Tales from the Gael

I have got to the stage when I have finally relaxed. The sun is setting and the Honeybee brandy is at my side, and the gardeners are watering the grass. In some palms beside the frangipani tree some crows are making a big song and dance about feathering their new nest with weird bits of wire and are at present hacking off twigs from a bush to add to the fortress they are building.

Nick and Katharine have finally arrived, shell shocked from their long journey, and have slept all day. I wish they would wake up and come and party! I am all set for a curry and a catch up, but I think I might have to wait. Tomorrow we are off to Margao (a big ‘small city’) just a bus ride away; it only costs 10 rupees to get there. We are getting my ‘visiting cards’ printed and have already had all my blogs printed, right from when I started. They look amazing and with all the photos and all the memories, it is just wonderful to flick through and read about random things that tickled my fancy at the time: kauri trees in New Zealand, mosques in Oman, and goodness knows so much more. We chose for a cover the two fishing chairs that we bought in Kiev and took to Doha and finally abandoned on the beach when we left. Not exactly Samuel Pepys, but still a fun record.

But it was all go on the beach the other day. We were sunning and drinking fresh lime sodas, the sea was sploshy and beautiful, and suddenly we felt we were watching an opera or a Chekhov play. The Russians next to us had a huge private drama, and we had ringside seats. I looked on unashamedly as the two couples wept and paced and drank beer and wept some more. They hugged, then stormed off, and were called back to be embraced, while the child who caused all the troubles seemed to be unconcerned and played with a crab. What on earth had happened? There was a tray overloaded with empty Kingfisher beer bottles, so perhaps that might have caused deep feelings to be exposed. It was difficult to return to my book. It was so dull in comparison.

Walking home we found another dead sea snake brought in by the fishermen’s nets (I hope) and a couple of grown men who were having the time of their lives!

We do like to sit at the German Bakery in the morning and peruse the Indian Times, and we were quite taken with the latest scandal on the trains. Headlines jumped out:

40 policemen found hiding in the train toilets

Agra: A drive against ticketless travel, launched by railway magistrate V K Singh, led to the unmasking of some unusual suspects – as many as 40 ticketless cops were found hiding in the toilets to avoid being penalized.

Ha Ha! I love it, though I cannot imagine wanting to stay longer than necessary in such a place, having being locked inside one on the train from Delhi.

The other great news comes from Margao, where there was a contretemps in the Municipal Council Offices. All the leading councillors decided to stage a group squat in protest of a colleague being sacked. The picture shows the gentlemen all dressed in their shirts and ties squatting together. United we squat! Funny.

Later

John and I went out for another bird watching trip with Professor Shiva,

but this time we went as the sun was setting. We took a different route and marched through dried up fields, along sandy embankments, clambered up little hills and swooped down on the scree. The humidity was awful, and we were both tired having walked for miles already along the beach in the morning. Still, we followed closely, obeying the sharp demands, ‘Quick look there – the female marsh harrier,

and there – five black headed ibis

and beside them several red water lapwings.’

Paddy pipits darted about, and the yellow pied wagtail zoomed out of a tree.

Kingfishers were in abundance, and suddenly Shiva shouted out in Gaelic, ‘By the grace of God’ and ‘Amazing Grace Kelly, there is the Asian nightingale, can you hear it?: “ko-yelle ko-yelle.”

Then we saw a leafless branch holding a record number of blue tailed bee-eaters.

Shiva said they had eyes like red rubies, as though they were made by a Swiss jeweller and certainly not by an Indian as Prince Philip might have commented. I think the Prince had made some faux pas on an official visit, when he viewed the chaotic overhead wiring he saw in Delhi. He had a point.

From bee-eaters we scrambled down a steep slope, slipping and sliding, with Our Leader holding out his arm, ‘Be careful little darlings,’ and then he launched into a recital of Wordsworth’s  poem about Lucy –  a young girl who had passed away, and Wordsworth sees her loveliness transferred to nature, and all the joys in the natural world:

And hers shall be the breathing balm,

And hers the silence and the calm-

Of silent insensate things.

Shiva was feeling the one-ness of nature around him, as though it might have been Lucy’s spirit, the breathing balm. The quotation above is from the poem ‘Three years she grew in sun and flower’. And the original one starts:

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,

And, when I crossed the Wild,

I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary Child.

 All this thought as we searched the skies for the white bellied sea eagle, and traipsed through long grasses stopping to study the damsel fly, the hoverfly, a discarded yellow baya weaver’s nest that may have fallen from a nearby coconut palm,

and around us flitted the crimson rose, blue Mormon and peacock pansy butterflies.

Then Shiva rose up from melancholy poet’s mood to High Alert… for above us were two white bellied sea eagles and in the mouth of one was dangling a long green vine snake! Wonderful.

We walked home and soaked our flip flops in Ariel and quietly reflected on the evening:

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living Child,

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome Wild.

Over rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

 Yesterday the sleeping beauties finally arose and shook off the jet lag and joined the party! We sped off to the Anjuna market and Katharine was the star bargainer. She stocked up her Sydney wardrobe with pretty dresses and tops, and bought a lovely leather computer satchel.

Nick grumbled that there wasn’t enough ‘man stuff’!!! True, there were a lot of earrings and pendants and dresses and peacock fans, but the humidity was fierce and it sort of put you off walking the miles around the shacks and tents. We did eat by the beach and enjoyed the breeze and it was lovely for me to see them and have them here in India with me. Back at the car, Nick espied a sloughed snake skin hanging out of a stone wall, so he pulled it, but the taxi driver shouted, ‘NO! The snake is still busy – he is still in the process!’ So that was good, and probably well timed!

To end our day at the market we got our driver to take us to Vagator, accessible by steep steps from the road. Vagator and Chapora used to be the scene of the wild hippie trance parties.  Nowadays it has all slowed down somewhat, and people just lounge around the boulder-studded sands. Our mission was to see the huge happy carved face of Shiva that gazes out of the rocks.

This done, I made my way up those endless steps, gasping in the heat, whilst Katharine and Nick were beguiled by the beach sellers and went to buy a large throw for the table where their pet canary sits! Well, they will have a memory that’s for sure.

