Stephanie Kerber, Author

COLOURS OF GOA - 5-20 December 2023
Part 4

Another highlight of our trip was an organized excursion to the town of Margau (incidentally the same town where the hospital we had visited a few days previously, was located). A coach conveyed us through jungle and villages, past hamlets with colourful roadside icons, small churches, brightly-clad women sitting on the dusty road selling fruit and dried fish piled high on blankets, and across muddy rivers into the busy, noisy market town.

Faded, several-storeyed, balconied buildings, an echo from the Portuguese colonial times, made up the town centre’s architecture, and streets full of every shop imaginable converged in a cacophony of rushing traffic, around a statue-centred town square. Cars, vans, lorries, rickshaws and scooters careered past us, accelerating, braking, and screeching around corners, horns tooting wildly. The constant noise was a shock to the system and something we’d become unused to in the cocoon of our tranquil hotel.

We were led to the town’s covered markets where we were assailed by a different cacophony – this time of voices calling out wares, music playing, children wailing and the constant chatter of bargains being made and prices being argued over. We went first to the fruit and veg market where we marvelled at the most beautifully arranged displays of produce. I could list them here but just insert every variety of fruit and vegetable you could ever think of in every colour imaginable (and research all those you don’t even know) and it would probably be found at this market, which was more full of locals than tourists. Apparently this was where all the hotels picked up their supplies of food, so we felt it was an authentic working market rather than just a tourist trap. Unfortunately we had a momentary but harsh insight into the difficult lives of many in the sub-continent (and indeed around the world) – families sitting on kerbsides, holding out their hands for money – children tugging at the clothes of visitors and pointing to their mouths with outstretched hands, and people with limbs missing, on crutches and in wheelchairs, begging for money to survive. In a country without a welfare state, these sights are only too common and we realized how sheltered we really were in our little tourist enclave.

We were then led to the dry fish and wet fish markets, which were another experience to behold and incidentally not quite as smelly as you might think – everything was apparently bought and sold quickly each day so happily, nothing remained long enough to start fermenting. We were told that there was so much dried fish – from pale pink prawns to large river and sea fish in every shade of grey and white – because during the breeding season in June/July it was illegal to catch fish in India, therefore fish supplies needed to be dried and preserved and had become a traditional food in the area.
The wet fish market was fascinating with rows of silver, gleaming whole fish of all varieties and sizes – shoals of tiddlers to baby sharks (yes, we did sing the song – come on, we’re only human!) and women sitting cross-legged on the fish counter displays, doing the messy work of gutting the fish and making them presentable for sale. My delicate sensibilities couldn’t help but feel sad at the fate of these beautiful creatures (the fish, not the women – though the women had their own beauty of course), but we have to acknowledge that the fish industry provides nutrition to millions and a livelihood for all the people that work in it. Everything is connected and removing one element of any situation would have knock-on effects that would reverberate way beyond the immediate.

There were also spice and general produce markets in the area but we were under a time constraint and needed to get back to the coach to continue the next part of our trip. We were taken onwards to one of the beautifully ornate white churches of the area, the gorgeous Church of the Holy Spirit. It was set up for a wedding later that morning, with a gold carpet and white floral displays leading to the door of the church, up some impressive steps to an elevated terrace at the front of the building. A quick peep through the large white painted wooden entrance doors revealed a beautifully decorated interior but again, we had limited time available and had to return to our coach, past scores of pink-uniformed school children, practicing their dancing and singing for a forthcoming sports day and performance. The church was situated on a broad and attractive side road with handsomely painted colonial buildings either side, a leafy respite from the tropical heat. Given more time it would have been a pleasant diversion to meander along these streets but alas, we were on a tight schedule.

Back in the town centre we had a half an hour to dash into a bar for refreshments, a popular choice as it seemed the whole coach party had chosen the same bar, so we got to know our fellow travellers better over a few drinks, then it was time to meet outside for the next part of our adventure – a rickshaw ride through the town centre – something that had been on our bucket list for a while. We’d been warned that it would be hair-raising and so it was, but hugely exciting too. The driver weaved in and out of the path of other vehicles at breakneck speed from the start. In the maelstrom of noise, hooting and apparent chaos, it quickly became obvious that there was actually some kind of beautiful order and a system that worked. The rickshaw accelerated then sharply braked, swerved, stopped, rushed forward, hooting the horn madly, then braking to a sudden standstill - and there was method in the madness. In situations that would have had us slamming on the brakes and swearing in terror, the rickshaw driver continued to accelerate, almost aiming for the obstruction, sure in the knowledge that either he or the other driver would move out of the way or stop at the very last second. It worked, it was crazy and exhilarating, we survived intact and I think there were only two occasions when I thought or shouted “Fuuuuuuuuuuck!!!” (Oops, swear warning!)

