P.S. Panjim

How easily the mind forgets, before I left Panjim I squeezed in a cookery course ran by a local woman called Brancana. I was to meet her at the Detriot Institute (a grotty little shop front, that was easily missed, that had once been used for giving lessons in Portugese and now served as her internet 'hub') and from there we were going to go to her house. I arrived promptly at 12 noon as requested and she swiftly locked up the Institute and I was informed to 'follow me'. She nipped in and out of the traffic and back streets of the Fountanhas in a manner that I could only help but feel she was trying to give me the slip. It was at this point she started to break into a trot and started weaving nimbly through, what felt like peoples back gardens, I struggled to keep up and when she eventually relented her pace and came to a stop she informed me that they were doing gas works nearby and she wasn't for hanging around.
So we arrived at her 'Heritage Home' (which is just there way of saying old, crumbling, musty smelling building) and she sat me down in front of her two large shrines of Mary and Christ next to her dresser filled with Disney paraphernalia and disappeared into the next room. After some time she reappeared with a large tub and a number of jars of spices, she talked me through their uses and held the open jars to my nose where I obligingly sniffed and feigned that I could tell the difference between her garam masala and her chaat masala. It this point she burst into a very rehearsed speech, welcoming me to her home, despite having co-inhabited with her deities for nearly half an hour now, this uncomfortable production continued for around 5 minutes were I was then subjected to a bit of Q&A. After this she handed me an apron, a number of sizes too small, in fact it felt more like a bib that anything else, and directed me through to the kitchen. It was small and consisted of 2 gas hobs and a small area for preparation, I was given a number of tasks to do however they consisted mainly of cutting carrots, peas and onions into imaginably small pieces while she would throw bits and pieces into pots and pans in a slightly secretive manner. Once we had everything bubbling away we started to make the chapatis, despite, in her mind, this being the simplest task, I found the job of keeping all the flour on the work station a little difficult and her temper rose at every grain that floated floorwards. When it came to the rolling stage she became enraged that I wasn't  'rolling the dough' but pushing it around, she demoted me back to rubbing on the ghee only letting me roll out the final two, which when they were cooked she told me were the best (whether this was true or she feared I was offended by her manner I shall never know). We sat down to eat the rewards, a channa masala, dal fry and paolo rice and her daughters promptly arrived to fill their plates, telling me that the rice was their favourite and that they would leave me some, how kind. At the stroke of 3 Brancana stood up and wished me well for my onward journey, I took that as my hint to go.

Leaving Panjim

I was awoken in Hotel Republica by the unfriendly owner watching the TV which was thoughtfully placed outside by bedroom door, funnily enough I was compelled to have a lie in however once I realised that the smell that was stinging my nostrils was that of the empty mattress next to me I got up. Panjim has surprisingly few sites for being the capital of Goa and having a fair amount of history behind it, I decided to visit the history museum, located at the opposite end of town, take a left over the bridge at the stagnant pond, round the construction site, behind the bus station and down a road parallel to the rubbish dump. On entrance I seemed to awaken the two sleepy guards who waved the entrance fee and pointed me in the direction of the first room. The museum 'tour' continued in this manner, as I was the only person there the guards would attentively escort me from one room to the next, sometimes pointing out things of interest, of which there were very few. Once I had visited all the rooms and their accompanying guards I was presented with the much prized guest book, I noticed I was the first to sign it since a Korean couple had visited a number of weeks ago who had commented the it was 'very well laid out', probably in absence of anything positive to say about the displays.



The other main sight seeing tick off on the to-do list was a river cruise which had promise of a sunset jaunt along the Mandovi River where you could sample local food and be treated to traditional Goan dances. In actual fact it was an hour long chug up the very smallest stretch of the river on a boat packed with Indian nationals who had seemed to have indulged in a little too much Kingfisher, as for the local dancing, I suppose it technically was although 75% of consisted of a group of rowdy locals jumping up and down on stage to various Indian dance remixes of western songs. The two or three dances performed by the 'professionals' consisted of a dance involving coconuts and a Goan
take on a Mexican Rumba. I can't say I was sad when                                                                             we reached port and were quickly off loaded to allow
the next group on for there hour of fun.

