How on earth is it possible that over one month has passed since I have been here? Brace yourself, folks, this blog is going to be a long one. (Pictures included for anyone who can’t be bothered to read.)
One month on, and I have made it to the paradise that is Goa. Sitting here in yet another hammock (can you see a theme?) after a sleeper bus through the night and a tummy full of breakfast. My three hours in Goa so far are everything that I could hope – colourful markets and little book stalls, big open cafes offering a menu full of badly spelled but deliciously cooked food (french flies anyone? Or maybe an avocado warp?) and palm fringed beaches. I’m staying in a beautiful little home stay owned by possibly the most calming and zen Indian woman who, upon arrival served us little lemony drinks. I think I’m going to like it here. Us, by the way is my new friend Aussie friend Gemma and I who I met 12 hours ago on the bus. She shared her cookies with me, I shared my mango sweets with her… boom, friends for life.
I’m going to attempt to waffle through the last month to give a taste of how life here has been. Last time I wrote, I had just spent ten days not leaving Trivandurum. My first stop after finally leaving was to the beautiful beach town of Varkala, another paradise beach bursting with jewellery, aryuvedic massage treatments and seafood. I found it tough to leave this place too and stayed six days in the most incredible homestay, Shiva Garden. A peaceful paradise with shelves full of books and games, communal areas and tables for great minds and curious natures, hammocks and giant swings scattered throughout, tables under palm trees, ladders to rooftop dorms, a kitchen full of food and fresh juices… people full of stories.
I spend my time doing yoga, swimming, exploring and meeting people from all around Europe, Canada, the US and my favourites – two girls from Australia and New Zealand who share my passion for the dessert “Hello to the Queen” – a mix of banana, chocolate syrup, biscuits, nuts, ice cream, coconut and diabetes. One night at dinner I meet an excitable man from Prague who promises to guess people’s ages from feeling their elbows. After correctly guessing half of the people at my table, he proudly announces “27!” to me. After telling him that I am actually 23, he shrugs at me and says “Drink more water”. Advice taken!
Peaceful Varkala.
Birthday dinner and drinks for Alex. (L-R, Daniel, Jill, Lucy, Alex & Luise)
Awesome New Zealander Carla and I enjoying a squid sizzler.
Varkaaaala.
Carla, Georgie, Me, Farida and Emily enjoying the last moments of Varkala!
After six days of wonderful company, especially from the mutual dessert lovers Carla and Georgie, it is finally time to head off. I had heard about a hill station called Munnar where you can visit huge tea plantations and hike through wildlife sanctuaries. Munnar would be the next stop. Announcing my plans to my group of friends, a lovely woman called Farida (of Indian origin but with the most wonderfully obnoxious English accent) asks to join me. Why not?
We decide to detour, first stopping off at a cool sounding place called Fort Cochin, a city of narrow winding lanes, spice markets, a natural harbour full of Chinese fishing nets (that you can help the fishermen pull up and buy the fish that you have caught!), a synagogue (in an area nicely named “Jew Town” – Mah Nishmah to all of my Jew Crew), India’s first European Church… Fort Cochi promises all kinds of treasures. Farida and I check into a lovely little guest house run by the world’s most gloriously sarcastic Indian man who I spend most of the evening laughing hysterically with and a happy chef who fancies Farida. In return for a bit of eyelash batting, he cooks us a delicious Thai curry even when we have a power cut.
We soon realise it is approaching Good Friday, and as Kerala (the state that we were in) has a high population of Christians we watch a beautiful candlelit procession weave through the city from the swinging chairs of our balcony.
We spend the next day meandering through the harbours, taking the cheapest but sweatiest ferry ride ever and watching two men tattoo each other right out under the sun on a blanket by the river. We stop to watch and they attempt to tattoo us… fortunately we escape with little more than some henna on our hands. Pretty.
My hand art. Fortunately not a tattoo. In front of lots of tea.
With the temperature rising, and the promise of cooler temperatures in hill station Munnar, we find our bus and spend the next four hours winding up through mountains, seeing fields and fields of tea, waterfalls and the odd Indian man having a wee. It is a successful journey except for the part where I went in a hunt for water at a “Twenty minute break stop” and have to RUN and jump onto the bus after it departs after six minutes. The driver laughs at me and I have to join in. Good ol’ India.
Once there, Farida and I quickly check into a little home stay called JJs, where we mingle with some Dutch folk and book a tour for the next day, promising us a visit to some waterfalls, walks through tea, coffee and bamboo plantations, visits to villages and a hike through a wildlife sanctuary. We spend a cosy evening together watching The Secret Life of Bees on my laptop and generally being girlie.
Bright and early tomorrow, we set off four our tour and as luck would have it, I bump into a guy, Matt, who I met two weeks before in Trivandurum! What are the chances? Deciding the the coincidence is too much, Matt and I decide to travel the next few stops together. Munnar treats us well, offering us stunning views, delicious chocolate and plenty of hungry monkeys.
Having a “special” moment in all that tea.
More special moments on a big rock.
Hiking.
Feeding time!
Matt has a whole itinerary planned out and is more than happy for me to tag along. Together we make our way to another city where he has heard there is an old fashioned miniature train that travels for five hours up further into the mountain city of Ooty. We meet the equivalent of an Indian rugby team on the little train who chant and sing at every opportunity as well as a delightful French couple who instantly become my adopted parents, recommending me various treatments for any time I sniff. We meander through the city, admiring the views, the people and the touts offering horseback rides. We check into a little hotel that even has it’s own Cheers Bar! We do not enter. Nobody knows our name. Actually, that’s a lie. Half of India knows our name. And our country. And has our photo, probably on their mantelpiece or as their phone background.
