DELHI - INDIA

1st - 4th Jan 2012

Presidential Residence ( ex-Viceroy's Palace ) New Delhi

The AC 2-tier train compartment from Bombay to Delhi was pretty crowded. I think an extended family had moved into the carriage with two extremely noisy children and not much space left for luggage. There certainly were more than four of us in our compartment but the number kept changing because they were constantly moving around and it was all a bit tiresome. I opened my 'New Year' bottle of wine, well before midnight, and offered a glass to a quieter older guy sitting next to me, but he didn’t want any. I drank alone. Somehow it was decided to sort out the bunks and lie down at about 10.00pm; I had a top bunk. Those damned brats started to yowl as soon as the lights were dimmed and they were eventually taken away and not heard from again. I was obviously not the only one who had had enough of them. We had left at 1640hrs and arrived at New Delhi Central at 0945hrs the next morning. Happy New Year.

I decided to try a hotel on Connaught Place ‘outer circle’ in the centre of New Delhi. The taxi and rickshaw touts here were particularly irritating, and even a bit threatening. I eventually found a ‘pre-pay’ taxi booth and made an escape from the station with a youthful driver who, of course, knew the way. Of course the silly arse got lost, and the hotel wasn’t even very far away.

Dirty, dusty Delhi was my first impression. The small hotel was fine and the lady running it was charming, but the outside area was pitifully awful. 

The whole city covers a vast area and is, basically, divided into four distinct regions namely; Old Delhi to the north including the Red Fort complex, New Delhi Central around Connaught Place, south of that are the Governmental Secretariat buildings and further south and west the large military cantonment area including a modern shopping centre. It appears from the street map that you can walk between a lot of these places, but ‘no way Jose’. Its all very spread out.



Connaught Place ( left, the inner circle, and it is much grottier than it looks in this rather flattering photo taken quite early in the morning ) was designed for the British Raj as the civic focal-point for their new captal city of New Delhi. It was completed in 1931 when it must have looked truly magnificent consisting of three elegant concentric Georgian style white colonnaded circular streets of about 1000 yards in diameter with beautiful shiny patterned marble pavements, interlocking alleyways and a sumptuous grass and tree covered park in the centre. In true Indian fashion, and due to total neglect over the past 60 years, it has been reduced to a rubble and garbage strewn wasteland. The once beautiful pavements are grimey, torn up in places and broken, the colonnades hold some decent shops but consist mostly of tacky little cheapo joints infested with predatory aggravating touts, the plasterwork is cracked, crumbling and dirty and the central park is now mostly a filthy crowded bazaar. The alleyways connecting the three concentric streets are indescribably foul and stinking; they have become public toilets. Everywhere is covered in a thick layer of dust. I think some effort is being made to renovate the place, but too little and far too late I fear. It is the finest example of urban vandalism, on a truly epic scale, that I have ever seen. The neglect and demise of this once proud edifice is a disgrace that successive Indian governments should be thoroughly ashamed of. It is a very depressing sight.


Walking the streets at night around here was a bit dodgy and quite alarming. When you passed the dark stinky alleyways malformed, malodorous and filthy beggars with wild staring eyes lurched out at you, like zombies, clutching at your clothes and soundlessly pleading for money. It was a horror film brought to life. Right: This is one of the ‘open’ areas in the centre of Connaught Place. It had relatively few people on it but was covered in rubbish nevertheless. It is difficult to get a photo showing the full scale of the horror.

I spent a morning wandering around the place and found a few semi-respectable shops and restaurants. There are also some good local 'bazaars' selling cheap clothing and many tailors who attract a large clientele making bespoke garments at very competitive prices. The restaurants have that tiresome habit of quoting a price on the menu and stating at the bottom ‘taxes not included’, but they don’t say how much. There is a service charge and three different taxes which, effectively, increase the menu price by over 30%! Bloody annoying, as I told the manager of one place who sympathetically wobbled his head at me.

