The clock is ticking. The sun will soon be setting on our time here. Now is a moment of reflection for me - Freya and Gus are out kayaking; Hamish swims by their side and Martha, my princess, sleeps and dreams, like a starfish, under her frothy net of protection.
I sit alone on my beautiful balcony, the sounds of the gentle waves completing their journey and the sweet smell of incense accompany my thoughts.
India, my India, has not failed me. It has presented the best of itself to my gorgeous children and won them too. Our love and loyalty are its reward, our thank you to this amazing country that has granted us such a safe and easy passage.
A backpack, three kids and a mountain to climb? The only mountains we've encountered are the snow capped Himalayas. There's been no other mountain, no struggle, no great effort for us (other than the rain in McLeod). No, we've had a bunch of bags (we've never found it is easy to travel light), three happy kids and plain sailing all the way to Paradise.
I knew that Indians loved kids, but I could never have anticipated how instantly my kids would melt into the safe, secure warmth that is offered to them. I thought Martha would have been the greatest challenge. I was wrong. She's been our way in,our fast track to people's hearts. She has been loved and adored everywhere we go. The soundtrack to our trip is the cry of, "Martha, Martha!"
She has made herself at home on arrival at each new place, at ease in every kitchen, at ease and most welcome. Not one person has ushered her out when she has wondered in. It has been a joy for us to delight in the pleasure everyone gains from her.
And Fergus, he has arms and affection draped all around him. He has no chance to feel alone, to miss his buddies.
(Brief interlude: Hamish and the kids have just returned from kayaking. They went to Sunset Island and as they arrived the barman was on the phone. He held it out to Freya and said, "It's for you,"
And it was! It was Dillup, our lovely friend from Cozy Nook, phoning to tell the guys the to give them a drink and to remind them not to go round the island!)
Back to Gus - he talks to anyone and everyone who'll listen. We lost him the other night; it was dark and he'd been gone a long time. Both Hamish and I assumed wrongly that he was with the other. I had two heart stopping minutes, panic rising from my being, when I spotted him at the bar. He was perched on a stool, chatting happily with an older couple, watching football on the TV behind the bar.
And as for Freya, they show her the perfect respect, acknowledging her age, neither a child or a woman, and they play it just right. No touching, just a little joking and plenty of smiles.
The nature of our travel, not doing it on a budget, has meant we've encountered little of the crap, infuriating bureaucracy you quickly learn to hate. Today, I sat in the police station in Chawdi (I went to report that I'd lost my phone) and I witnessed such nonsense - nonsense that ironically fits so seamlessly with the ease and beauty of India.
Some guy had made a written complaint about a policeman. The Deputy Officer who sat so importantly at the front desk, under a sign that said 'Report Room' was not accepting it. He sat shouting at the man, who looked smart, respectable and intelligent. The officer continued to express his intense displeasure at reading this complaint, until the man bowed his head. It reminded me of an angry headmistress reprimanding a small boy.
His technique, which basically involved a lot of indignant yelling, worked, and it wasn't long before he had broken the man's resolve.
"Now," he pointed crossly at the paper, "You will write down what I tell you. You cannot write this. You cannot write the truth. Are you showing awareness to understanding what I am saying?"
The tall man nodded, somewhat reluctantly.
"You write as I tell you. Quickly. I was mistaken," he indicated where on the report this should be written, and the man meekly obliged, " but now I have awareness. I have awareness of the situation,"
The officer sat back in his chair, fat hands linked behind his head, as he thought of the next line of the forced prose.
"I am feeling sorry for the wasting of time my actions are causing,"
The tall man, clearly sad at his defeat, wrote down these words. Then they looked at one another briefly, exchanged the customary head wiggle that means everything and nothing. And then he was gone. The cross and oh-so-important officer, sat back once more, sighed and took a rest.
He finally summoned me forward. I explained, as I had on my arrival, that I had lost my phone, it had fallen from my bag, probably lay buried somewhere in the sand, assuring him it had not been stolen, that I merely needed to make a report so I could claim for it on my insurance.
"You will need to write down what you are saying. My officer will show you how," He was too important to be bothered further with me.
He left me with his second in command who told me what to write. I tried to say it as it was, but he didn't like that. He made me cross phrases out -he particularly didn't like it when I mentioned it had been in my bag- and he he made me change several words.
When I had finished, he waggled his head and signalled that I should go. I asked when I could have the 'certificate' but instead of answering me in English, he spoke to my rickshaw driver in Hindi. He, Sam that is, had loved every second of his time in the police station, eyes darting from one fellow to the other during the previous altercation.