After the craziness and terror of the rickshaw ride it was back to the air-conditioned sanity of the coach and on to our next destination – a restored colonial house nearby, where we were to have a guided tour from the owner and a much-needed home-cooked lunch made by his wife.

The house was wonderful – painted a pretty peach colour and built in the Portuguese colonial style over two hundred years ago with porticoed columns and white stone steps up to the grand wooden doors. It was set in ornate, manicured gardens on several levels, on a hillside. The present owner and his wife had bought the house several years ago and had restored it, filling it with traditional dark wood furniture. We were led through several airy and cool rooms on the ground floor, admiring the wooden artefacts and furnishings, and learning about the history of the house and how important it was for the heritage and culture of the colonial times to be preserved for future generations.

After the tour we were taken to a shady terrace where we were seated at tables and treated to a traditional Goan lunch of various meat, fish, lamb and chicken curries along with several vegetarian dishes and salads, all prepared and washed in pure Spring water we were told, in case we were anxious about the quality of the local water. There was something for all tastes and the food was fresh, tasty and very welcome. We learned that Goan food has its own distinct identity – not least because Goa is the only region in India where beef is allowed to be eaten – and is considered more aromatic and less violently spicy than the food of other regions.

A quick wander around the gardens after lunch and we had to bid a reluctant goodbye to our generous host and hit the road again, this time to a railway station in the middle of – well, nowhere – to catch a local train back to Margau to meet up with the coach and be taken back to the hotel. The station was a local countryside station where there were only two or three trains per day. Railway tracks led miles into the distance in both directions and there was a crossing place across the rails where local people – and then where we too – walked across to the platform on the other side. There was great excitement when we spotted a group of wild monkeys walking across the rails, climbing up and sitting on the high grid structures that housed the electric supply, and basking in the sun on a pile of rocks nearby. The monkeys were unperturbed by the presence of the strange white alien creatures (us) poking cameras in their faces, and regarded us with indifference as we came close. We were far more thrilled than they were.

After a half hour wait in the stillness and oppressive heat of the late afternoon sun, during which we all (including our guides) were starting to worry that the train might have been cancelled without letting us know, the faded pale blue train finally lumbered slowly into view and creaked to a halt for us to clamber on board. This was no luxury Orient Express – the train, with "Indian Railways" emblazoned in dark red on its side, must have been decades old. There were no doors or glazed windows on the side that faced us – simply gaps at the end of the carriages where we could climb aboard, and the windows on the carriages resembled those of prisons – with narrow metal strips letting air in, and bars across the outsides. Luckily the windows on the other side were more traditional glass, affording us what turned out to be excellent views of the countryside with mountains in the near distance. Inside, the seats were basic to say the least – blue plastic communal seating on both sides of a narrow corridor. No frills here – I should imagine we were in what would probably have been “Third class” or similar. A fascinating nod back to an age long-since passed in most Western countries; not particularly comfortable but offering an unpretentious authenticity and honesty.

We were on the train for around half an hour, stopping briefly at 6 or 7 anonymous stations that had probably not changed since the 1940s or even earlier. The sun set in oranges, purples and pinks as we slowly chugged through the lush rural landscape of fields flanked by hills and silhouetted mountains, and we arrived back at the town of Margau in darkness. A short coach ride later we were deposited back at our hotel in time for dinner, exhausted but happy and grateful to have spent an educational, pleasurable and interesting day in pleasant company.

To be continued ...

COLOURS OF GOA - 5 to 20 December 2023
Part 3

The village of Cavelossim where the hotel was situated, was a small, purpose-built town that catered pretty much solely to tourism. The few roads were lined with shabby shops and smart-looking restaurants, with a few businesses, doctors and dentists complementing the facilities. Along with souvenirs and clothes, the area seemed to be a hub for jewellers, with many shops offering gold, silver, precious stones and jewellery design services.