Another few nights at Hotel Republica and I was kind of getting used to the musty air and the itchy bed however I knew it was time to move on, as my friend was meeting me in a weeks time I decided to head not to far from the airport and although the beach immediately south was predominantly middle-aged long stayers I packed my bag, settled my bill at Republica (a grand total of 18 quid for the 4 nights) and headed of to the bus station to catch the bus to Margao.

Panjim Part 3 (Hotel Republica)

After spending a couple lazy days in Panjim, experiencing my first taste of Indian cinema, albeit watching a Hollywood rather than Bollywood film (I don't think The Artist is what the locals are used to, I judge this by the poor attendance which after the interval, yes interval, halved...to about 3). That same day I had found myself in the 'Top Gear' bar, only enough space foe about 4 tables, of which I occupied one and three old Bristolians another, although our tables were soon to be joined and the communal bottle of Honey Bee brandy split another way. As the bottle was, quickly depleted and promptly refreshed, the men had decided to blame the Scot that had joined them when their respective partners questioned their absence and clear inebriation. At the ripe old hour of 4pm we went our different ways and I happily tottered of to enjoy a little slice of the west in the A/C multiplex cinema.

The next morning, feeling slightly worse for wear I had to move on from my relative comfort of Casa Paradiso in search of alternative, well cheaper, accommodation. At 1600Rs (~20 quid) Casa Paradiso was a luxury I could not afford for the long term, so I started trawling the streets of Panjim. Now my Lonely Planet guide up to this point had been relatively accurate and despite a few inaccuracies over times and prices had served me well, so why I felt the desire to go against their scathing report of Hotel Republica on reflection I can't understand. From the outside it had the charm of the other Portugese era houses but not the associated price tag, Hotel Republica charged a mere 400Rs per night, and after the old trick of looking at one room and then being shown to my actual room I was soon to realise why. If I were to say that the room had a must of yesteryear I would be putting in wrong, It smelt like hot, musty mold with a hint of general unclean, the mattress, if you could call it that, was covered in questionable stains of the red variety and the bathroom appeared to have an ant colony living inside it. That night I lay my head down , fully clothed, trousers tucked into socks, sweating and a pillow constructed from my dirty laundry wrapped in a scarf, stuck my ear plugs in and wished for morning to arrive.

Panjim Part 2

Panjim

I arrive at Casa Paradiso and my driver swiftly runs up to the main reception area (the taxi drivers here take commission on any people they bring into a hotel, this is added on to the customers bill), as I stumble up the stairs a minute later, predictably, the room price has went up by about 20%, after a short but heated debate the receptionist confirmed that my room was pre-booked at a single occupancy rate, the driver left a little dejected. 

Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception  

I was shown up to my room which compared to my latest bout of accommodation was like walking into the Taj Palace, the receptionist flicked on the A/C and it chugged into life at a setting of 22 degrees Celsius, as soon as she leaves I knock it down to 18 and bask in its cooling glory for the next hour (the only thing that actually drew me away was the prospect of my first hot shower for nearly two weeks, this bottle of hot vs. cold seems to be a constant one!). Once warmed up then consequently cooled off again I headed out into Panjim to see what the capital city of Goa had to offer.

Casa Paridiso was situated on the same road as one of the main tourist draws of the city, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception church, an impressive looking white washed building set at the top of around 100 steps and overlooking one of the main thoroughfares of the city. The inside of the church was surpisingly gloomy, with very little natural light filtering through the windows and every space conceivable, including the roof, being adorned with various depictions of crucifixes and the various saints.

Portuguese house, Fountanhas

The other main draw of Panjim is the old Portugese quarters of Fountanhas and Sao Tome, wandering the little side streets you would be forgiven in thinking you were in the sleepy suburbs of Lisbon, with the sprawling bungalows and the caged finches hanging outside this was a very different feel from anywhere else I had been so far. Also many of the older locals spoke in Portuguese, the old men adorning the benches and the women tending to do their conversing over their balconies. Whilst on the church tour I tried to gain entry to St Sebastian church that displays a crucifix which, rarely, depicts Christ with his eyes open (this was supposedly due to instill fear into those being interrogated during the Portuguese Inquisition)  however I was informed that the church only opend its doors for the 6.45am Mass, I decided not to bother.

