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Diary proper. First entry.

My first entry, and it covers 12 days, so future entries will be shorter. Honest.

Saturday, 12th December 2009

It’s time to start the diary. I arrived in Goa on Monday November 30^th, so this is day twelve. The delay in starting is down to a few factors.

1.       Nowhere comfortable to sit and do it. My flat – marble tile floored and spacious – only has a large glass-topped coffee table on which to place my laptop. That’s quite nice in itself, but chair-wise, I have two very nice carved wooden rocking chairs with rattan backs and seats, and three dilapidated deck chairs which, although the right height for sitting at the coffee table, can only be rendered bum-friendly with the addition of one of my pillows, and even then remain cramped and angled all wrong for my purpose.

2. I’ve only just “settled” really. There’s now a routine of sorts. Up at 8am, dress and tootle off on my red Honda Dio scooter to the Chai Shop at the crossroads in Patnem for breakfast with the Salmans. Then to the coffee shop and onto Allesandra’s on Palolem beach. Then home at 1ish for a shower and siesta / read. Back to the café at 4ish if I want to do anything webby, and dinner, either chez Salman or on Patnem beach at Tantra.

3.  I’ve spent the time I would otherwise use on writing on trying to sort out codec software to allow me to edit video. I’m very keen that my blog will include a weekly short film. So far with no success.

I left London on a very wet Sunday evening. Mum and Dad were at lunch out of London during the day, and their journey had been so delayed by traffic and flooding that I booked a mini-cab from GLH to Heathrow, in case they were late back and Dad couldn’t drive me. They were back in time as it happened, but with a reaction which illustrates the huge difference between his attitude to driving and mine, Dad didn’t suggest cancelling the taxi.

The driver was great though, and despite the weather and time of day, I arrived at Heathrow in under an hour. This meant no rush to check-in – I H.A.T.E. being rushed at airports. I’d checked-in online earlier in the day, so the bit at the airport was smooth and quick enough.

I was especially glad to be free of my hold luggage, as I am travelling heavier than usual. Aside from my every-present ResMed CPAP machine, which comes as hand luggage, I had two suitcases and my classical guitar, which I am convinced will be worth the trouble flying it over.

Flying Jet Airways, I’m always sure of comfort and excellent service - even in cattle - and the 9-hour flight to Bombay was as pleasant as a 9-hour flight can be, with the exception of some turbulence over Eastern Europe. The food was very good, served with proper metal cutlery and a cloth napkin tied with a decorative cord.

Landing at Bombay, I had to queue with the rest of flight for half an hour to have my “I do not have swine flu” form stamped. All with the over-hanging threat of having my temperature taken. This was a threat I felt heavily, as I had fraudulently ticked the box confirming I had not suffered a fever in the last ten days.

The truth is that on the Friday I had gone to dinner at Andy’s in Camden with Ray and had felt progressively more ill through the evening. This didn’t diminish my enjoyment of the evening too much as Ray’s company is relaxed and requires very little effort.

The patronage of Petros was even more generous than usual. A criminally reduced bill was handed over after a long and calm evening, most of which was spent with Petros and his wife at our table. They’re a lovely couple, and Petros’ insistence on getting us more of anything we want, and making sure we get the most out of his hospitality is, after the twenty-something years I’ve been dining there, born of genuine friendship and a desire to please and make us feel at home, without a trace of commercial interest or insincere applied bonhomie.

He had four bottles of a special reserve Nemea on approval from his supplier. We had one with dinner and it was the best Nemea I’ve had, much more full-bodied and oaky than usual. He gave me a second bottle to take to the Salmans with his best wishes.

However, by the time I’d dropped Ray home in the East End and got back to the flat at gone 1am I felt fucking terrible. I had a horrible cough that had given way to one of my spectacular coughing fits earlier in the day, which had necessitated the application of foundation to cover up the burst blood vessels on my face.

A suspected case of swine flu in July meant that I now had a digital thermometer, which confirmed a fever of 38.6. I felt even sicker at the prospect of a rescheduled flight and a delayed start to my trip. The sting of the thought was marginally reduced by the fact that I'm going to be in Goa for at least seven weeks, so I resolved to take lots of paracetamol and decide on whether to delay at lunchtime Saturday, based on the success or otherwise of the pills.