Shopkeepers stood outside their establishments, calling and opening the doors to every passer by, and would happily chat to us for 20 minutes at a time in the hope of enticing us in. My western sensibilities found this a little pressurising but I realised that it was their means of providing for their families and in a country where salaries are shockingly low compared to what we might earn, every potential sale must be vital to them. The same high-pressure sales tactics were used in the beach bars, where each bar-owner became our best friend over the length of our stay, remembering our names and calling us in each time we passed by. Beach bar owners seemed, in addition, to own at least one shop in the town and made no secret of persuading us to visit that shop too.

The beaches of Goa are famous for their beauty and Cavelossim beach was no exception - 25km of wide shallow beaches of pale golden sand, backed by seemingly unending deep green vegetation and trees, and fronted by the enormous expanse of the Arabian Sea. Next stop, Saudi Arabia.

The beach shelved gently and people had to wade a way out to where the waves broke in a cascade of white surf, in order for the warm water to become deep enough to swim. Hundreds of tiny transluscent crabs scuttled across the hot sand into holes as we strolled by. As we were on the edge of the resort, our patch of beach was sparsely developed, with just a handful of beach bars, each owning their own bank of sunbeds and umbrellas. Sunbeds were free to patrons providing they bought a drink or two or a snack at the associated bar. Interestingly, we were told that the beach bars were temporary, removeable structures and I was amused to see that the toilet facilities in each one were portacabins, set high up above the level of the bar, reached by precariously constructed open steps and with questionable plumbing. In the monsoon season (May to July) apparently the sea is stormy and comes completely into the shore and would wash away the beach bars if they were left there so they are dismantled and reconstructed according to the seasons.

The beach was so spacious that the few tourists and locals seemed insignificant. Apparently this changes in January when there is a huge influx. We felt lucky that we were there at a quieter, more unspoilt time of the year. The few locals that we saw on the beach seemed mainly to be teenagers and young people. Perhaps the older people were busy working. We noted that the local people went into the water often fully clothed, especially the women and girls. I don’t think I had appreciated that people who were not necessarily Muslim, still tended towards modesty in their clothing. We certainly didn’t see any local girls in bikinis or boys in brief trunks.

This also applied in the hotel around the pool. Generally the Indian women did not go in the water, and when they did, they wore modest costumes or T-shirts. The occasional Indian family brought their young children into the pool and it was noticeable that the youngsters were initially quite nervous of the water. My middle class white privilege is used to British toddlers being sent to swimming lessons from a young age, and in Europe I’d never seen children quite so unused to being in the water. It seemed that swimming was perhaps not a tradition locally.

I found the beach quite beautiful in a wild and natural way. In a Western economy it would have been spoiled and rendered unrecogniseable by the development of hotels, resorts, amusements and attractions. This has not happened in Goa, whether intentionally by development laws or due to lack of funding. Either way I am glad of it. The beach has looked this unspoilt for centuries and hopefully always will.

One morning we decided to walk southwards along the beach to visit an area we’d been told about where a large river, the Sal, met the sea. In the best spirit of reckless adventure we neglected to ask exactly how far away this area would actually be, and in the spirit of connection with nature and “grounding” (or in this case “oceaning”), we decided to do the walk barefoot in the shallows of the beautifully warm Arabian Sea. We also ignored the maxim “Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun” and started the walk particularly close to midday with the hot Indian sun at full strength. (Even more foolishly we did this the day after hubby had had to go to hospital to have his head stitched after sustaining a deep cut when he’d run backwards out of the sea and smashed into a flag pole – don’t ask!). Foolhardy? Maybe, but India gets under your skin; it makes people do things they would never normally do, back in our restricted, cold lives at home.

Incidentally, we were seen immediately at the hospital when hubby cut his head; the MRI only cost £20 and the 40 minute taxi ride there and back (including the driver waiting two and a half hours at the hospital for us) only cost £22. The service we received at the hospital was exemplary and made us reflect that it is no wonder that there is something of a health tourism situation going on in the country. Of course it’s at the expense of the local people who no doubt generally could not afford to be seen in this private clinic, so while giving thanks that we were treated well and quickly, it did prick my conscience.