Panjim

Journey to Panjim

I have a last breakfast at Ivon's restaurant, butterjamtoast, and settle my bill with Martin who points me in the vague direction of the bus stop (having had two buses drive past me in the last couple weeks I wasn't filled with confidence). I trudge the ten minutes down the mud path towards the main road and as I emerge at the crossroads the bus is sitting there. I start, to the best of my ability with a heavy rucksack, to run towards the bus, the conductor is kind enough to wait until I bumble my way on to the bus (although not kind enough to wait till I'm seated before telling the driver to go as I lurch towards the back of the bus). The bus is a typical example of those chugging around the state of Goa, adorned with numerous manifestations of Vishnu alongside the obligatory crucifix and of course painted in hand the three rules of the Goan busses; No Smoking, No Standing and No Spitting, of these only one is routinely followed. This bus seems to have a little something extra to it though, besides the fact the there is no suspension, which makes the frequent speed bumps an interesting sight as the back seat passengers are routinely launched a foot into the air (which included me), this bus also seemed to be installed with disco lights, although they weren't on it was easy to imagine a night time journey on this bus would be well worth the 10 rupee (~13p) fare for this 45minute veritable roller coaster ride.
I arrive into Mapsa safe and, with the exception of a bruised sternum, sound enough. My onward chariot to Panjim was waiting only a few feet away. The Panjim Express was bright green and had a Fantasia style micky mouse strewn across the side, I was unsure if this was some sort of good/bad omen. As I was first to board this magical mystery bus I had the choice of seats, I stayed clear of those outlined as; women only, old person only or physical/intellectual handicapped (although after the 30 minute delay I could probably have qualified for the later, in mindset and physical appearance, should have taken water with me!). The Panjim Express was probably the nosiest bus I've been on in my life and the driver seemed to have a penchant to only overtake on blind corners or as we were crawling up one of the many hills and was happy to just sit in the overtaking lane when we hit dual carriageway prompting constant horn use by the undertaking road users. Other than this the journey was reasonably uneventful, I sat and watched India...whizz? passed and soon enough we pulled into Panjim. I was quickly whisked into an auto rickshaw which seemed to be more of a chaise longue on wheels, I informed the driver of where I  wanted to go and we shot off, horizontally, into the Panjim motor mayhem en route to Casa Paradiso.

Arambol Part 3

After a couple days lazing by the beach I decide to attempt the climb to the very top of the headland. After a sweaty ten minutes of precariously making my way up the side of the cliff I reach it summit. To my right is a small Christian shrine in the shape of a boat, to look out over the fishermen, to my left is a much more pleasant site, a large Frangipani tree in front of a small shrine dedicated to Shiva, although it hosted a number of other deities. Both shrines had a variety of offerings, ranging from fruit to money (on a later trip up to the headland I noticed that the money had always been whisked away, by the Gods...hhhmmm?) and occasional candle or stick of incense would be burning, which always freaked me out a little as there was never anyone to be seen. Regardless, the breeze was always refreshing at the top and I found myself whiling away the hours reading in the relative tranquillity of the headland, although the occasional worker ant would give you the odd nip if you made yourself too comfortable.

Christian boat shrine

Fangipani Tree and Arambol Beach

Shiva Shrine

My week in Arambol is nearly over, I spent my second to last night sampling the local tipple, Cashew Feni. My Bavarian friend kindly declined my offer to buy one for her claiming she was not a big drinker, although I suspect she had maybe encountered the feni, if not in this life than a previous, believe me the taste would linger that long. It did smell like cashews, more the tree and the sap that come off it rather than the nut itself however it taste like molten plastic, burning the whole way down and leaving a most unpleasant after taste. The waiter assured me its good for the body and the soul, I don't think either of those thanked me for it. An hour later and it was consumed and I followed it, much more swiftly, with the local, more palatable, brandy 'Honey-Bee'.