And now it’s a new day; John is going to have a cut-throat shave and a head-and-shoulder massage at the barbers, and I shall have a ginger, lemon and honey tea while I wait. Nick and Katharine will be down in a beach shack watching the cricket: Australia v India.

I really think we may have been away too long. Each night we play three games of backgammon, and whoever wins crows for a while the victory song, and lately I have been very lucky – it’s as though Omar Sharif has been sitting on my shoulder guiding my every move. Well last night we were on our third game, and it was 1-1 and suddenly the Skype rang and it was Bonnie and Tasha calling for a chat. I immediately abandoned the tournament, and got lost in Bonnie’s new achievements; she can walk (!) and babble about and is just full of jumping beans. I particularly loved watching Natasha reading her a story about a little owl. It was just magical.

Anyway once the goodbyes were said, I found John asleep so I too zoomed off to the Land of Nod, but in the morning, before my eyes were properly awake, he produced the backgammon set and demanded a continuation of the game (as he was winning). And he did. He has been chuckling ever since. Now who is the sad git I wonder!!!!

More adventures await, a giant waterfall, spice farm and who knows what else. Nick and Katharine have hired a Honda Wave so they are going to be doing some local exploring.

But in all of this, I think of Shiva marching about showing birds to tourists and teaching them how to cook, and looking after his family, and while we all go about our business of holiday making, he is marching through the fields thinking about the poems of Wordsworth. How lovely is that?

Shiva met us the morning after our bird watching trip, full of glee and excitement. He had taken tourists out at sunset that same day, and ‘Lo and behold, there was a sea eagle eating a vine snake on a branch, just there for us to be looking at!’ I could just imagine it, sucking it up like a piece of spaghetti!

Then the next day, we were chatting to a man who had been brushing his teeth, looking out of his window, when suddenly he saw a large Brahmini kite swoop down and take a snake from the grass outside his window. Such drama and excitement, but everyone assures us there is no danger anywhere.

John and I both nearly got killed by a falling coconut. It fell directly between us, and landed with a thump about twelve inches from both of us… but Shiva was emphatic that the coconut knows where to land, and won’t fall on heads! I suppose the two large spiders that were lurking on our curtains were fine too, if they had decided to take a walk across our sleeping bodies.

What would have happened if we decided to twitch or turn over? I suppose those fangs of theirs are just for show? Anyway John ushered them into a bucket and ran like crazy and left the whole spidery confusion outside for the night.

Sunday was lovely, and we walked for miles along the beach, and stopped to watch the fishermen haul in their nets.

It was all very laid back, as they pulled in pairs, and only the poor guy in the sea was struggling with the waves as he tried to hold the nets steady.

I was convinced the lifesaving wallahs might have had to DO something, instead of just march about in their red uniforms blowing their whistles.

The nets came up bulging with the silver darlings, mostly pomfret and maybe a mackerel variety and strange baby barracudas, with long snouts.

But in amongst the fishes was a long striped sea snake. Everyone gathered around, having a good look, then a fisherman grabbed it by the tail and hurled it on to the sand, where it wriggled about before finding the safety of the waves.

I am so glad I wasn’t swimming at the time, and looked with interest at the people who were! Fortunately they were blissfully unaware what was swimming past their legs!

Yesterday we drove to Old Goa, and stopped to admire the Basilica of Bom Jesus. Built in 1594 it was a beautifully carved late renaissance building, simple inside but grand. To the right of the altar is the slightly grizzly highlight for visitors (there were a lot of people snapping madly). The body of St Francis Xavier lies in a glass coffin, rather like Snow White.

The miracle is that he died off China in 1552, his body was covered in lime and he was transported back to Goa. BUT two months later the body was still in perfect condition, and even after a year he had the appearance of having just passed away. Truly miraculous. But of course relic hunters needed an arm, a finger, some innards etc., and so poor St Francis lies in state, but minus some body parts. His leathery remains are taken out and paraded around the streets of Goa every ten years. I too snapped.

And from one type of snapping to another. We boarded the little craft that took us off to see some crocodiles, fondly called ‘Mandovi Muggers’, and ‘Salties’.

We putted up the Mandovi estuary through the mangroves, and John was delighted to see a large stork sunning itself on a branch.

We did see some mean looking heads that slipped down under the murky water as we approached, and another that lay inert on the bank.

I was convinced that he had been ‘placed’ for us just to get the excitement. I was feeling cynical. Then we came across a large crocodile about 5 metres long, with a fat, well fed tummy digesting his dinner. He looked calm and the boatmen brought our boat right up to the bank. We all clicked and snapped and felt quite complacent. I had my arm on the side of the boat.

Then suddenly it was up and coming towards us like a streak of lightning. It just kept coming and it launched itself off the bank and then splash, it was under the boat. It missed my arm by about 2m. I was terrified. We all were. The rest of the trip was quite subdued.

So many fishermen are ‘taken’ every year and no wonder. Sitting perched on thin canoes, dangling bits of chicken legs trying to attract crabs and what not.

They just have the attitude that ‘it won’t happen to me’. Like our taxi driver, he doesn’t wear a seat belt, ‘it’s too hot, I don’t like it’. OK.

And the latest excitement is it that there is a wild leopard on the prowl quite close to us. It has already eaten seven dogs. The local people have tried to entice it into a cage using a pig as bait, but so far it hasn’t been tempted. They have also lit fires and tried to frighten it away. It has been around for two weeks already. Oh my, and we walk home in the dark from our evening meals at the local restaurants in the village and on the beach. Sometimes I forget I am in INDIA!

We did venture to Anjuna market.

This used to be the scene of the wild hippy days in the 1960s in Goa, where there was trance dancing and so on, and even now some of the vendors are Europeans selling their wares and looking laid back and wearing weird clothes.

We haggled for jewellery and T-shirts and it was all very colourful and in a way desperate. I hate the hard sell that always follows you about. If only they would just let us LOOK!

We escaped for lunch overlooking the beach, and there was a breeze and we drank fresh lime sodas,

and John photographed a lady laden down with bundles on her head, and wearing all her jewellery at once – in her nose, her ears, her neck and arms.