Ooty is terrific. Persuaded by a tout we agree to go horse riding the following day. What we don’t realise is how keen the Indians are. The next morning, we are awoken at 8 am sharp by a phone call from the reception desk.
“You ordered a horse? Horse is here.”
Oh dear. On the street, I am told to ride Rocky, as he is “very nice, very friendly horse”. Once out of the city, our guide, Deepak turns to me and sadly says “Your horse… very bad horse. Very dangerous. Not trained”. Oh goody. This is later discovered when I sneeze, scaring Rocky into setting off at a terrifying gallop. Fortunately I am such a kickass rider that I easily regain control, gallop down the streets, jump over a burning building and save a child. This is only slightly exaggerated. Deepak, doesn’t seem to know too much English but is more than happy to chat away with what he knows, starting every sentence with “You want”, and answering our questions with whatever enters his head.
Us: “Deepak, what do the masks above the doors mean?”
Deepak: “You want dog? My uncle has two German dogs. And a baby. You can’t have.”
We finish our ride, after having galloped through a pine forest, round a lake, through fields of tea and even a little village filled with waving kids. We stay in Ooty for two more nights, dancing in a street parade, celebrating Matt’s birthday with a tiny piece of cake and a huge candle and sore legs/bums from horseriding.
Miniature Toy Train to go up Ooty.
Rocky, Ranjeet, Matt and Lucy.
Appropriately, next we head to a city called Mysore(arse!) which promises a beautiful palace, an incredible garden filled with illuminated water fountains that glow and flicker in time to the music and our first scammer – an idiot named Saleem who takes us on a tour of his friend’s shops and trying to get us to buy everything. Lesson learned. The escapade ends when we politely tell him where to go and I decorate his wall with black crayon. Long story. Fortunately the palace and gardens are spectacular enough to make us forget how frustrating it can be sometimes when you’re a tourist. We meet some lovely people from Jaipur who I fully plan on meeting up with later in the year – especially as one is a fashion designer and I am keen to swap ideas and stories of fashion faux pas.
Our next stop is the city of Bangalore. Bangalore is an odd city. It’s freakishly Western and I find myself staring at all the women who no longer wear saris and instead wear hot pants and little tops. It feels strange. Although there is plenty to do (shopping, cinemas, parks), it feels less like the ‘real’ India – something that I am relieved to find I miss. There is even a Marks and Spencers, which is even odder, especially as they have exactly the same clothes being sold. And an Accesorize, where a shop assistant almost faints with excitement when I show him that I am wearing some earrings from the Accessorize in England. Bless. Matt and I embrace the Western way and decide to spend the day relaxing in a huge park, doing some shopping and going to see a film. We pick The Hunger Games, which is surprisingly good, even when a man’s phone goes off and he has a full-length conversation in the cinema. And when they have an interval. And when they open the doors five minutes before the film ends, filling the theatre with light, ready for people to leave. Oh India, I love your ways.
Time for some more culture, and we set off for the next city – an ancient city filled with ruins of the former capital of the Vijayanagara Empire, huge rock boulders and many more temples – even one on wheels. Knowing that I am going to love Hampi, we agree to stay for 6 days at a gorgeous, laid back restaurant-home stay combo – The Funky Monkey. It is here that I have my first experience on a Moped… and shock horror, I did not fall off. We meander through the countryside, visiting temples and drinking coconut water at every stop. We even make friends with a lovely Indian family who work cleaning one of the temples. They invite us to lunch and share huge piles of rice and dahl fry, served on banana leaves. They have two little girls who call me sister and teach me about Hindu Gods and an amazing culturally important Indian dance. After watching, bewitched, the two girls ask me to teach them a dance. Keen to share an equally important piece of culture with them, I happily oblige and set about teaching them… The Macarena. There is something quite spectacular when seeing a family of Indians wiggling their arms and legs trying to hum a song that I don’t even know the words to.
Don’t worry, be Hampi.
The next few days are spent exploring the lake (turns out it is a reservoir that we definitely should not have swam in), the bazaars and markets and a giant elephant who does not bless me because I did not pay the tourist price. Clever elephant.
One night, we meet an insane French guy; Boris, who refuses to cross the nearby river by ferry and instead puts his pants on his head and swims across. Boris thinks that ordering food from a restaurant is too easy and invites us to climb a rock mountain with him at sunset and cook food for ourselves. Keen to test my camping skills we instantly oblige. I head back to get some sturdy climbing shoes and a torch. Boris goes barefoot. We find an empty temple, with only monkeys and a dog called Camelot and set up a fire and spend the rest of the evening under the stars, talking, listening to Boris talk about meditation and cooking (rather successfully) our own vegetable pakoras. (A kind of fried vegetable bhaji),
The next day, Matt and I decide to part ways – he is far more pressed for time and I am just not ready to say goodbye to Hampi. I spend one more night playing cards with some local kids, testing my first aid kit on a Californian stoner who has cut open his foot on a motorbike and watching Boris tightrope walk across a pile of razor sharp rocks. I am not making this up.
There, a slice of life in India. Goa, what’s next?