Back to our walk along the beach: we splashed along for around a mile and a half following the green line of the trees and shrubs on our left and the deep blue and white of the ocean to our right. Despite cooling our toes in the waves and downing our bottles of water (we weren’t completely unprepared), the blazing sun was taking its toll and we felt the need to stop at one of the beach shacks for refreshment. Upon establishing that yes, we were staying in the area and yes, we came from England, and yes, the bar owner’s name was Bob and yes, he also had a jewellery shop in the town and simply loved to show his jewellery to tourists and no, there was no pressure to buy but yes, please come and have a look, and will you come tonight? – we asked about where the mythical river might be. Some animated conversation ensued, with one waiter assuring us that the river did not in fact exist, and Bob saying that it clearly did exist and was only about half a mile further up the beach, so we left, re-energised, and proceeded back to the water’s edge to continue our search, passing wild dogs, a dead snake and some friendly local beggars.

Another mile and a half later we finally found the object of our search, the end of the beach and the place where the wide and mighty River Sal met the sea. It was a lovely spot with a small fishing harbour at one end and an emerald, wooded peninsula across the expanse of river, dotted with a couple of coral-hued temples and jutting out into the ocean. While hubby filmed, I sat quietly in this tranquil spot for a few minutes, absorbing the hot sun on my face, the shimmering flow of the river and the sea, and the beautiful silence, giving thanks for the opportunity to see such beauty and feel a deep sense of peace in my soul.

To be continued ....

COLOURS OF GOA - 5-20 December 2023
Part Two:

At length we arrived at our hotel, the 4-star Novotel Dona Sylvia, in the seaside village of Cavelossim. A contemporary, purpose-built tourist hotel, that and the neighbouring Radisson are the two main hotels in the village, and it seemed, the largest employers in the area with, as we later found out, a massive workforce, contributing to near-total employment. The hotel was almost “inside out” with virtually everything being open-air. The reception area was covered with a roof, but completely open at the front, which made me wonder if it ever got flooded during monsoon season as it was quite open to the elements.

We were greeted by many members of staff, who daubed our foreheads with red marks – bindis – and offered brightly coloured refreshing fruit drinks (they were described to us as being refreshing but I found that mine had the over-arching taste of turmeric and I was forced to discreetly put it down somewhere out of sight as soon as I could).

After checking in we were shown to our rooms and our luggage brought by porters. The rooms in the hotel were outside in the grounds, set in little areas (ours was the Spice Plantation area – others had the names of flowers – Rose, Lily etc) and were styled like villas, with four independent bedrooms to each villa, two upstairs and two on the ground floor, each of course with their own front doors. Ours was upstairs and it was wonderful to get into the air-conditioned sanctuary of our room. The room was bright and spacious with fierce (and noisy!) aircon, cool tiled floors and large white-clad beds. A pretty cerise pink exotic lily adorned our bed, along with another in a vase in the bedroom and a third in the cool and airy bathroom. The hotel was a 4-star and though the public areas were beautiful, it would probably be fair to say that the rooms may not be quite up to the standard we expect of 4-star hotels in Europe/the USA. The room was attractive without being particularly luxurious. The dark-wood furniture was traditional rather than modern luxe, the bed and pillows were a trifle hard for my taste and the aircon was loud. (The aircon also had a fault where it would shriek for about 5 seconds every 15 minutes or so, a little disconcerting at night!). The bathroom was large and airy with a huge shower enclosure, overall functional rather than an aesthetic treat, but perfectly usuable and both bedroom and bathroom were kept spotlessly clean at all times.

The hotel was set in 20 acres of tropical gardens, leading down to the beach, about a five minute walk through the grounds. Palm trees and many other trees and shrubs studded the gardens, punctuated with vividly coloured flowers in vibrant pinks, oranges and yellows. Whether lying by the vast blue pool, eating in the covered but open-air dining areas or strolling in the gardens, the overall impression was of lush, exotic abundance. Unfamiliar bird calls provided a constant background noise, and beautiful white herons and black crows swooped down to drink from the swimming pool or steal a chip from the restaurants. As I lay on a sunbed gazing up at the azure sky and the distinctive tops of the deep green palm trees I could imagine myself to be in the Caribbean, the Mediterranean or even the Far East but the one thing that was beautifully obvious was that I was far from chilly, grey home.

When we arrived at the hotel we couldn’t fail to notice loud Indian music around the pool area. We were told there was a wedding going on and indeed we could see a special section nearby where there was a wedding couple and guests – predominantly dressed in yellow and white, with some guests sporting pink and orange tones but always with yellow included somewhere. It turned out to be a pre-wedding ceremony and we were told that the yellow clothes symbolized an honouring of the turmeric spice.