It worked, and although not feeling 100%, I stuck to the schedule. I packed enough paracetamol in my hand luggage to hopefully ensure my temperature remained as near normal as possible for the flight, and more importantly, for my arrival in Bombay. Hence my quiet and well-disguised anxiety in the queue for the health-check counter. If they decided I wasn’t well they could deny me entry, or worse still, stick me in a Bombay hospital for observation. Ugh.

It may seem irresponsible to have travelled given my state, knowing that the Indian government is only doing what is sensible to prevent an outbreak of flu amongst a population generally far less able to cope than the one I belong to. However, as a diabetic and asthmatic I have in fact had a swine flu jab and was confident I was OK. Happily the masked health officials bought my tick-box-lie and stamped me free to enter and go and get my luggage.

There was a corner of the hall in which were placed the medically suspect. So there they were, about 15 huddled Indians, hacking and spluttering over each and surrounded by an airport rope cordon and several masked medics. If they didn’t have something nasty when they got there, the bloody did now.

I collected my luggage, cleared immigration and smiled at the policeman collecting the immigration slips, as I recognised him and his impressive moustache - seemingly standard issue above a certain rank - from my previous three visits. He returned the smile as though for all the world he had recognised me too. I chose to believe this impossibility and felt little more at home than Bombay International generally allows an Englishman to feel.

I wheeled my luggage to the transit check-in and left it in the corridor there on the instruction of a large stern lady official, assuring a fellow Brit that this was OK and that her luggage would be waiting for her in Goa along with mine. She was clearly nervous about this seemingly haphazard process, as so many Indian procedures feel until experience shows you that everything here seems haphazard but usually turns out OK.

The battered coach which takes transit passengers on the 10-minute journey around the airfield edge deposits us by the entrance of the very smart domestic terminal. Before going inside, I stop and look around the tarmac and across to the enormous sprawling shanty town – well, city – beyond the perimeter. It’s the first hit of Indian heat and it feels fantastic. Already the London November rain is almost unimaginable.

I have a lovely iced coffee in the cafe and then go to the boarding gate for the one-hour internal flight to Goa. I’m third in the queue and the pretty hostess tells me I’m being upgraded to Premium Class. The smart Jet Airways bus drives us in superfluous comfort the 50 or so yards to the aircraft steps. At the top I find my second row, large blue leather seat. Immediately I’m handed a cool scented hand towel. You get this in coach too, but I relished the attention whilst at the same time trying to look as though I’m totally used to this. Which I could get to be with no effort whatsoever.

Not only is the seat large, but it reclines in several ways, and even has a footrest which you can raise to meet and support your feet. Bliss! An extremely rare occasion on which I can enjoy a comfy chair without my feet dangling. Curse these stumpy legs!

Even though it’s a short hop, there’s still a three-course lunch, chosen from a glossy menu. I have a chicken korma, finished just in time for our decent into Goa. I surreptitiously film the landing through the window, with the pretty hostess who upgraded me smiling at me, as I noted she had done throughout the flight. Another bout of happy self-delusion, picturing me singing Coast Of Malabar at some future folk club gig, and dedicating it wistfully to her...

From my front row seat, I’m first off the plane and first to the carousel where my large suitcase and guitar are first off the belt. My second, smaller case however, is the very last to appear, natch. Straight out of the door and into the blazing afternoon sunshine, and there’s Benny. A big, bristley kiss, and off to Ajay’s cab.

On the road in a trice and as always, it feels as though I was here only last week. I’m a very lucky bunny, me. Most of my foreign holidays, whether to India, Hamburg, California, France, Spain or Israel, are to visit friends or family and so I rarely feel anything other than at home and looked after. I do essentially feel very English, but I know that I could pretty much live anywhere and make myself feel at home quickly, and I think it’s these happy trips to foreign places with friendly faces to welcome me and show me what’s what that has instilled this in me.

We catch up on London news and Patnem news, especially of course, Maya’s development. I speak to Esme on the phone en route and I can’t wait to arrive. We make a couple of errand stops in Margao on the way, and it’s still daylight when we arrive at Saul Haven – the large double-fronted Mediterranean-looking villa containing the first floor flat that’s to be my home into next year.