She looked quite a character, but not a patch on the sublime beauty of a Bollywood actress that also likes to give all her precious baubles an airing at the same time!

Sadly my Nick’s holiday here has been delayed. Katharine, his girlfriend, is in hospital with some horrible throat infection which has made her blood count soar. She is on an antibiotic drip and hopefully she will get better in time for next weekend when the flight is now booked for. This is certainly the place for her to relax and get well, smell the frangipani, swim in the waves and eat delicious fish.

I am praying that they will both arrive next Sunday as planned. Our trip to Hampi has now been postponed, but it just means that we shall have to come back next year! We both want to explore south India next time.

Babblers, nightingales and coppersmith barbets.

I have suddenly extended my vocabulary and can now differentiate between a bee-eater and a kingfisher.

The great Shiva took us on a bird watching odyssey yesterday at 6.30 a.m. He made us plough through fields of cows and buffalo and kept shouting that we must avoid falling into the dung pile (which is what he did apparently, overcome with excitement from glimpsing a rare bird – his tourists had to haul him out). Thank God he didn’t do it again. Here in Benaulim Shiva is like a learned self-taught professor, with a wonderful gift for teaching. He has this amazing stream of consciousness that he keeps up all the time, with word association. He called to John to ‘come quick, don’t miss this, my bonnie lad, or I’ll dance the buckles off my shoes with you my Johnnie lad.’ John dutifully looked at the purple moorhens strutting through the paddy fields and we all cocked an ear to hear the nightingale sing (on Berkley Square) and within minutes we had seen a black forked tail drongo,

two kingfishers

and a bronzed wing jacana

Their huge feet help them to walk over the vegetation on shallow lakes. As we passed silk cotton bugs we saw a ruby whiskered bulbul and listened to the coppersmith barbet.

I admired the beautiful angel trumpets but was told that they were used in black magic. Their seeds, mixed with cumin seeds, make a deadly potion for a neighbour that might have given you grief. I looked at the pretty flowers with peacock pansy butterflies fluttering over them and gave them a wide berth. As we passed the large grey babbler singing in a bush, Shiva said they sing the songs of freedom, just like Bob Marley, and then we saw the red wattled lapwing saying, ‘Did he do it? Did he do it?’ and then further on we came across the sweet little rose finches and a bee-eater. It flew off in a green flash, but Shiva immediately put our minds at rest, ‘ Dinnae worry (he said in a pure Scots accent) ‘he’s no awa to bide awa, he’s no awa to leave you, he’s like a boomerang for he always comes back.’ And he did. Then he nearly had a fit of excitement, and shouted to John in a hushed electrified way, ‘come here! Johnny my bonnie lad!’ and there on the roof of a disused house was a rare, endangered forest owlet. Magic! For me the highlight of the morning was seeing SIX Golden Orioles. They sat on the top of the silk cotton tree and flew about, then later I saw three fly over some cashew nut trees. Wonderful.

Shiva gave us a lecture about how you must not instruct your children to choose a life path, but instead leave it up to them. He himself is an example of someone who is always evolving. Walking on we got a potted history of Edward 1, which went on to Henry V and  finally Henry V111. Both John and I were lost. History from years ago was suddenly being revived and in context, the number of dead at the Battle of Bannockburn was quoted, and on 23rd November 2011, ‘on this same wire, FIVE blue tailed bee-eaters were seen, but today only four are present’.  No matter, John was happy with the shot. From a calm history lesson we were suddenly in the throes of excitement again, as a HOOPOE was spied. Fairly rare and very exotic and we tried to get a good snap, but it was quite far away. We saw the sleek flight of a male marsh harrier, a black winged stork and a variety of egrets that turn orange apparently ‘when they are strutting their stuff’. Shiva needed to ‘water the grass’ and told us to not take our eyes of the two wild peacocks that suddenly appeared while he got on with it. We saw tailor birds’ nests, ants‘nests, lion ants’ holes, and got bitten by the nasty little ordinary ants. Shiva just told us to ‘keep on dancing, keep on the dance floor and don’t stay far from the dance band’. He led us through the scrub and the paddy fields all the time pointing out crow pheasants or the great coukal, as it is known , magpie robins, Indian pond herons and grey herons, the latter flying so gracefully as though out of the pages of a story book.

We got back at 9.30 and had a masala omelette for breakfast.  Both of us were quite dehydrated as the sun had risen and we had not taken water with us for our jaunt. But the experience was wonderful. Suddenly the noises and swooping of our feathery friends have a greater meaning. Up until now we had been absorbed with the kites and eagles, but suddenly kingfishers,

muniyas, yellow baya weavers all mean something. We were so enthused and full of beans that John bought me the most beautiful turquoise bracelet on the way home, from the Kashmir trader. We were horrified at our muddy feet that trailed into his shop, bringing in all the sludge of the paddy field. But at night I wore my pretty bracelet and it was the perfect end to a very ‘birdy’ day.

Go Go Goa! It’s only been eleven days, but already I am thinking this might be the ideal place to retire. By chance we chose the most perfect location, a studio apartment in one of several lovely coloured houses within a compound and just a short walk to the village.

The gardens are lush and watered and immaculate, and the compound has its own private access to Benaulim beach. I daresay there may be prettier or more famous Goan beaches, but this one is long, clean and with fine, white sand.

Along the beach are very ‘Hitler-like’ life-guards who parade about with their whistles.

I felt a little as though I was back at school in the gym. But, there is good reason for their efficiency as there is  a strong rip tide and many people have lost their lives due to romantic swims when full of beer.

Yesterday we ate lunch in a beach shack and suddenly I saw a dolphin, just a few metres from the shore, rolling and swimming in the waves, just so close to swimmers.  As John and I looked about to share our glee, all the other people were absorbed with their mobile phones.

I can see us living here, getting old, with our floppy hats, dark tanned skins, and happy faces from a life of walking along palm fringed shores.