I could almost see him rubbing his hands together with glee as he raced home to tell everyone the story.
As we left the station, I asked, "When do we come back?" He replied with a conspiratorial shake of his head, loving that he was in on the action. It wasn't until we'd crossed the road and were safely back in his rickshaw that he said in hushed tones, "If you are giving that man some money, he will do quickly for you,"
I raised my eyebrows. "How much?"
"I think 500 rupees should be doing it," About £7.
My initial reaction was to say "No," Not out of some sense that it was morally wrong. Baksheesh is such an integral part of the Indian system. But I hate being forced into a dealing, without willingly entering into in the first place. Like the time we arrived at Delhi station at rush hour with three kids and a stupid amount of bags. I get involved in an argument with a porter who had scooped up much of our luggage and in return demanded 200 rupees. My stubbornness, defiance and sense of fairness kicked in and we ended up struggling with it all ourselves for the sake £1.50. Similarly, this idiot policeman had annoyed me.
"Oh for goodness sake," I muttered. I was getting hot and bothered and wanted to be back on the beach. "If he does it quickly, when will it be ready?"
"Today, Madame. Otherwise it is taking several days,"
"Alright," I conceded. "Do you need to go back to tell him?"
"I will phone him. He is my friend," Everyone is always everyone else's friend.
And so it was sorted. 500 Rs bought me a bit less hassle, a bit more time on the beach and a ridiculous report that looks like a five year has written it.
I loved that whole thing had given Sam so much pleasure and once I was back on my sun bed, having relaxed in the bath like sea, I could see the humour in it too. Stuff like that doesn't make me love India any less. It just good when it's over.
I am starting to feel the weight of my sadness as I can see this dream coming to an end. I don't want to go back to work, to tidying the house, to emptying the washing machine, to trips to the supermarket. I don't want to exchange this simplicity for the complications of home.
I recognise this feeling. I know it well. I have never been able to leave India without this sense of sorrow. I know the only answer is to promise myself that I will be back.
And I won't be waiting a decade, that's for sure.
Monday 7 March 2011
Friday 4 March 2011
Gorgeous Goa
I've come to Goa lots of times. My first visit to Palolem, right down in the south of Goa, was fifteen years ago (don't you always hate it when people say, "I came here in 1974 and they'd never seen a white face..." or "We lived on this beach with just cows for company...") - well that's me right now, because way back then, there were just a few beach huts, a handful of restaurants and a smattering of westerners laying around on a mile of glorious white sand, fringed by a dense layer of palm trees.
We all felt very smug. We had found Paradise while everyone headed north to the beaches around Anjuna. A fishing village nestled in the shade of the palms, the locals were delighted to welcome us and we formed many friendships with them. During long, happy sun-drenched days we also had the privilege of hanging out with some of our best friends from home as well as meeting some legendary beach buddies from around the globe.
We came back to Palolem, arguably one of the most gorgeous places on the planet, several times and on our last trip, in 2000 we had the intense good fortune of conceiving Freya.
We had a party one night with a bunch of mates from back home. We went in the sea as the full moon was in total eclipse and swam with phospherescents. As we swished around illuminated by the bright lights of these magical plankton, someone wadded out to us with a tray of cocktails. I knew then that life would be hard pushed to top that moment.
So you get the idea: this is a very special place for us.
Children came along, and we limited ourselves to European travel for almost a decade. Palolem remained a huge part of our memories and the subject of a few framed photos that hang proudly on my walls. When Hamish and I eventually tied the knot in 2004, we named the tables after our most special places. Our table of course was Palolem.
I knew there had been much change. When we first came here it wasn't even in the Lonely Planet; now you read articles about it in the Sunday papers. So as we planned our trip to India we knew that our final destination may prove to be a shock, a disappointment even.
When we first arrived in Goa, we headed north, to visit an old friend of Hamish's who now lives here with his girlfriend and their two young kids. They live just outside Arambol, on a beach called Ashwem.
We spent a week there which was lovely. We hung out in Arambol, a place we'd never visited before. It was the first port of call for the hippies who travelled overland in the sixties. And some of them are clearly still there!
Sunset there is brilliant. It's like being at Glastonbury, as the drummers beat a steady upbeat rhythm to accompany the setting sun on its journey. People whoop and whistle and girls do crazy dancing as the music, the crowd and the charged atmosphere take them to another place.
