It's a lot harder than it looks.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Day 182. Mandrem beach, Goa, India. Wiped out.
We all had a go at body-boarding today.
It's a lot harder than it looks.
It's a lot harder than it looks.
Day 181. Mandrem beach, Goa. Shop 'til we drop.
A list of the tat we bought today at Anjuna market.
Me: 1x orange hat (not gay), 1x Levis belt (fake)
Wend: 1x pair of stripey turquoise troosers, 1x green sparkly scarf
Steve: 1x linen shirt, 1x smock (gay), 1x pair of Birkenstocks (fake)
Sarah: 1x orange sequined tunic, 1x ethnic cummerbund (weird)
Dave: 1x packet of incense sticks (hippy), 2x mosquito coils
And finally, self proclaimed queen of consumerism...
Juliette: 1x kaftan, 1x orange sarong, 1x skirt, 1x glittery fake tattoo kit, 1x ankle bracelet (fake silver), 1x ornamental belt, 1x decorative wall-hanging featuring impaled birds of paradise (might be chickens, difficult to tell)
Day 180. Mandrem beach, Goa, India. Up the Villa.
After a frustrating morning of dodgy directions, dead ends and wrong turns our driver finally managed to find the villa we've rented for the next 7 days.
On first impressions it seems absolutely perfect. Only yards from a long, pristine beach. Very tastefully appointed with the funkiest open-air bathrooms imaginable; allowing for starlit showers and bringing a whole new meaning to the term 'mooning'.
Second impressions bring a few gripes. There's no communal living area, no kitchen and the third bedroom is a glorified corridor.
We stew on this a while. Rearrange some furniture and conclude that the place is indeed completely fabulous after all.
A nice bit of nosh at a nearby restaurant, a few beers and everyone goes to bed happy.
On first impressions it seems absolutely perfect. Only yards from a long, pristine beach. Very tastefully appointed with the funkiest open-air bathrooms imaginable; allowing for starlit showers and bringing a whole new meaning to the term 'mooning'.
Second impressions bring a few gripes. There's no communal living area, no kitchen and the third bedroom is a glorified corridor.
We stew on this a while. Rearrange some furniture and conclude that the place is indeed completely fabulous after all.
A nice bit of nosh at a nearby restaurant, a few beers and everyone goes to bed happy.
Day 179. Panjin, Goa, India. Walking the walk.
After a tiring flight south, we were tempted to sit around drinking beer all day, but Dave decided some culture was in order, so we followed him on a walking tour of Panjin, the state capital of Goa.
A charming little town it is too, especially after the teeming craziness of Mumbai. Goa was a Portuguese colony for hundreds of years and the european influence is everywhere; the pretty churches, town squares and narrow cobbled streets suggesting we could be anywhere but India.
Dave proved to be a rubbish guide. Not only did he fail to point out anything of historical significance, but a third of the way into the walk he decided it was too hot to continue and forced us into a riverfront bar where we ended up doing exactly what we'd been tempted to do 2 hours earlier.
A charming little town it is too, especially after the teeming craziness of Mumbai. Goa was a Portuguese colony for hundreds of years and the european influence is everywhere; the pretty churches, town squares and narrow cobbled streets suggesting we could be anywhere but India.
Dave proved to be a rubbish guide. Not only did he fail to point out anything of historical significance, but a third of the way into the walk he decided it was too hot to continue and forced us into a riverfront bar where we ended up doing exactly what we'd been tempted to do 2 hours earlier.
Day 178. Mumbai, India. Total balunacy.
The last thing Wend said as we left the hostel this morning was that there was no way she was going to fall foul of Mumbai's infamous con artists.
She lasted 20 minutes.
While taking a mooch around our neighbourhood, checking out the waterfront and the imposing India Gate monument we were accosted by a bloke clutching a balloon of such impressive proportions that his name may well have been Montgolfier.
Before me, Steve or Sarah had had a chance to say "No thanks mate, we're alright for big balloons" Wend was asking how much.
No point in buying just one of these babies when you can have ten she reckoned, especially once economies of scale are factored in, so moments later our pockets were 200 rupees lighter and we were proud owners of a family pack.
A hundred yards down the road we bump into another chap clutching another very large balloon. "That man sold you small balloons, I am only selling the genuine big balloons".
We were about to tell him where to shove his wares when he produced a family pack of his own, and sure enough, they were 3 times the size.
"Bugger" said Wend.
"Bollocks" said I.
"Suckers" said Steve, stifling a giggle.
And we handed over another fistful of money before setting off to the posh part of town to find our friends Dave and Juliette who'd just arrived from North Carolina.
It was several hours later before any of us thought to actually try blowing up one of the balloons.
Here it was, the moment Wend had been waiting for. The anticipation was immense, breaths were baited and fingers crossed as I removed one of the big boys from its pack and went to work.
The result?
A rubber runt. A latex tiddler. It's no exaggeration to say a fart filled condom would've been more impressive.
And I've never seen my missus so completely and utterly deflated.
She lasted 20 minutes.
While taking a mooch around our neighbourhood, checking out the waterfront and the imposing India Gate monument we were accosted by a bloke clutching a balloon of such impressive proportions that his name may well have been Montgolfier.
Before me, Steve or Sarah had had a chance to say "No thanks mate, we're alright for big balloons" Wend was asking how much.
No point in buying just one of these babies when you can have ten she reckoned, especially once economies of scale are factored in, so moments later our pockets were 200 rupees lighter and we were proud owners of a family pack.
A hundred yards down the road we bump into another chap clutching another very large balloon. "That man sold you small balloons, I am only selling the genuine big balloons".
We were about to tell him where to shove his wares when he produced a family pack of his own, and sure enough, they were 3 times the size.
"Bugger" said Wend.
"Bollocks" said I.
"Suckers" said Steve, stifling a giggle.
And we handed over another fistful of money before setting off to the posh part of town to find our friends Dave and Juliette who'd just arrived from North Carolina.
It was several hours later before any of us thought to actually try blowing up one of the balloons.
Here it was, the moment Wend had been waiting for. The anticipation was immense, breaths were baited and fingers crossed as I removed one of the big boys from its pack and went to work.
The result?
A rubber runt. A latex tiddler. It's no exaggeration to say a fart filled condom would've been more impressive.
And I've never seen my missus so completely and utterly deflated.
Day 177. Mumbai, India. It's fun to stay at the....
Greeted at a hot and stick airport by Steve and Sarah who'd landed just ahead of us. A quick team hug and we were in the back of one of the world's smallest cabs on the way to the YWCA.
Two things told us it was past midnight as we drove through the dark and dingy streets of Mumbai: The astonishing number of people sleeping rough, and - more worryingly - the fact that our driver obviously couldn't wait to be in a similarly vegetative state.
Sensing the alarming drowsiness of our man at the wheel, Steve attempted to engage him with some chit chat. Not sure either of them knew a word the other was saying, but it seemed to do the trick and provided some amusement for the three passengers squeezed into the back seat.
No booze allowed at our God-fearing digs of course, so we toasted the reunion with a few clandestine duty free vodkas in the bedroom.
Two things told us it was past midnight as we drove through the dark and dingy streets of Mumbai: The astonishing number of people sleeping rough, and - more worryingly - the fact that our driver obviously couldn't wait to be in a similarly vegetative state.
Sensing the alarming drowsiness of our man at the wheel, Steve attempted to engage him with some chit chat. Not sure either of them knew a word the other was saying, but it seemed to do the trick and provided some amusement for the three passengers squeezed into the back seat.
No booze allowed at our God-fearing digs of course, so we toasted the reunion with a few clandestine duty free vodkas in the bedroom.
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