So far so good, but if I did live here forever I would insist on a Zanussi washing machine, as at the moment I am in my sarong, squatting on the bathroom floor amidst the suds. To be honest it is quite therapeutic and I take a certain pride in ‘my whites’! Today is HOLI day where people love to splash powdered paint around. I have seen several folk with smeared cerise and purples all over their cheeks, but haven’t seen anyone wielding the colours as yet.

Last night was the full moon, and we sat in our favourite little food shack on the beach, watching the sun set and drinking Honeybee brandy and eating the most delicious vegetable curries.

Later we walked back by the light of the silvery moon, with the hushed rush of the waves on the sand. I mean, why not live here forever?

There is a very discreet place on the compound where we throw our rubbish in proper recycling bins. (Goa is so clean compared to other parts of India; they even have beach cleaning wallahs.)

One afternoon when all was quiet we went along and there on top of one bin was a mongoose! I don’t know who got the biggest shock, him or us! The story of Rikki Tikki Tavie came rushing back, and so did the haunting picture of Nag, the black cobra!

John had a crisis in the bathroom the other day, he slipped on the wet tiles and fell, and when he came out, quite sore and sorry for himself, he complained that I hadn’t come running to help (in my usual nursing, caring way). I had been quietly sitting reading my book on the veranda. I did ask what he called out when he fell: the answer was ‘F u u u u u u ck’. Quite so. Of course I didn’t go running.

We went on an excursion yesterday with Mr Alex in his tuk-tuk to Cavelossim where we went on a trip on Betty’s Boats.

It was fabulous, serene and beautiful. We saw dolphins in the Arabian Sea, then we went up the river through the mangroves and John was in bird heaven.

Brahminy kites with their white tummies and reddish backs swirled about and dived and sat like picture postcards on palm trees or electric cables. Kingfishers darted about, and fruit bats hung like musical crotchets from tree branches.

We had lunch of kingfish and fried prawns.

It was all just so idyllic.

The only black fly in the ointment were a few of our fellow ‘trippers’. The four bores from London droned on and on all day about the countries they had visited, problems they had solved, fish they had eaten. Sadly our lovely little boatman kept filling up their glasses with Kingfisher beer, and rum and brandy, and they droned louder and longer. Aaargh! I tried to speak to my neighbour lady who had such OLD skin, hanging in wrinkled folds, but she ignored all my friendly attempts. I assumed she and her husband (with large piano keys teeth) were deaf. So, at the end of the boat trip, I stood up like a most put out Maggie Smith and said loudly, ‘Well, let’s leave these rude, unfriendly people,’ and suddenly old deaf ears turns and says, ‘Hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.’ I barely acknowledged her.

As we left, we saw so many drunks being escorted off the boat. They looked dreadful with their big fat bellies and must have been feeling very unwell, full of beer in the baking sun. Lucky they didn’t have heart attacks. The ‘motor-mouth’ quartet just carried on talking without pausing for breath as they walked back to their taxi. They had been so busy talking about Cuba and Peru that they had missed the kingfishers and the sea eagles.

In the big cities of India you don’t know the beggars or hawkers’ names, but in small villages, suddenly we are on first names with quite a few. I went cooking with Shiva.

He is one of these people blessed with incredible memories. He can tell you your post code, no matter where you live, and speak in a multitude of languages. He chatted to me about Nicola Sturgeon and Scottish Independence, then the colonial days of Malaya and India. He chats with the familiarity of slang, and his cooking chatter was spattered with ditties like, ‘put a little bit of fire on the dance floor’ and ‘keep moving, keep moving!’ That was instead of ‘increase the heat!’ I just wish I had a half his memory! He took me and a German couple through the palms and small farm allotments to his very small house, which had a tree growing through his roof.

The kitchen was tiny, but everything had its place. For 600 rupees, we learnt how to make masala curry, dahls, baajies (not the same as onion baajies), and later he served it all up ‘thali’ style to us under the trees with the old bikes and chickens, and his large family ate the rest inside! The German man was very kind, and whilst Shiva was inside he surreptitiously produced a water bottle full of proper Austrian brandy (not Honeybee) and urged me to have a sip. I did – and shuddered, rather like the girl I once was behind the bike sheds at school long ago, sipping some forbidden alcohol spirited away by a day girl! Anyway the German couple assured me it would prevent any bugs doing mischief in our tummies! Then he urged me to have another sip. I declined. Any more and I might have launched into my repertoire of ‘The Sound of Music’.

The other new ‘friend’ is Tina. A sarong clad beach menace who plagues us with offers of jewellery and finery. She is quite sweet though, and has a pretty green sari, so I have promised her that she can give me a manicure and pedicure. We shall see.

And this morning we had the best coffee in India in the German Café.

It is always crowded, and seats are more sought after than those at Covent Garden. We espied two and squeezed in, and started reading the India Times, and inevitably we got talking to our neighbour. He was a very cool dude, an elderly Indian man with such a relaxed view of life. He advocated the use of weed while we are in India, so good to expand the mind and brilliant for dementia. (I don’t have that, well, maybe a few senior moments????). He was so cool and told us about opium and such like. We told him about our nasty vodka experience. We thought the famous Smirnoff (made in India) might be as delicious as the Honeybee, but one taste and I could see a change in John. I tasted it, and it was vile, strong and tasted of toxic chemicals. Our friend said that as there was such a demand for alcohol, the producers don’t bother to distil it long enough or store the produce. Result was we poured the lot down the sink. Now where is this weed? HA HA HA! Our learned friend saw John reading the paper, and shook his head. He only reads the paper once a week. ‘SOS SOS,’ he explained. I looked at him, and he smiled: ‘Save Our souls from the Same Old Shit!’

We are considering going to Hampi, about 350 kms from here, our friend highly recommended we go. It is an ancient 14^th C ruin of temples and a city that was once a capital of this part of the world. It is surrounded by iron mines and he said you get a weird sensation of magnetic pull if you stand on a particular hill. He really is into mind bending experiences. We discussed the sex problems that are plaguing Delhi at the moment, and he said that was actually his field of work. There are 300 million young people aged between fifteen and twenty five and 10% are criminally minded. Parents haven’t got a hope, they work ten hours a day, so boys grow up in a gang culture. Sex and repression get out of control. It is a huge problem, especially as women are seen as second class citizens.