One real gem is the old Imperial Hotel. It is almost hidden away up a main street, Janpath, not far from Connaught Place. It has many interesting old prints and pictures on the walls of British/Indian battles fought long ago, jackal hunting, pig sticking and also portraits of splendidly attired Marharanas, Maharajas and Nawabs of the day. It is a lovely hotel and presumably highly pricey to stay there but I called in for a drink just to wander around and admire all the bits and pieces on display.

There are several old photos of Delhi Durbahs on the occasions of visits by British royalty, notably in 1903 and 1911. The city  looked immaculate then ( OK, maybe only the bits involved in the Durbar ).

Left: The Durbar in 1903 on the occasion of the visit of the Duke and Duchess of Connaught. 

Right: Photo of a splendidly dressed, bedecorated and bewhiskered Maharaja. There were many others equally, if not more, exotic. I admired this one for his extraordinary facial hair. They all appeared to have great independence of rule in their respective 'states' and the relationship between them and the 'Raj' seemed to be mutually beneficial.

Left: One of the bars at the Imperial Hotel. The dining room beyond is superb with many more old paintings and prints. If you are wealthy enough, this is a great place to stay.

Right: One of the streets leading off Connaught Place. It is another ‘bustling’ ( BR 8 ) bazaar. The appearance of the city was not helped while I was there because of the permanent mist or haze present. Not sure if this was due to the cool weather or smog.

The Delhi auto-rickshaws are coloured uniform green and yellow. There were so many it was always possible to get a good deal, although the drivers usually tried to persuade you, for a cheaper than offered fare, to go to ‘see’ a favoured shop ‘en-route’ where they get a commission for introducing a tourist. It may have been cheaper ( provided you didn’t buy anything ), but added an hour or two onto the journey time! I fell for that one. Twice.

The newish underground Metro system ( right ) is quite impressive. It is unbearably crowded at rush hours, and by crikey the Indians know how to do crowds, but at other times it is quick, efficient, easy to understand and cheap. It is very high tech and clean. As with any important public facility or large hotel in India everyone is subjected to body and baggage scans before entering.










Left: This photo is of the slightly more expensive but very up-market high-speed city to airport express, stopping at a couple of useful intermediate stations.
Amongst all the dilapidation there are the beginnings of some impressive and high-tech modern public systems.

To the south of the city are much smarter shopping, diplomatic and military areas. The city down here is more open-plan and, although still a bit dusty ( and hazy ), is really quite pleasant. The ‘diplomatic’ area to which I had to pay a call is clean and hosts some very opulent ambassadorial buildings. The cantonment area is home to many military ‘headquarters’ and barracks. I passed an impressive display of a squadron’s worth of horse mounted Lancers in full dress uniforms, plus lances, parading up the road ( in my haste the photo failed ). This is, presumably, the Aldershot equivalent in India and holds some ostentatious army, airforce and even naval establishments with accompanying sportsfields and golf courses.

I made a point of visiting the Delhi Racecourse, the smartly named ‘Delhi Race Club’ on a day, by chance, when there was a race-meeting scheduled. The first race was due off at 2.15pm and I turned up a bit early, at 1.00pm, to enjoy what I hoped was going to be a relaxed introduction to the racecourse with a few drinks and pleasant lunch at, what was advertised at the entry gate, as the members’ restaurant.

 I quickly discovered that Royal Ascot this place most certainly ain’t! It is, to put it mildly, a grotty ‘flapper track’ of the most dilapidated and insalubrious kind. Firstly, I was told at the gate ( entry R50/$1 ) that cameras were strictly prohibited due to ‘security’ reasons. I objected strongly and when threatening to walk away the little Hitler on the gate relented.

Inside it was a typically dusty, dirty and ramshackle place. No alcohol of any kind was permitted and the ‘restaurant’ was certainly cheap but most of what was on the menu was not available. It was a chicken curry, chicken sandwich and/or chips, plus tea, coffee or coca-cola or nothing. There were no stands to speak of and only the final 3 furlongs, or 3 hundred metres, of the ‘hockey stick’ shaped weedy grass or dirt track were visible. The parade ring ( left ) was enclosed by a 10ft high mesh security fence and the only well attended area was a dismal betting ‘yard’ in a shed in the centre.

