Fish & Christians

We arrived in Margao, south Goa around 8pm. The Mandovi Express, train number 0103, from Mumbai, a little over an hour late (by India standards, more than reasonable) and half a day later than planned. We were lucky to be arriving at all due to the time of year but fortune or the nice ticket man had taken pity when our waitlist tickets for the night train 12 hours earlier remained wait list tickets. We had moved from 7 & 8 to 4 & 5 which although progress, was not enough for a place on our train. The very helpful taxi/tout who had accosted us in the ticket hall couldn’t believe his eyes when I returned from the ticket booth with two tickets on the morning train. He had just spent five minutes assuring us there would be no tickets for trains to Goa for at least a week due to the holiday season. One of the things I love about India is that anything is possible.

Agonda Beach is certainly idyllic. I’ve spent many years wondering when I would finally make it to Goa and here I am. I suppose it is pretty much as I expected as I haven’t been surprised by anything. I had done a fair bit of research and so knew that this place would be beautiful and quiet – less touristy than so many of the popular beaches. It is a Catholic village - I had wanted to spend Christmas here just for the novelty of Christmas in India in a place that was actually celebrating Christmas. There is a majestic white church at the heart of the village where the road in and out of Agonda meets the one road that runs parallel to the coast. The beach is long and curved with restaurants and beach huts dotted along. The sand is fine and pale and the ocean relatively calm, small to medium waves lapping at the shore, although I think there can be a strong undertow. There are lifeguards at intervals, which is somewhat reassuring.

Walking along the beach at sunset at the end of our first day, there was a crowd and hubbub ahead in the twilight. Two rows of 10-12 men were pulling in a huge net that was attached to a boat just off the shore. They would run down to the front in pairs with a big stick which they would attach to the rope as leverage to pull in the net. As they pulled the rope (which was clearly attached to this huge net), the semi-circle would draw in a little and the boat came closer to the beach. There was much shouting and commotion and a crowd of onlookers, local and holidaymaker alike stood around trying not to get in the way as the circle closed. The excitement intensified as the net drew in and we waited with baited breath to see the fruits of this labour. Once the net was on the beach then it was shaken along from each side until there was a big pile of fish in the middle. Mainly sardines but some crab, apparently mackerel and a few other pieces. The whole spectacle was rather impressive partly from the sheer enthusiastic teamwork, partly from the simplicity of the whole process and probably partly because it was just fun to watch. What is that phrase… it takes a village...to raise a child...or in this case, to catch a bounty of fish.

Mumbai Revisited

I returned to this town almost exactly six months from the date I departed. Now, the half year just spent in the UK and US seems like a strange dream. It is as though I never left. The only difference is, the monsoon, which was just beginning when I left, is now gone. I arrived in the early hours of Thursday morning after unceremoniously being ‘involuntarily’ bumped off my flight the night before. BA kindly put me up in a surprisingly pleasant airport hotel, whose buffet - dinner and breakfast - far exceeded any expectations. Suffice to say, if I ever have to spend the night at a hotel at Heathrow, The Renaissance would be my first choice.

As soon as I stepped off the plane, I smelled India. Something about the air, even at the airport (or maybe even more so), conjures up images of colourful masses of people and heat and spice. At that time in the night the whole airport was buzzing and bustling with life. The immigration hall, a maze of people mostly in the wrong line surging forward at a pleasantly efficient pace, winding around the corners until some guy in a uniform decided to open a barrier at one end and suddenly I was the short queue for an immigration official. The officious disarray so in keeping with how one must now conduct oneself. I can’t remember how I felt when I arrived last time, after so many years, but after only a few months away this time, everything still feels so familiar. I stood back waiting for my rucksack, craning my neck over the three person thick crowd crammed around the belt (where did all these people come from? they can’t possibly have all been on the flight), and smiled to myself as I watched people manoeuvre around the piles of luggage, people and carts. Women in saris sitting around while the men went and jostled for nothing as their bags weren’t anywhere in sight; tired children being bounced on a knee or fussing; bored officials lolling about; and piles of enormous suitcases going around and around.

One thing I appreciate about arriving at Mumbai airport, is the pre-paid taxi counter. There is an easy to find counter (it had actually moved), it’s a set price, they hand you a slip, which you then give to the driver who has been pointed out to you. It’s almost seamless, other than the fact that I actually paid Rs20 more than the Rs430 that was scrawled on my ticket. I followed my driver through the crowd pushing my trolley – if you think there are a lot of people in the airport that is nothing compared to the masses awaiting their loved ones. I don’t know how anybody finds anyone there. As we approached the taxi rank, a nice man tried to help me with my trolley, but not to be fooled by this, I firmly kept my grip on the bar. It’s 500 yards to the taxi and then an expectant hand out for the service. There are some things I think are taking the piss, and that was one I wasn’t falling for twice.

Driving through the streets of Bombay so late at night affords a very different view to the traffic and bustle of most hours of day or evening. There are no street sellers weaving their way through the cars with chargers, fruit, water or any other random thing you can think of. There are no chai stalls open on the road; no barefoot children playing on the dusty side; no near collisions at every intersection. The city is asleep, in fact, right there on the pavements. Whole families, communities almost, laid out in rows slumbering (I wondered what they do during monsoon). And with no cars on the road, the journey to Colaba was probably half of what it was when I arrived before. I was booked at the same hotel, Bentley’s. Lifted from the Lonely Planet last time, which I must admit is an easy default setting, I had decided to pick up where I left off and so I did. By the time I’d woken Mr Fernandez (did I hear that right? I should have asked how he spelled it) and then pootled around in my room trying to redistribute my over-abundance of stuff, it was past 4am, which sounds super late until you realise it’s only 11pm in England. In fact, as I write now, it is 4am here, so I guess I haven’t yet overcome the jet lag. I don’t really care. I am back and ready to continue on the adventure, the exploration of this absurd and magical country.