The energy is hot, vivid and wild and I love it! The kids found the whole thing utterly mesmerising.
But as our magical adventure draws to a close, the time came to make our final move. We took a taxi to bring us three hours south. I had butterflies in my tummy as we got closer. It was all so familiar.
We had booked to stay in the place at the far end of the beach - the island end for those who are lucky enough to know it, near where the Slow People live. We arrived yesterday afternoon. You can't deny the development here has been immense. There's barely an inch of palm shaded beach that doesn't have huts or a restaurant. At night it's light up like a Christmas tree.
But you know what, it's still one of the most beautiful places in the entire world. Hurray! We have chosen brilliantly to stay at the end of the beach. It's really quiet here and our huts seem like the lap of luxury after Ashwem. We have vast balconies with day beds to lie around in the shade and beautifully painted furniture. We have flowers garlands hanging on our doors and there's a yoga class each morning just behind us. This morning Fergus lay in his hammock watching me stretch out with Rubens, my instructor.
There are majestic palm trees gently moving in the breeze all around us and we lie on bean bags and swinging seats to eat fresh mangoes.
The kids think I'm like a stuck record as ever since we arrived here, my mantra has been, "I'm so happy,"
Before sunset last night we walked down the beach to see if some of old haunts were still here. At each one, I was blown away by the fact that 10 years on, thousands of visitors later, our Indian friends ran out to greet us with arms wide. I cried every time.
We all felt very smug. We had found Paradise while everyone headed north to the beaches around Anjuna. A fishing village nestled in the shade of the palms, the locals were delighted to welcome us and we formed many friendships with them. During long, happy sun-drenched days we also had the privilege of hanging out with some of our best friends from home as well as meeting some legendary beach buddies from around the globe.
We came back to Palolem, arguably one of the most gorgeous places on the planet, several times and on our last trip, in 2000 we had the intense good fortune of conceiving Freya.
We had a party one night with a bunch of mates from back home. We went in the sea as the full moon was in total eclipse and swam with phospherescents. As we swished around illuminated by the bright lights of these magical plankton, someone wadded out to us with a tray of cocktails. I knew then that life would be hard pushed to top that moment.
So you get the idea: this is a very special place for us.
Children came along, and we limited ourselves to European travel for almost a decade. Palolem remained a huge part of our memories and the subject of a few framed photos that hang proudly on my walls. When Hamish and I eventually tied the knot in 2004, we named the tables after our most special places. Our table of course was Palolem.
I knew there had been much change. When we first came here it wasn't even in the Lonely Planet; now you read articles about it in the Sunday papers. So as we planned our trip to India we knew that our final destination may prove to be a shock, a disappointment even.
When we first arrived in Goa, we headed north, to visit an old friend of Hamish's who now lives here with his girlfriend and their two young kids. They live just outside Arambol, on a beach called Ashwem.
We spent a week there which was lovely. We hung out in Arambol, a place we'd never visited before. It was the first port of call for the hippies who travelled overland in the sixties. And some of them are clearly still there!
Sunset there is brilliant. It's like being at Glastonbury, as the drummers beat a steady upbeat rhythm to accompany the setting sun on its journey. People whoop and whistle and girls do crazy dancing as the music, the crowd and the charged atmosphere take them to another place.
The energy is hot, vivid and wild and I love it! The kids found the whole thing utterly mesmerising.
But as our magical adventure draws to a close, the time came to make our final move. We took a taxi to bring us three hours south. I had butterflies in my tummy as we got closer. It was all so familiar.
We had booked to stay in the place at the far end of the beach - the island end for those who are lucky enough to know it, near where the Slow People live. We arrived yesterday afternoon. You can't deny the development here has been immense. There's barely an inch of palm shaded beach that doesn't have huts or a restaurant. At night it's light up like a Christmas tree.
But you know what, it's still one of the most beautiful places in the entire world. Hurray! We have chosen brilliantly to stay at the end of the beach. It's really quiet here and our huts seem like the lap of luxury after Ashwem. We have vast balconies with day beds to lie around in the shade and beautifully painted furniture. We have flowers garlands hanging on our doors and there's a yoga class each morning just behind us. This morning Fergus lay in his hammock watching me stretch out with Rubens, my instructor.
There are majestic palm trees gently moving in the breeze all around us and we lie on bean bags and swinging seats to eat fresh mangoes.