 Seeing a ‘westerner’ in the thin crowd quickly attracted various ‘helpful’ touts to give tips in the expectation that said grateful tourist would offer remuneration. Some hope in my case. Frankly, it was a seedy, run-down place geared entirely to betting for a down-market exclusively male clientele and, I suspect, not above involving somewhat ‘pre-arranged’ results. By chance I met an amusing couple on holiday from Leeds who, along with me, were the only foreigners present. We had a bit of a giggle together. They even had an each-way bet and, when the horse they backed came second, were approached by a ‘tout’ who wanted a share of their winnings! It really was all quite ghastly and I only stayed for two races. This place must be a serious contender for the most horrid racecourse in the world. How do the Indians manage to make such a complete horlicks of these things!

 

Just around the corner from the racecourse entry was this sign ( left ) indicating where the ‘media’ should ‘go’. It’s nice to know that they deserve special ‘facilities’.

....and that they are obliged to keep suitable company.

Amongst the touts, hawkers and beggars on the streets are quite a few of these disfigured unfortunates with withered legs ( left ). I saw several similar begging around the beaches at Kerala and Goa. This affliction is normally the result of polio. I believe the disease is now contained but was quite widespread up until about ten years ago.There are many crippled beggars on the streets to feel sorry for.

A trip by metro to the Secretariat area, on Raisina Hill, south of Connaught Place, was interesting. This area holds the Presidential Residence ( ex- British Viceroy’s Palace ), Government buildings, the enormous Parliament building and processional route, the Rajpath ( Kingsway ). It is all magnificent and beautifully maintained. The buildings and monuments, mostly designed and constructed by the English architect Edwin Lutyens, are large scale and most impressive. This is where all the ‘pomp and ceremony’ takes place. No expense is spared here to keep things immaculate, in stark contrast to much of the rest of the country.

Right: This imposing building is directly opposite it’s twin and both house Government ministries. They are just east of the Presidential Residence featured at the top of this article. Fleets of ancient looking white 'Amby' cars are waiting to convey 'very important' officials from place to place. I saw many 'very important looking' military and civil personages strutting about. The Indian hierarchy does 'strutting' very well.

Left: Further east down the Rajpath is the India Gate, another Lutyen’s creation. It features the inscription ‘ INDIA. 1914 - 1921. To the dead of the Indian Armies who fell and are honoured in France and Flanders,( plus several other places...my abbreviation here ) on the North Frontier and during the 3rd Afghan War’.
Big military parades take place here. The next major event being the annual Republic Day Parade on the 26th January and all the stands were starting to be erected either side of the Rajpath.

It took me a bit of time, and I was only here for a few days, much of it being spent on ‘administrative’ tasks, to discover some well hidden little oases of excellence; one of which being a Balluchi restaurant near my hotel. Delicious food. Right: This was a close-up of the doorman. He had a most impressive set of moustaches which, according to a waiter, had taken him 10 years to perfect. I am sure that there are many other marvellous places to visit in Delhi but they do tend to be rather well hidden amongst the dust and rubble.
I didn't manage to get up to Old Delhi in the north part of the city to visit the vast Red Fort and other ancient relics of a bygone age. I suspect I will be seeing a lot of that stuff soon because I am leaving on a train trip around Rajasthan tonight ( 4th ). I aim to get to the somewhat obscure suburban train station of Safdarjung somehow, probably by auto-wreckshaw, and will be setting off very early because the driver who will ‘know the place well’ will be absolutely 100% guaranteed to get hopelessly lost and have to ask directions from, possibly, the opposite end of town. I have ‘recced’ this place and will know my way there and recognise it better than him. This is a necessary precaution because these bandits tend to say “ we are here now”, kick you off and you then find that you are stranded in totally the wrong place! I may next report if and when back in Delhi in a week's time. Tally ho!

PS. I'm sure I recognise the chap on the right. I think he served in the British Army Air Corps? Can anyone help me? He is now working as a very smart doorman at a prestigious hotel in New Delhi and calls himself Jagdesh.