Benny helps me with my luggage (taking the largest and heaviest components as ever) and he and the owner’s daughter Sima show me around. The living room is large, the bedroom is generous too, and like the living room, is on a corner and benefits from windows on two sides. The bathroom is small but has the requisite shower, loo, sink and bum-hose!

The kitchen is also a good size and has a running ‘fridge, sink, black marble counter and a two-ring portable gas hob. The place is in need of a superficial dust and wipe but it’s lovely. The balcony is a particular delight. It’s about ten feet wide by six foot deep and leads out from the living room.  It looks out to the huge front garden, to the gate onto the road between Patnem and Palolem, and beyond to a big field with the jungle behind. A few minutes gazing out from here pretty much guarantees spotting eagles, buffalo, a kingfisher, huge butterflies and dragonflies.

Looking out from the balcony, a rickshaw arrives and out comes Esme and Maya! They come up to the flat and I’m so happy to be with all of the Salmans again. Maya runs around, a little wary for ten minutes, but seems to know who I am. This is confirmed by her tweaking my nose for the clown-car-hooter noise which is expected of me. Fab!

Esme has brought me a ton of stuff for the flat. A Tupperware box of fruit, a tiny loaf of bread, crunchy peanut butter, milk, tea, coffee, crockery, cutlery, even cotton sheets and pillowcases for the bed.

We have kingfish steaks for dinner at Tantra, then to their place, in a house similar to mine and five minutes walk from me.

Walk home by torchlight and bed by 1am, tired and very, very, very happy.

The following days include a couple of trips to Chaudi to the supermarket, to Bubba’s to get me a local SIM card for my mobile, lots of visits to Cafe Inn, occasional beach dinners at Tantra, and plenty of evenings at the Salmans’, playing with Maya (who calls me Onkoo [uncle]).

Returning home late evening I sit on the balcony for an hour or two, sipping a large slug of Honey Bee brandy, smoking a cigarette and reading. Currently I’m going through Michael Palin’s Diaries, 1969-1979.

I’m sleeping well, and am usually up by 8am. I’m not yet eating as well as I should, but my blood sugar has not been high at all. In fact it’s been a little low a couple of times – nothing that isn’t remedied straight away by a couple of Tiger biscuits. But I’ve been having proper breakfasts for the last couple of days and I expect no problems while I’m here. The remnants of my cold have dried up completely and as usual in this climate, I feel fantastic. With me eating so much less, I’ll doubtless lose a decent amount of weight too. My face already looks leaner.

For week one I was either walking to the Salmans, or going on the back of Benny’s scooter to Palolem, but on Saturday I picked up my own Honda Dio – almost brand new and shiny and red.


The day before Benny had put me on his scooter and with him on the back I rode up the road from Café Inn to Sharon & Sandra’s and back. Wobbly and not over-confident but easier than I thought. Reaching the ground with my feet was my main worry, but I manage it just. As Esme pointed out – the Indians cope, and they’re not the tallest race in the world.

And that was it – my scooter training completed. Up the road and back. So when we picked up the scooter, I jumped at Benny’s suggestion of a longish ride to Agonda, about five miles away, with him on the back.

On the way back, we came across some cows in the road. As I edged passed them, I slipped on the throttle, and the scooter fell into a ditch, and we fell onto the road. My first crash. Twenty minutes into having a scooter. Yay.

I was slightly grazed on my leg and arms, Benny had a slightly worse graze on his knee. But both a lot more OK than could’ve been the case. Worse than the grazes, or even my hurt pride, was the fact that I had come off of the scooter with a passenger. I feel terrible that my stupidity hurt someone else. On the upside as Benny and later Esme said – at least I’ve got my crash out of the way on day one.

Plenty of gentle practice over the following days. Now I’m much more confident, and a lot more wary of cattle.

Today is special. Benny's dad David is flying in. Betty's mum, Betty, has been here for several weeks already and has no idea he's arriving. It's his 70th birthday too. I'm in the coffee shop now where he'll be arriving in a few hours. I will film and post the event...

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