The next morning, suffering a little bit of hangover I decided that I would stay one more day, delaying my move to Panjim, the capital, to the next day. With my friends departed I decided to have a quiet evening and scale the headland land for the last time. There was always a certain haze over this part of the coast which dampened the sunset a little, tonight was no different but with the local fishermen heading out one by one it added a little to the sunset, I watched them slowly chug by from my elevated perch and wondered what Panjim would have in store for me!

Amambol Part 2

Marker on way to Banyan, and a bit of extra graffiti 

Small Shrine at Arambol

As I'm trying to clear my lungs of the smell, and taste, of my feline flatmate, I decide to take a walk up to the small shrine at the top of the headland. The path up is reasonably well beaten but I'm unsure if that's purely for access to the septic tanks that seem to line the way. The shrine is little more than metal box with a few pictures of various deities inside, I relight a stick of incense which had succomed to the prevalent breeze up here, not that I'm complaining I appear to be breaking a sweat at the very thought of physical excretion in this heat (it was hitting 37oC today). There is another path that leads further up, or another that leads round to the bottom of the headland, as I'm feeling a little worn from my cleaning and climbing I go downwards to the aptly named Lakeside beach. This beach is much smaller and can't be accessed by road, as a result everything seems to cost a little more, all goods having to be carried, usually by head the 15 minutes from the main road at Arambol. There is a fresh water lake just behind the main beach which people rub the mud into their skin for the 'beneficial properties', what they benefit nobody can tell me, I give it a miss. A path behind the lake leads to a dense jungle, in which lies a large Banyan tree, I decide to go in search. The path seems littered with people either hanging out or actually living in the jungle, when I reach the Banyan, which is signposted with various forms of red marker along the way it appears to be inhabited by Russian 'new age travellers' a friendly enough bunch who appear to take pleasure in serenading those who make the journey to visit them. It is on my way back I have an encounter with the 'police', two local men produce a very amateur laminated police I.D. card and insist on checking my back for illegal substances, why exactly two plain clothed police men would be hanging around in the jungle I don't know, after I brief exchange I continue on my path being relieved of nothing more than my respect for the locals, for the rest of the day anyway.

Om on the beach

Arambol Part 1

So the days in Arambol rolled lazily away, like clockwork the power goes out at 9am, which I've decided is both an impromptu alarm clock (the room quickly becoming unbearable with the heat) and the owners attempt to save a bit on the power bills (in reality though the whole of Goa, if not India, is prone to these power outages, ranging from 5 minutes to 5 hours, usually occurring at the most inconvenient of times). I wander the two minutes to the nearest beach shack and I'm greeted with the usual contempt I've come to expect at the 'Green Garden' shack, but the breakfast is good and they have free wifi. I notice that I've forgotten my book this morning, currently on Michael Palin's Himalaya, so I make an early return to my room.
The smell as I open my door could only be described as spicy garbage mixed with rotten flesh, having hoped that it hadn't been smells omitted by me during the night and it wasn't till I had left and came back my immunity of the whiff had worn off I quickly scanned the room...nothing, that was until I look under by bed. A mangy moggy had somehow made it through the iron bars and into my room, I fetched the sweeping brush from the landing and tried to nudge it towards the open door, the cat however, which had been through the wars having lost an eye and with a festering wound on its leg which I can imagine is producing the smell, musters a lackluster meow and refuses to move. I go and fetch Martin the owner and after a little confusion of what was actually in my room (cat or ghat, how he thought a serious of steps used for the ceremonial burning of bodies on a river bank had made its way into my room I don't know) he grabs a broom handle and advances towards my bedroom. He confirms that it "smell bad" (said in a very similar way as Ludo does in Labyrinth when referring to the bog of eternal stench) and swiftly attacks the cat with his broom handle, keeping a safe distance and a hand over his nose I notice. The cat is dispatched however its bloody deposits and god awful stench remain, Martins quick run over with a mop have done nothing but spread the smell over the whole room. I spend the rest of the morning trying to clean my floor with a mixture of soap, shampoo and aftershave using a toilet brush, I give up and go for a walk.