BOMBAY - INDIA

27th - 31st Dec 2011

The Gateway of India

The train ride fom Mangao to Bombay was again in an AC2 compartment. We left at 0930hrs and were due to arrive at Bombay Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus ( Victoria Terminus, or VT to most ) at 2030hrs. I was sitting opposite a 76 year old gent whose son, he told me, was a pilot with Spice Jet, a low cost Indian outfit. He was pleasant enough company and not over talkative, thankfully. I learnt a couple of words of Hindi from him; ha - yes, nai - no and dhanyabad - thank you. I think I will leave it at that. There are two main British topics of interest to Indians; premier league football ( as it is in all nations of the world - we remain influential in something at least ) and cricket. I may have mentioned when in Sri Lanka that as soon as you mention cricket and say you are from England the response normally involves the 'Barmy Army' ( the Bammyammy ). The Lankans, and the Indians, are fascinated by this boisterous group of bugle tooting, drum banging, fanatical heavy drinking English cricket supporters. I was reminded by a Sri Lankan that on one infamous occasion, when England were playing Sri Lanka at Kandy, the Barmy Army drank the town dry. The Sri Lankans could not believe how much drink this bunch of piss-artists put away. The Indians are similarly impressed. The BA have acquired  cult status in the sub-continent, and this in a nation that does not normally much approve of alcohol. One of their drums is on display in prime position at the Cricket Club Cafe in Colombo and is probably accorded nearly as much reverence as that old fang in the temple at Kandy. By the way, I notice that the Sri Lankans beat South Africa in the 2nd Test there! After all the demoralised talk I heard from the locals a few weeks ago, well done them!

The time passed comfortably and quickly enough with lots of chai to drink, books to read and a supper meal of 'non-spicy' chicken and rice was served but, sadly, the views of the passing countryside went almost unseen. The AC carriage windows are double-glazed and condensation and dirt combine to make then barely transparent. See, or not, the outside view (left).






We arrived over an hour late, for whatever reason, at the VT. This seething ( Bustle Rating 8 ) gothic monstrosity of a building is probably the most impressive and iconic in all Bombay. The guide books describe it as 'imposing, exuberant and extravagant'. As a historian put it 'the Victoria Terminus is to the British Raj what the Taj Mahal is to the Mughal empire'. It is the busiest train station in Asia. I didn't get a chance to see much of it as it was dark and I fell foul of a bastard rip-off taxi driver ( it was late and I was in too much of a hurry and I should have known better ). He drove me in one of the squillions of bent, bashed and clapped out geriatric, cobbled together in India, Fiat-style taxis ( above ) with the boot held half closed by a piece of string, to my hotel in the Fort district, all of half a mile away. I learnt that I had paid over four times the going rate. The hotel, not previously booked, was rather pleasant ( The Residency ) and not too expensive with very helpful staff. Recommended, if you happen to be passing.

I woke up the next morning, looked out of the window, and thought I was in Leicester. I was soon reminded otherwise due to the sunshine, warmth and cheerfully attentive waiters. I then went on a wander.
Left: Part of the High Court. The Fort and Colaba areas on the southern tip of the Bombay peninsula are  interesting, relatively clean and boast magnificent old gothic style British built buildings and pleasant parks. It is a very jolly place to walk around and there are surprisingly few touts.









The otherwise almost unheard of arts of 'street cleaning' and 'rubbish collection' are obviously practiced here. Maybe it will catch on in the rest of Bombay and even other Indian cities. There is a workforce employed, however inefficiently, to keep the parks and gardens looking nice as demonstrated by this chap ( right ) cutting the grass at the Flora Fountain.





The large grass park in the Fort area, called the Oval Maidan ( left ), is about half a mile long. It was hosting four cricket matches as I walked past. Tents were erected as temporary pavilions and it looked as if great fun was being had by all. The main 'international' cricket ground, Wankede Stadium, is nearby. It is hidden away in between hotels and large buildings and therefore difficult to find. The guy I asked to show me where it was asked "You from?" ( they never say 'where' are you from ). When I said England he replied, you've guessed it, "..aah, Bammyammy".
Didn't we beat them 5 - 0 last year? I didn't mention it.


Right: Even at this lowly level all the players were wearing whites.