Driving around the country roads we are quite delighted by the deep colours Goans like to paint their houses. No wishy-washy magnolia for them – no no!  They like magenta, bright orange and purple to brighten up the neighbourhood. Mr Alex has a pink creation himself.

As we huddle in the back of his tiny tuk-tuk, we cower away from the busses that roar around corners, narrowly missing cyclists and pedestrians with their large big bully-boy ploys. As they approach at breakneck speed I just get the chance to note the large writing on the front, ‘Mother Mary Bless our Way’ and on the back is ‘India is Great’ and of course, ‘Blow Horn’.

This morning we are going back to Ocean Spa in Colva where we both had a haircut for £6, and are splashing out for two massages. Life is good!  I actually do have reservations about living here for too long, I could not cope with the lousy internet, the continual power cuts and the distance to proper shops. Maybe I am not laid back enough yet. I shall keep that bright pink paint in storage for a while.

I read a review in the paper for the local drama group’s latest production called ‘Boiled Beans on Toast’ in the capital Panaji. Twenty characters from different strata of society are shown in sixteen different locations in a city in India. From swanky apartments to the slums, the story is told with tongue in cheek humour and honesty and ‘the minute long silences keep the audience on the edge of their seats’(!). ‘Impeccable acting just adds another cherry to the cake, and the viewer takes home a feeling that despite the complicated lives of the city’s inhabitants, despite the different shades of grey, a rainbow keeps the metaphorical ship afloat’. A metaphor for mother India herself perhaps?

And next weekend Nick and Katharine, his girlfriend, arrive for two weeks. I am looking forward to that, and I think we are all going to Hampi together. Exciting times!

And finally I have to add the best photo of all. John has been enthralled with the antic of the crows, always pausing for a quick rest in their busy lives. Any stop off will do,

but look at this! Perfection.

The night train to Allahabad in Uttar Pradesh was good. I really do like the rock and roll of the movement, and so I stretched out on my top bunk, the miles sped past and we arrived at dawn to a new city. The porter wallahs did their trick with our luggage at ridiculously low prices, and deposited our now shabby, dusty, torn cases at the side of the road ready for the bus.

I was saddened at the sight of a beggar man with two enormous, misshapen feet, the result of elephantitis.

Masala omelettes, black coffee and lots of plain white toast and bright red jam set us up for the bus trip to the sacred Ganges. By now we were used to the terrifying lack of traffic rules, and the constant near misses, but when we saw a white truck come tearing down the dual carriageway towards us on the wrong side of the road and having the audacity to peep at US…, that had to take the biscuit!

We were loaded on to small traditional crafts, (4 of us to a boat), given bright orange garlands, and we lay back on cushions as two stringy youths with hard muscles rowed us down the river for six hours.

It was bliss. Not a horn or hooter to be heard, only the soaring black kites and egrets and ducks for company.

As night fell, so did the fog and we all got lost and couldn’t find the sand bank that we were supposed to be camping on. Mosquitos arrived in their millions, and we did have a mild moment of panic.

When eventually we were unloaded, the camping wallahs had the tents up, the cooking stoves in action and the beer served. It was amazing. John and I felt like aliens in our mosquito net headdresses, but I am so grateful we had them. It was disconcerting struggling out of the tent at 3 a.m. to go to the loo and then try to find your way back to our own tent… they all looked the same.

Morning came, and the fog took a while to lift, but finally the sun shone and we were well on our way down the river.

We stopped at a riverside village and visited a school. It so reminded me of my time in Tien Yen in Vietnam.

The children were so poor, and they had so little. They also only had about 3-4 years education. We wandered about admiring the cows, and the cow patties that the ladies create so artistically, mixing the poo with straw. On the edge of the road are stacks of cow patties modelled into little storehouses for hay. The dried chalets of poo are beautifully carved with patterns of swirling loops and flowers. Other poo patties are used as a plaster material for house walls. God Bless the Holy Cow.

We carried on sailing past through the rural landscape and came at last to the holy city of Varanasi or, as it was once known, Benaras. It is the earthly home of the god Shiva, and it is a main pilgrimage site for all things to do with death. Here more than 250 public cremations are performed daily. Many people come to hospices to die, and many just have their ashes brought to be transferred into the river. George Harrison did this. At first I thought he was cremated here, but he was done in Los Angeles.

Varanasi is also one of the oldest cities on earth, and going through the narrow streets you can truly believe it.

We went down to the ghats in the morning but the fog was thick so I took the opportunity to do some yoga on a holy plinth,

and then we made our way through some dubious passageways for a cup of black coffee.

When we returned the fog hadlifted and we saw the sun rise

and people come and perform the puja ceremony, where they wash and commune with the river.

Holy men covered in ash (some human) and totally naked were walking about, also some with dreadlocks;  orange robes looked at me with eyes as cold and dead as a reptile. It was a little disquieting.

Later that afternoon, we took a boat to watch the priests perform the evening ceremony of putting the Ganges to bed.

It was bright, musical and noisy and is performed 365 days of the year. Along from the ghat where the gongs and banging and the chanting is going on, the funeral pyres burn incessantly. We sailed along to have a closer look and we saw several bodies laid up waiting to be cremated.

First they are dunked in the river to absolve all sin, then they are covered in ghee to make them burn, then finally they are put in the pile of wood (about 800kg of wood is used per cremation),

and then they are burnt. It takes about three hours. The eldest son must strike and break the skull to release the soul.  Later the relatives deposit the ashes in the river. The place is quite a test for the Westerner, all expectations and priorities are challenged; nowhere else is India so radically different from what we are used to. For those visitors who have plenty, and where death is disguised and religion optional, Vanarasi may be too powerful. It is not for the faint hearted. Getting nudged out of the way by a sacred cow, or clothes being tugged by beggar children, may be just tolerable, but seeing a corpse crackle as it is devoured by flames can be too much reality to take. The impact of the place was overwhelming. Whether you love or loathe the city, you cannot remain indifferent.

Here are our little candles full of hope and human wishes sailing off down the sacred river.

