matter. From Mangalore on the next train I was downgraded to a daytime 'sleeper' compartment with no AC ( below ). The only major difference is that the windows are open and covered with bars. There is therefore a pleasant breeze and you can actually see out! We passed west abeam the historic city of Mysore nearby which, in 1799, the infamous Tippu Sultan was defeated and killed by the British under command of Major General Sir Arthur Wellesley ( later to become the Duke of Wellington ) at the battle of Seringapatam after besieging the Tippu's fort. The 19th Light Dragoons, forerunners of the 19th Hussars, took part in this battle. The Tippu was notorious for his cruelty towards any captured British who were severely tortured in many imaginative ways before being put to death, and also for his famous life-sized animated 'toy' tiger mauling a 'european' with added sound effects. Like his father, Hyder Ali, before him, he did not like the British at all. I was tempted to visit, but it would have proved a bit too time consuming.

It is so pleasant to be riding on trains which offer absolutely no tedious and irritating 'announcements'. There is no PA system, or there wasn't on this train. Bliss. If you wish to be told when to get off, you merely ask one of the staff or one of your fellow passengers to tell you on arrival. Unlike the bossy rulesworths on Oz railways they leave you in peace, you have a bunk where you can lie down to sleep at a remarkably cheap fare, a porter if you want one that will carry and load any amount of luggage for you ( for a small consideration ) and, so far, I have certainly not experienced any bed-bugs. There are no buffet/restaurant cars but there are attendants who wander up and down selling cheap snacks, soft drinks, coffee and rather tasty sweetish milky tea ( called chai ) and there are even power points to recharge electrics. OK, the carriages need repainting inside and out and are not exactly Pullman Class standard of comfort, the windows are hardly transparent ( except in the non-AC carriages ) but the ride is remarkably smooth. Also, so far, they have been on time.

We arrived at Margao, Goa, a bit early at 2030hrs. It was a 2 km auto-rickshaw ride from the station to what turned out to be a rather moderate hotel, the Om Shiv, in the town centre.

The next day, Christmas Eve, after a wander around the town I again auto-wreckshawed to the beach at Corva. This is only about 6 km to the east. Not a bad place but a bit overrun with holidaying locals and a fair number of western tourists.

The blasted shitting 'sacred' cows were in evidence again, plus quite a number of scabby looking street/beach dogs. The holy bovines seem to enjoy sifting through piles of stinking rubbish ( right ). Are plastic bags good for them? Perhaps one day the Hindu faithful will realise that these loose running untouchable animals are an unnecessary hazard and not exactly conducive to tourist satisfaction and hygiene.

The beach was relatively clean(ish) apart from some dog shit, cow shit and discarded fag ends, and boasted a few aquatic amusements such as banana boats, jet-skis and this ( left ) para-sailing. There were several 'beach cabins' selling food and drink. Not bad, but hardly top ranking sophisticated entertainment.

I am becoming interested in the Indian attitude to crowds and litter. The locals accept both without complaint, or don't even seem to notice. They are happy to live on top of each other and even when given space will crowd up on one another. They seem to enjoy being in a crush. If you are standing in a queue with lots of space behind you, the next person will press up against you, or try blatantly to queue barge . I have taken to swinging my arms about hopefully to whack the person behind and give myself a bit of room, and I wave my hand at queue bargers. They always say 'sorry sorry' and retreat, as if they had made an unintentional mistake. Even their shops have tiny narrow aisles so everyone is stuck behind one another unable to move, and it's not just a question of no space available, they just like it that way. And as for the buses.......! It is the opposite of America where space is all around you; but there again the Americans tend to come in larger sizes. It all becomes quite irritating, for a foreigner. They are, however, completely accepting of you or anyone pushing your way into or through a crowded space. It is expected and noone gets angry. Regarding litter/rubbish/garbage or whatever you like to call it, the situation is dire in most places; some of the famous touristy places being notable exceptions . Wherever there are people there tends to be knee deep litter and shit ( often literally ). The concept of litter bins and rubbish collection is totally alien and some areas in dirty backstreets are treated as open public lavatories. The tradition is to throw any litter or garbage out of your private space through the nearest door or window into street, field or onto railway track beyond. Once there it is someone else's problem, except that nobody ever accepts the responsibility to clear it up. In many places it really is quite disgusting and I make no apologies for mentioning it. The inside of trains is relatively rubbish free; that is largely because as soon as someone has emptied his paper or plastic container it is automatically thrown out of the nearest door or window. OK, if they are happy with this revolting situation who am I to complain. It is not a matter of lack of money. It is an attitude. I have been in many equally cash strapped places; particularly villages in Cambodia and cities in Vietnam where the streets are kept remarkably clean. In the Vietnam case by the many 'ban chai' ladies who constantly pedal their carts through the streets, day and night, gathering up rubbish and selling a lot of it on for recycling, and the locals who conscientiously sweep the pavements in front of their shops and houses. No, sorry, but I am very unimpressed by the acceptance of filth in so many of the places I have seen in India... so far, because I have much more to see.

Right: More in hope than expectation. The rubbish was lying all around this notice on the road just outside Margao but, I suppose, not actually ON the sign itself. So that's OK then. Anyway, I didn't understand why this particular point of roadside was trying, hopelessly, to discourage garbage throwers. Maybe it was an experiment. A futile one.

Christmas day was spent on the beach, loafing, and not doing anything at all 'Christmassy'. This group of cheerful Swedes were playing the part though. I was asked to join them for a glass of Xmas spirit and it would have been rude to refuse.

Interestingly, alcohol is much more readily available in Goa; they have wine shops. The prices are also considerably less. Drinks are approximately one third the cost of the same stuff in Kerala.