Left: A part of the University buildings with the Rajabai Clock Tower behind. They seemed well maintained and NO LITTER! ( well not very much ).











I walked down to the Colaba district and on the quay-side is the impressive Gateway to India monument ( right ). The inscription carved into the stone above the main portico reads "Erected to commemorate the landing in India of their Imperial Majesties King George V and Queen Mary on 2nd December MCMXI. ( 1911 ). That is almost exactly 100 years ago.
There were long queues for rather wonky unstable looking ferries at the jetties on the quay behind. Trips round the harbour? I didn't.



Left: Nearby is the magnificent Taj Mahal hotel. This was one of the places that got attacked by terrorists in 2008. 163 people ( I think ) were killed throughout the city during this attack. I don't know how many died here, but several hotel staff and maybe some guests did. As a result, and quite understandably, most 'prestigious' hotels and buildings are now protected by army and police guards and they all have quite elaborate airport type baggage and personal screening systems in place. I went in at lunchtime for a gin & tonic. It cost nearly as much as my entire hotel bill for the previous night!

I then went to the well known and touristy venue, the Leopold Cafe, for lunch. It was packed. I didn't stay in the queue for a table. I went off wandering again and passed the Regal Cinema ( right ). Art Deco at it's best and reminded me of cinemas in Britain from my childhood. It was showing some dreadful film or other, probably a one in Hindi with lots of screechy singing and dancing. These 'movies' are an acquired taste, I suppose, and are immensely popular amongst the locals. The wildly enthusiastic Indian audiences, I am told, take a noisy pro-active part in the proceedings. I doubt if I will have the time, or inclination, to investigate Bollywood and all it's trappings.


Then to the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya Museum, nearby; formerly the Prince of Wales Museum ( left ). I think I prefer the latter title for obvious reason.










The building itself was fantastic. The exhibits not quite so much to my fancy. There were three floors of displays. Most of the stuff was a collection of statues, again, of Hindu deities. I am, by now, seriously bored by Hindu deities. Some remarkably dull pottery and paintings and ornaments filled a lot of space. There was a vaguely interesting historic coin display, and one of ancient swords, daggers and other weapons which, annoyingly, lacked any description of what they were or where they were from!



Left: The inside architecture of the museum. The most impressive aspect. The exhibits, in my opinion, were crap and appallingly labelled and displayed. There was an audio-guide which I switched off after a few most tedious 'descriptions'. For all my cynicism of things American, it needs something of their switched-on ability to 'do' displays and museums to get these sort of places sharpened up, livened up and 'on track' to attract and amuse tourists. With a bit of imagination and flair it could be done, I'm sure.





Right: Standing outside is, I can only presume because we were forbidden to approach it, a statue of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales ( later to become King Edward V11), who gave his name to this museum. He may not get many human visitors but sure is a popular guy with the local pigeons. I couldn't help but think; either pull the old boy down or clean him up a bit. Maybe it is intended as a deliberate insult to the old colonial power who surely deserve some credit for building the damned museum in the first place!












As I said earlier, I found wandering around this southern, touristy, end of Bombay City most enjoyable with plenty of interesting sights to see, vis-a-vis this horse drawn wedding carriage jammed in amongst the traffic. Although not too many touts and hawkers about, thankfully, there were several guys trying to sell enormous, mostly yellow, balloons. I can't think who would want to buy an outsize yellow balloon. Maybe they have some religious significance. There were a lot of armed security guards both of the police and army at all points. Some of their weaponry was seriously ancient ( 7.62 FN SLR's being the most modern ).



...and another shot of the Rajabai Clock Tower ( right ). This is at one end of the university buildings on the east side of the Oval Maidan. 

I was due to meet up that evening with an ex-colleague who now works for the Indian Airline Jet Airways and who lives in a hotel in Powai district up north towards the airport. I was persuaded to use another battered old non-AC wreck of a taxi by a taxi rank ‘manager’ who told me the ancient driver was coming up for retirement, but was competent and knew the area like the back of his hand. It was also relatively cheap. The further north we went the more slummy the cityscape became. We passed through about 10 miles off filthy, dirty, crowded Grotsville before breaking out into relatively clear space at Powai and my driver was beginning to look around rather vaguely. Of course the old fool got completely lost, as I had fully anticipated, and we spent about 30 minutes driving very slowly around in circles amidst much traffic, with him stopping periodically to ask the way. It took us 1 hour 45 minutes hours to travel what should have taken an hour.