The following day we went to Sarnath, where the Buddha preached his first sermon following his enlightenment. To be honest we were all a bid subdued. The onslaught to our senses the night before needed time to recover. We were all quiet and needed some light relief.

Fortunately this came from Gerald, an elderly sheep farmer from the Yorkshire Dales, who had gone out for a pint on his own. Wandering back to the hotel he was beguiled into a shop and came out clad in a purple salwa kameez and a baby pink silk scarf. His wife said nothing, but we all laughed and laughed. I think Gerald might have rather liked his new clothes! He retired rather sheepishly and packed his new booty away.

We took the overnight train to Calcutta in West Bengal. As we waited on the platform we saw a body being transported along the platform on a cycle rickshaw, just wrapped up in a white cloth with feet protruding.

We hoped he would not be in our carriage, and wondered why he was not staying to be put in the holy river. Questions questions. Anyway we finally got on board the train, and the journey ended up taking fifteen hours.

When we arrived we saw a different city. Modern in parts and with a more tolerable traffic system. We were whisked around old relics of the Raj, monuments to Queen Victoria, the High Courts of Justice, St Mary’s Cathedral, but the best was the white marble palace of some Raja who was intent in collecting amazing things from around the world. It was the most beautiful place with chandeliers, and musty brown walls groaning with fine art, including an exquisite Rubens and a baby Hercules by Turner. There were Greek statues, bronzes, carpets; the place was a fairy tale of riches and there was not one postcard or shop to be seen,  and we were refused permission to photograph. I wish I was rich and could do it up and take tea on the immaculate lawn.

And finally we flew to Goa, and have settled into this lovely house. The sea is heavenly, the beaches white and shacks along them sell fantastic food. Last night we met three men with the look of Michael Palin, with leather brown bodies and very bright  budgie-strangling swim suits! John bought me a bottle of Honeybee brandy for £2 and thinks we should stay here forever! Compared with the try dusty northern parts, Goa is lush and green with rice paddies, frangipani trees and bougainvillea. It is quite lovely. We have been washing with Neem soap, from the Neem tree, and it is quite the miracle worker.  We have seen small twigs for sale to clean the teeth. We were told that if you boil up the leaves you can use them to wash mange from your dog. It is also a natural mosquito repellent. Here I am trying to buy a bar of soap, with a very friendly cow looking on!

But one final thought for the day.  I have been thinking about India’s national emblems. The animal, bird and flower that they feel represent them as a nation.

Well, the national animal of India is the tiger (there is a terrible man eating problem at the moment, especially in the Bengal mangroves. Tigers have really acquired a taste for fishermen and villagers.)

The national bird is the peacock (we did see two live ones in Udaipur) and of course we see them on thrones and art work,

but really I feel it should be the ever present wheeling black kite. Circling and swooping over city rubbish heaps and countryside alike. John has had such fun photographing them.

And the national flower is the lotus. It is the perfect symbol of this country. Out of the slime, out of the shit, out of the crowded, worn land rises exquisite, glorious perfection.

Enough, I am off! The honeybee awaits!

But before I go,  it is my lovely Bonnie’s first birthday today!

Sitting in this beautiful house in Goa, with the birdsong and the frangipani trees outside, the last two weeks feel like a dream away. I have just washed out dresses and tops that I wore in Pushkar and Calcutta and on the night trains, all the dirt of India washed away, and now the laundry smells as fresh as Ariel!

Back in Pushkar, the camel safari through the desert started off very sedately and picturesque.

We passed fields full of rows and rows of roses, all cut back and just starting their spring growth; amazing to see such cultivation of flowers for leis and garlands amidst such sandy soil. John’s camel was definitely gay. It had a model girl’s walk, placing each fat foot delicately in front of the other. My camel was the best behaved and so gentle, so much so that my camel wallah spent the whole time yelling on his phone. You would think he was making vital decisions with his stockbroker. Meanwhile I was left alone lurching along, while everyone else had their camel wallah holding their ropes.

BUT disaster struck. As the camels came to rest and we all had to get off, Susan’s foot had not been in the stirrup and as the camel knelt down she careered off its back and fell heavily on the side of her face and her glasses cut into her brow. She was unconscious for a few minutes and there was a lot of blood. But help was at hand… the camel wallahs just got out a lighter, burnt up a piece of old cloth from under a saddle, and stuffed the black ash into the wound. Hey presto, the bleeding was staunched.

Susan lay on the ground until she recovered a bit, and then they put her on a wagon and she was taken back to the hotel, drawn by a camel with a very frothy mouth and a horrible engorged tongue.

We were told that it was very horny and needed to mate – apparently this frothy mouth is very attractive to female camels! I have learnt so much. In an emergency if you can’t find any material to burn, you can always stuff the wound with turmeric… failing all that, I suppose a plaster would do!

John’s camel looked quite bored and couldn’t stop yawning.

When it was time to remount, we were all a little apprehensive about getting up there again. Susan was lucky she was quite near the ground when she fell off. Any higher and it would certainly have been a few broken bones. I wonder what the native cure for that would have been!

That evening while Susan was getting five stitches put in at the local clinic, the rest of us were hurled away to a private house where the hostess had offered to cook us a homely meal. We sat in two rows on her roof, with a tin plate on our laps. Her husband came round and spooned out curried cauliflower, cabbage, dahl, pickles, rice, chapattis, and it was absolutely delicious. For an after dinner chat, our guide Nari told us about his religion. We had been quite involved with the Hindu faith up till then, so it was quite a treat to be told about the Parsees or Zoroastrians. They are quite a small group, but very select and very successful in business. I think they see themselves as being quite an elite sect in India. They don’t encourage incomers, or approve of mixed marriages. But the most interesting thing about them is that in death they don’t like to pollute the world in any way, they prefer to be devoured and so become part of the life cycle.

In Mumbai there are tall chimney- like structures, rather like wells inside. They are called the Walls of Silence. Into these go naked dead Zoroastrians and they await the vultures to come and dispose of them. However in recent years, farmers have been using diclophenac  to treat their cows, and also humans have been using it too. It stays in the system for years. Well, that’s all very well, but it attacks the vultures’ kidneys and the birds have been dying.