The kids think I'm like a stuck record as ever since we arrived here, my mantra has been, "I'm so happy,"
Before sunset last night we walked down the beach to see if some of old haunts were still here. At each one, I was blown away by the fact that 10 years on, thousands of visitors later, our Indian friends ran out to greet us with arms wide. I cried every time.
Thursday 3 March 2011
Living the dream...
Another gorgeous day in paradise. This one got off to a really special start for all of us. I went to a lovely yoga class in a beautiful White and gold space shaded by the palm trees. After a very relaxing couple of hours, I returned to the others just in time to watch Freya, Fergus and Hamish swimming about ten metres away from a pair of dolphins. It was absolutely amazing. I've seen dolphins in Goa lots of times but always from a distance. To have them come so close to the shore is really unusual. It was truly awesome. And for Martha, the experience was equally brilliant. My eyes never left the sea for over fifteen minutes, giving her the perfect opportunity to plough through half a packet of Hide and Seeks (her favourite Indian biscuits).
I feel as though we've entered yet another phase. No one asks for the iPad, the DS or any other gadget. We are all just content to watch the ocean and our fellow beach dwellers.
This morning I lay in bed with Gus for ages after we had woken up. We lay cuddling, talking and listening to the mighty sound of the waves crashing on the beach. If we'd been at home, he'd have gone straight downstairs to watch tv or play on the wii.
Everything about our lives here is so simple. We over complicate things back home, always too busy, doing too many things. Life here is so free and easy. The only thing we have to do each day is put on suncream.
I feel as though we've entered yet another phase. No one asks for the iPad, the DS or any other gadget. We are all just content to watch the ocean and our fellow beach dwellers.
This morning I lay in bed with Gus for ages after we had woken up. We lay cuddling, talking and listening to the mighty sound of the waves crashing on the beach. If we'd been at home, he'd have gone straight downstairs to watch tv or play on the wii.
Everything about our lives here is so simple. We over complicate things back home, always too busy, doing too many things. Life here is so free and easy. The only thing we have to do each day is put on suncream.
Hanging out with the rich and famous!
Today has been very exciting! The Beckhams of India have been to our beach. Two brothers, the Kahns, are big stars in Bollywood. Their families are some of the most famous celebs in the country. They came and sat just behind us and when one of the brothers starting to kick a football around with their sons, Gus was quick to join them. He played with them for ages.
They invited him to have lunch with them at La Plage (the best restaurant in Goa, which happens to be next door to us), but he politely declined saying, "I've just had a nutella pancake,"
How brilliant!
They invited him to have lunch with them at La Plage (the best restaurant in Goa, which happens to be next door to us), but he politely declined saying, "I've just had a nutella pancake,"
How brilliant!
The ant theory
A long time ago, I lay in a hammock with Hamish, our great mate Caspar hanging next to us and we watched an army of ants march through our hut, over our belongings and out the other side. A few minutes later, we heard the people in the hut next door screaming and leaping around. The ants had continued their journey into their backpacks and instead of waiting for them to come out and carry on with their mission, they had disturbed them by frantically emptying the contents of their bags. The ants, under threat, had attacked mercilessly and our German neighbours were covered in angry red bites.
Leaving them to go about their business, they brought us no harm.
I met a lady the other day who lives here. For six long lovely months over winter, she exchanges her little cottage in Hampshire for a positively palatial pad in Goa, complete with large grounds, swimming pool and staff. They are often visited by snakes. Her gardener or nightwatchman alerts her, letting her know if it is harmful (more often than not this means deadly!). If it is a particularly venomous type, they call in the Snake Man, otherwise they just keep an eye on it so they know where it goes and wait for it to leave.
Same same as they say in India.
I've applied this concept to my rat issue and it works. We make sure there's no food, and now they come and go then leave us in peace. So even with their scratching presence, I can sleep. And, as if in answer to my acceptance of them, the squeaking seems to have stopped.
Leaving them to go about their business, they brought us no harm.
I met a lady the other day who lives here. For six long lovely months over winter, she exchanges her little cottage in Hampshire for a positively palatial pad in Goa, complete with large grounds, swimming pool and staff. They are often visited by snakes. Her gardener or nightwatchman alerts her, letting her know if it is harmful (more often than not this means deadly!). If it is a particularly venomous type, they call in the Snake Man, otherwise they just keep an eye on it so they know where it goes and wait for it to leave.
Same same as they say in India.
I've applied this concept to my rat issue and it works. We make sure there's no food, and now they come and go then leave us in peace. So even with their scratching presence, I can sleep. And, as if in answer to my acceptance of them, the squeaking seems to have stopped.
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