Courtesy of JP, the ex-colleague, I found myself, free of charge, in a luxurious room in the 5 star Renaissance Hotel. This is where these pilots are accommodated and have all mod cons including swimming pools, tennis courts, ‘spas’ ( whatever they are ) and wall to wall running waiters to pander to their every whim. How the other half live; but I am told that they also work very long hours with many overnight stops away from ‘home’ and they suffer chaotic rosters which, from my experience, makes for a stressful existence. For me it was a great and unexpected bonus.
Above: The irrepressible JP ( with the shades ) and another pilot Gilbert, from Newfoundland, Canada, hard at work by the swimming pool. 

I took a taxi downtown to book my next rail ticket at the special ‘Tourist’ reservation office. The bigger cities have these offices and they are most useful and efficiently organised to sell specially ‘held back’ tickets for foreigners. If the normal local office or internet tells you that all the seats are sold, you can normally get what you want from these places, on production of your passport. This is a useful tip if you need an Indian rail ticket at short notice. Interestingly, the cost of the taxi ride to get the ticket and return ( R1500, or $30, and I was probably ripped off ) was more expensive than the AC2 ticket from Bombay to Delhi ( R1250, or $25 ).

The only place worth going to near the hotel was a shopping centre on the south side of Powai lake ( right ), a short hop away. We went out for supper down there once. The hotel is on the northern shore from where this was taken. The lake alledgedly has one, if not more, crocodile in it which escaped from a nearby zoo. I spent some time gazing out of the window watching, quivering with anticipation, for the croc to leap out and grab the occasional unsuspecting local washing, fishing or paddling around the shore, and thereby to become that well known item, the 'Lacoste sleeping bag'.




Left: Another of our bovine friends strolling near the shopping centre. I have now heard two more variations on the myth as to why Hindus regard cows as sacred. One involves the fact that they eat grass and make milk to feed people, or something along those lines. So why for that matter don’t they make a fuss of sheep, or goats? I think they just make it all up as they go along. MacDonalds have their dreadful eateries in Bombay, but they only serve ‘Chickenburgers’. In fact the chickens and sheep take a real bashing in this part of the world as they tend to be the main ‘non-veg’ dish and sandwich filler. Chickens and sheep are definitely not considered sacred.

Right: Caroline, from Ireland, Gilbert and JP at breakfast. They looked after me most generously while I was there and were highly amusing company. It was interesting to hear their views on living in India ( Gilbert has been working here for Jet Airways for 5 years ). Suffice to say that having seen the sights downtown and elsewhere once they now have no reason, or inclination, to move far from the hotel when not working. Talking of people from Ireland reminds me that I have not seen any 'Oirish bears' since leaving Singapore, I think. Maybe the Hindu religion bans them. I stayed here for 3 comfortable nights. Thanks very much JP, Gilbert and Caroline for entertaining me.

I didn’t have time to visit ‘Bollywood’ or do a guided tour of the famous Dharavi slum on the northern side of the city, which is apparently quite interesting ( no photography is allowed there ). Dharavi slum is the biggest slum in Asia and produces millions of dollars worth of recycled goods per year including considerable exports, and was the setting, or inspiration, for that 2008 film Slumdog Millionaire. I'm not exactly sure what constitutes a slum but did you know that 55% of Bombay’s population live in slums or shanty-towns? I did pass another well known landmark en-route to the train station, the Dhobi Ghat, ( left ), which is a vast human-powered public washing machine. This place has 1026 troughs in which hundreds of people scrub, then hang out to dry, acres of  laundry. I wonder if they lose many socks?

Back downtown to Bombay Central station this time, to catch the 1640hrs train to Delhi on December the 31st. I took a bottle of wine with me to celebrate the New Year.  Whoopee!

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.