This is catastrophic for the natural disposal of the Parsees. They are lying in the wells, creating a smell and only the crows and rats and possibly the black kites are eating them, not as efficiently as the vultures. We went back to rest. It had been quite a dramatic day.

The bus ride to Jaipur was dry and dusty. India sprawled around us with its shacks, small businesses, potholes and lorries, all making a cacophony of noise. On the back of trucks in large childish capitals is painted ‘BLOW HORN’. We entered the pink city (favourite colour of the god Vishnu) and pulled into our next hotel. Oh my, it was lovely.

A former palace, painted intricately throughout, hung with dead leopards’ heads, and an array of guns and stuffed furniture from an age of past glory. Pictures of Her Majesty and Philip climbing the stairs, and Jackie Onassis and Nehru waving from their respective  cars on the drive, adorned the walls. John and I duly snapped ourselves as a memento.

We were taken to the City Palace and saw portraits of the great rajas that once ruled.

Some were fat and adorned with every jewel from their jewel box, others lay back on silken cushions, but it was Raja Jai Singh that I liked. He was aesthetic in his portrait. Plain, unadorned, modest, and yet he was the most proactive of the rajas. He was unique in the way he devoted his life to the study of science, and in the wilds of Rajasthan he was a citizen of the world of Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton. He built the most amazing observatory in the middle of Jaipur, all in concrete.

He had made instruments so precise and accurate for recording time and seasons and star constellations.  As he said he wanted to create instruments ‘for measuring the harmony of the heavens’. We strolled about amidst the various tours and tour guides, listening to the Japanese and French and trying to keep up with our guy. In truth I wish I had worn a hat, as my brains were being broiled in the sun. Later at the palace I was quite flattered when a guard told me I had nice eyes. I admired his uniform, so we decided to have our photograph taken together. Such a happy couple! Then I saw some more guards, and thought I might just be friends with them as well!

Those rajas are something else though. Apart from my hero Jai Singh, there was the maharaja who had an obsession with toy trains… he had a 75m solid silver track running from the kitchen to the royal dining room.  Food was brought along to the tables on the train.  On one occasion there was a power cut and the trains went berserk, spilling food all over the guest of honour, the viceroy!

Another maharajah was devoted to his dog, and arranged a royal marriage for his pet bitch. Seven hundred guests were invited from all over India (the Viceroy declined) and the Princess Pooch sat radiantly dripping in pearls and rubies beside her husband ‘Bobby’ who was covered in the most expensive Mysore silk.

So many funny tales, I could go on forever, but I won’t. Instead we rested up and got up at dawn and made our way to the Amber Fort by tuk tuk.

Poor elephants are used to take tourists up and down all day long, some are blind, some are lame, and all are bored out of their minds.

Nari, who is a huge animal welfare person and works with tigers and snakes, hates this cruelty so we all went up by electric jeeps, and spared the beasts. For the first time this holiday I had tummy cramps, and felt a bit sick. Just as the local guide (not Nari) was showing us where the Kama Sutra was painted as a frieze around the ceiling of one of the rooms, I started retching into a sick bag that John magically produced. He is so resourceful! Anyway I recovered and all was well. Amazingly with all the dahl and curry and what not neither of us have been sick. I find a couple of fresh lime sodas do the trick.

We left Jaipur by train early in the morning, passing people lying wrapped up in bits of cloth in rows on the floor of the station. The whole place looked like a pavement hotel. As we chugged through villages awakening to the dawn we were hailed with a ‘twenty-one-bum salute’ (as one writer described it) as people squat to do their ablutions at the side of the track. It’s as if Indians, living in a country too crowded for privacy, have developed the knack of just not seeing or caring. As we trundle through villages that look as though they have been just recently bombed, we see concrete homes with roofs of rubble and twisted metal, plastic is piled up on earth huts, and the streets of sandy soil are covered in rubbish. Battered buffaloes, pigs, goats and mangy monkeys graze on the waste.

Yet there are women in bright saris, shopping, sweeping dust clouds about and carrying huge loads of produce on their heads. Children play cricket and fly kites. Men are mostly drinking cups of chai and resting on their haunches.

We arrive in Agra, the home of The Taj Mahal, but we are scheduled to see it at dawn the next day, so first we are frogmarched on to another bus and taken out to Fatehpur Sikri.

This is the site of Akbar the Great’s deserted citadel. Now here was a guy with understanding. He built his fort and wanted to unite all the religions so that there would be peace and tolerance. So,  practising what he preached, he married a Turkish Muslim, and built the most beautiful palace (all within the fort) for her with inlays of pomegranates on the walls.

He then married a Christian Catholic lady from Goa, and finally he married a Hindu princess from the Agra Fort, and in case he felt neglected if any of them had a headache, he had a harem of six hundred beauties.

I loved his games, he had a checker board made in a courtyard, and his dancing girls were the live pieces. They had to perform for him on their squares, in between moves.  Another game was ‘hide and seek’ in the harem room. I actually thought it was a bit unfair as there were no niches or recesses for the girls to hide. Hmmm.  ‘A cunning plan!’ as Boldrick might say!

His own bed was fifteen foot square, and was raised about ten feet above the ground.  It had once been adorned with gold, and underneath a fire was lit in winter.

Back in our lowly, not very nice hotel room, we got up at 4.30 a.m.  in order to see the Taj Mahal at dawn. Here Shah Jahan (the grandson of the hide and seek player Akbar and his Hindu bride) built his temple for his wife.

We did the Princess Diana thing,

walked about, marvelled that it could be so beautiful (in spite of having seeing it in so many pictures and postcards), and saw the sun glimmer and sparkle on the white marble. It was truly beautiful. Later in the afternoon we strolled around the gardens across from the river, also designed by Shah Jahan, and as I chattered away to John, sitting on an old stone wall, I caught sight of the Taj just beside us… it was so unreal.

It is six days already since we arrived in India and I am sitting in a garden that is lush, green and oh so quiet. Only the twittering of birds for company. A lady in a rose pink sari is sweeping the fallen leaves from the lawn, and beyond this oasis is Pushkar, one of the oldest villages in India, set in a sandy desert and beside a Holy Lake. It was here where Brahma, the Hindu god of creation; dropped a lotus flower and water appeared.