On boxing day I hired a scooter ( $20 for the day; remarkably decent price ) and journeyed a bit inland to the village of Chandor. This little place was rather picturesque and had been the initial Portugese capital of Goa. On the way there I went down this road having spotted a sign for Lunch and Dinner at Flames restaurant. I never did find Dr Neville's Spring Resort with Dance Floor.........

.......but I did find Flames where I had lunch and got talking with these two gents who lived nearby. They were great fun and gave me the low-down on the history of the place. I must say, apart from the irritating 'touts' on the beaches, without exception the locals I have met have been delightful company.Very polite, and with a great sense of humour.

Left: Another Festive scene. I passed a large army barracks belonging to the 3rd Army Training Wing on the way to Chandor. I stopped and asked the 'sentries' lolling by the gate if I could take a photo. They said no, but I could from over the other side of the road. There were two Vickers Light Tanks as gate-guards ( left ). This model of tank, built by Vickers of Newcastle upon Tyne, saw a lot of very successful active service with the Indian Army and have not long been in retirement.

Chandor is a very 'Roman Catholic Christian' place courtesy of the Portugese ( see church right ). There are some extraordinary old Portugese era manor houses and mansions around, built and furnished, I suppose about 400 years ago.

Left: This one, Fernandez House, is a typical example. It is backed up above the river and still lived in by the 85 year old widow of the previous Fernandez, with her son who showed me around, and who will inherit it. Considering the monsoons and flooding that hits this place it is in reasonably good nick, but as I was told it is an uphill struggle against the elements to keep it in one piece.

Right: The sitting room. From another era and a prime example of old aristocracy in all it's faded glory. These places were often under attack from armed marauders and I was shown various intriguing 'hidey-holes' for both people and valuables. There is also a secret passage through a trap-door in a large wardrobe that leads down flights of steps to an escape tunnel and out of a door by the river bank. Down the steps 'gun holes' were drilled through the thick walls to enable escapees to shoot at any pursuers if considered necessary.

I heard the old lady moving around and only caught a brief glimpse of her. She reminded me of those long since departed 'great-aunts and uncles' who, although frail looking, lived in splendid defiance, against all the odds and despite stark conditions of discomfort, in cold, draughty and leaking old halls and castles. The sort of places where you ate dinner wearing a greatcoat and with buckets placed on the floors to catch rain dripping in through the ceiling. Where the meals were briefly interrupted by a fall of plaster onto the dining table and which was then unobtrusively cleared away by a butler called something like Frobisher.

There are many example of palanquins ( above ) and sedan-chairs ( right ) which were all the rage in those days. I expect Señora Fernandez still uses them if she can find anyone around to carry her.

Another ancient and faded mansion in the centre of the village consisted of two wings belonging to two branches of the Menezes-Braganca family. Built in the 17th century, the 'smarter' west wing was now temporarily closed because the elderly lady inhabitant, Aida Menezez-Baranca, was in hospital. Her cousin inhabits the other, apparently not so sumptuous, half which I entered.

Left: The ballroom with original velvet covered chairs and marble floor. Glorious chandeliers of course. The place also features sagging ceilings, peeling paint and cabinets full of tacky seaside knick-knacks and souvenirs. There is also, in pride of place, an original, non-operational, kerosene powered fridge from early last century.

One can just wander in. I met the old lady somewhere upstairs and she happily gave me a guided tour. And equally happily handed me an ancient wooden box at the end into which I could place my token of appreciation. This is she ( right) and another palanquin, or whatever you call it.

The two local guys at the restaurant where I lunched previously had told me that these families are as rich as Croesus with large blocks of farmland plus other properties and other seriously wealthy family members abroad. It wouldn't do to 'smarten' the old houses up too much because then tourists like me would not find them so interesting and not contribute any 'pocket-money' for the 'expenses' incurred to keep the places standing. Cunning old...........s.

If anyone happened to read a previous 'blog' when I was in Kandy, Sri Lanka, they might remember my rather sarcastic remarks about the Buddhist Temple of the Sacred Tooth. I thought worshipping an ancient gnasher was taking things a bit to the extremes of credibility. Well, this old house has a tiny private chapel just off the sitting room. In this chapel ( of the Roman Catholic persuasion ) is kept, and greatly revered.....another relic, belonging this time to a Christian Saint.

Yes, you're ahead of me, it's the diamond encrusted Holy Fingernail of Saint Francis Xavier! ( 1540s ), here ( left ) seen preserved within a little glass capsule in an elaborate brass frame behind the evocatively flickering electric candle. The Holy Romans were not going to be outdone by some tooth worshipping Buddhists, by Jove and by Jingo!

What next? I am fully expecting to find members of another religion or weird sect, somewhere, dutifully prostrating themselves before the Sacred Pubic Hair of some Divine Being. We shall see.

Right: Being Christmas and all that, I thought you might be interested in seeing what is, quite possibly, the tackiest and most cringe-worthy Nativity scene ever devised by mankind. This was set up around a mosquito ridden pool of stagnant water beside the road between Margao and Corva. You might need to enlarge it ( double click ) to fully appreciate the true ghastliness of the plastic swans, frosted trees and hideous animals at the 'crib'. Fortunately I was not there to witness it when it was 'lit up'.

I think a 2 bore 'punt gun' with number 4 shot would probably do the trick.

Off tomorrow morning by train to Bombay. I think it's about a 13 hour journey and I have my ticket for a 3AC compartment. The 'man in seat 61' says you can book these tickets on the internet. I have tried twice to do this and failed because the web-sites always tell you the trains are fully booked. It is better to go to the reservation centre. They keep tickets back in reserve for dozy foreigners booking at the last minute.

Hope you all survived Christmas, well if you are reading this you did, and I will probably communicate next in 2012. The year in which, according to the Mayans, the world will end. Or was that this year. I can't remember. Who cares.