Yesterday we were blessed in a special ceremony by a Hindu priest and anointed with water from the lake which holds the bones of Mahatma and Indira Ghandi and many more worthy souls I am sure.

Then we had threads tied around our wrists and a mark made from red paste and grains of rice smeared on our foreheads. Apparently the Queen and the Beatles had also been there! Such notoriety!

And today we are going on a two hour camel safari. It is here that the biggest and most famous camel fairs in Rajahsthan are held. I might try and pull out one of my camel’s eyelashes for future paint brushes I might make. In days gone by the Sultans of Udaipur (where we have just come from) had painters commissioned to record all their grand feats, rather like photographers nowadays. They would have tiger hunting and elephant fights recorded in minute detail. Also all the various battles were painted (with camel eyelash brushes!) showing hundreds of soldiers, each with an individual expression on their tiny faces, and mountains and blades of grass all minute and perfect. Fascinating to look at. I had a tiny masterpiece of the Taj Mahal painted on my fingernail. John had a tiger’s head. These guys have very good eyesight!

Delhi was mayhem! We ventured out of the Good Times Hotel (!) on the first day and visited the serenely beautiful President’s Palace and government buildings. This palace was once the home of the Viceroy of India, Lord Mountbatten. I tried to imagine Lady Edwina conducting her love affair with Nehru in one of the 350 rooms. It was all so elegant and such a contrast to what we saw the next day.

Monday morning in Delhi! We took the metro along with about a million others (there are 19 million people in the city), and our guide told us on the way in from the airport to ‘trust no one’ and ‘eat nothing that doesn’t have a skin’, and when we emerged from the station, we were confronted with the wonderful, colourful, noisy, chaotic city. The smells were wonderful, disgusting, delicious and overpowering.

We were on our way to visit the mosque built by Shah Jahan (of Taj Mahal fame) and so we marched through the vibrant chaos of the bustling Chandi Chowk Bazaar along the bathroom/plumbing street, then the wedding invitation street. There were tailors, barbers, chai sellers all busy about their business on the pavements beneath the spaghetti madness of overhead electricity wires. How do they take meter readings? How do they find the right wire if there is a fault?

A one-legged man attached himself to John and me, giving his services as guide through the gold, silver and sari streets for 50p.

We later got a tuc-tuc back to the hotel and got stuck in lunchtime traffic so ended up on a magical mystery tour that took 2 hours and we saw some amazing sights and had some amazing near misses!

The night train journey from Delhi to Udaipur took 12 hours. There were two 3-tier bunks and one 2-tier, so eight people altogether in a compartment. We had six people from the group plus an elderly Seikh couple. I was on the top bunk and slept next to the old man’s turban that he put on the little table next to me! It was pale blue.

I bravely ventured to the squat toilets early on, before the smells got too bad, and horror upon horrors, I was locked in from outside. I have never been so panicked in all of my life. I shook the door, cried ‘Help!’ for about twenty times and NOTHING. I really was freaked out. Finally a man passing by heard the door banging and let me out. When I got back all stressed to the compartment, John and our fellow group friends were sitting chatting, all relaxed and buying chai from the vendor that went up and down all night. Growl!

We arrived in Udaipur just a little shell-shocked and booked into the Tiger Hotel,  and all of us bee lined to the showers and scrubbed with a passion. Later we gobbled up scrambled eggs and omelettes and we were fired up for the new day!

We admired the intricate carvings of the Jagdish Temple – home to a black stone image of Vishnu, but he was out of sight under a checked table cloth, sleeping apparently.  Instead I took a picture of the elephant that was guarding the temple with a very cool guy sitting underneath.

Then it was the tour around the beautiful City Palace built by Maharajah Udai Singh 2 in 1559 (Udai Pur means King Udai). I loved the courtyard enclosed with delicate marble columns and shady trees, and some of the rooms were just groaning with history.

John particularly liked the paintings of brave horses wearing elephant’s trunk masks. These were put on to confuse their opponents’ elephants in combat, as elephants will not charge other elephants (apparently!). These battles were all recorded of course by the battalion of miniaturist painters, using the brushes of squirrels’ hair and camels’ eyelashes.

We sent our laundry off to the dhobi wallahs and just prayed they were not the clothes we saw being washed in the scummy water down by the ghats (stairs leading down to Lake Pichola).

We walked through streets at our peril – tuc-tucs, motor bikes, cows, cow poo, hundreds of stray dogs and all of humanity passed us by.

I did do a cooking class high up on the roof just beside the royal palace, such a lovely background as I stirred my lentils and made the chapatis!

Later we sat on a hotel terrace and sipped Nescafe and gazed at the beautiful palace and the exclusive hotel in the middle of the lake.

There was the equivalent of a Royal Wedding taking place in the Palace. The second richest man in the whole of India’s daughter was getting married. Bollywood stars, Arab Sheiks and all sorts of other la-di-da people were attending so we felt quite the nosy neighbours spying on it all. Such opulence, such razz-a-ma- tazz!

We have seen so many sights, some we can click and record, others we can only save in our mind’s eye. In Ajmer yesterday I saw a funeral procession with a dead body being carried on a wooden stretcher, covered in garlands, her sari and arm visible beneath the rose petals. Further down the street was the crematorium. I saw through the open gates the flames, huge and orange, burning and engulfing the slab, which was all prepared and waiting.

In Delhi the juxtaposition that I think sums up India was in a sight I saw from the tuc-tuc. On the lefthand side of the road was a man waist deep in a pile of rubbish, rummaging for something – anything,  and on the other side was a man wearing a suave tuxedo, his shoes polished like mirrors.

But here we are today, in this serene Pushkar Fort Hotel, set in 10 acres of grass with sprinklers, and a family of geese with their goslings looking very tranquil. It is wonderful to have a respite from the noise and confusion until 4 p.m. when our camel excursion begins.

Tomorrow we leave by the local bus for a three hour journey to the city of Jaipur. God help us on these roads where there seem to be no rules at all – just an urge by every driver to get there faster than anyone else.

Namaste – till next time.