Weddings became an integral part of life at the Dona Sylvia. Goa is a wedding destination, both for couples from abroad but mainly for brides and grooms from all across the Indian sub-continent, and December is wedding month. Oh how it is wedding month! During our two-weeks there were no less than 5 weddings hosted at the hotel, each lasting for at least two days, sometimes three, and including hundreds of guests. We were absolutely privileged to be witnesses to these events as they took place mainly in the public outside areas of the hotel. Each wedding boasted flowers, props and structures with different colour schemes and consisted of varying ceremonies, meals and parties, building up to the actual wedding ceremony and final party in the hotel’s ballroom on the second or third day. Every ceremony was accompanied by traditional drumming, dancing, singing and music and all the guests plus the brides and grooms, changed their clothes for each ceremony. For someone who had hitherto had only an average interest in the passing fads of couture, witnessing the absolute beauty of the traditional and modern outfits worn at these weddings was an intense and unexpected joy.

The gentlemen generally wore long trousers with a long buttoned jacket over the top. These were often accompanied by a waistcoat over the jacket. We in the west are accustomed to fairly sober attire on male wedding attendees – maybe the odd unusual colour or flash of tartan if they are feeling daring - but in an Indian wedding, the boys have their chance to shine – admittedly not as spectacularly as the ladies – but shine they do. The jackets and waistcoats were often in fabrics with a sheen in the thread, beautifully embroidered in mostly pastel shades and absolutely beautiful to the eye.

But the women’s outfits took centre stage. Saris, shalwar kameez (tunic and trousers) and outfits with wide-legged trousers that were exquisitely and luxuriously ruffled and pleated so that they swirled when the wearer was walking, and looked like flowing long skirts from a distance. Colours and patterns ranged from delicately pale to vivid, vibrant and uplifting. Reds, pinks, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, silver and gold – scarves, fringes, borders, gold earrings and bangles. Everywhere I looked, beauty and joy, celebration and tradition.

On one of the days we were lucky enough to see a groom’s wedding entourage in the grounds, making their way down to the beach for a wedding ceremony. The groom was seated on a horse that was almost more lavishly clothed than he was and they were accompanied by drummers and musicians along with his entire family and guests, singing and dancing as they led him to his happy fate. Yes, it was a noisy experience when the weddings were in full flow, and did not always make for a completely peaceful atmosphere around the pool. But what a privilege to be a tiny part of such a special and meaningful event in people’s lives. And yes, I realise we were witnessing a scale of celebrations only available to the more wealthy sections of Indian society. There is nothing I can do about that except acknowledge that that was the case.

However, I was so glad we were there at that particular time, to learn how other cultures live and celebrate. Many congratulations to Zeel & Archi, Akriti & Amal, Yash & Michelle, Aashiqi & Malhar, and Raashi & Kunal, and their families.

We had wondered who the clientele of the hotel would be – would it be completely British, would there be local tourists and what other countries might the residents come from? In the event it was a mix of British and Indian guests with the occasional American and Russian family. Many of the Indian guests were there to attend the weddings or business conferences, while others were simply enjoying a family holiday. We got chatting to a young man from Bangalore who told us he worked very hard for Amazon and often had to travel abroad, and he had made it a point of having a break with his young family every few weeks, so that he wouldn’t miss his children growing up.

The British guests at the hotel were mainly older than us, in their 60s and above, enjoying their retirement. Everyone was very friendly and many had been coming to Goa in the winter for years, some staying for weeks or months in order to enjoy the hot weather (a consistent, rather humid 32c to 34 for the time we were there in mid-December), the hospitality and friendliness of the local people and the inexpensive lifestyle.

The food at the hotel was a buffet of traditional Indian, regional Goan and random Western dishes which were less plentiful than the local food but there was always a choice of chicken, beef, fish and vegetarian dishes, though vegans might have had difficulty as many dishes were cooked in creamy sauces, something that rendered my diet impossible for the duration of the holiday

To be continued ...

We were lucky enough to take a trip to Goa in South West India recently. I'd been a little apprehensive for various reasons but in the event I was completely blown away.
I took notes while we were there, with the intention of writing a little travelogue but why use a brief few words when a huge travel documentary will do? In the interests of not boring you to death all in one go, I've split it into what will be two or three instalments.
So here's the first part ... If you're into travel writing, please feel free to take a look. If not, do scroll on.

COLOURS OF GOA – 5 to 20 December 2023

The day of the Raj in India has long since passed – and a jolly good thing too. How tiny Britain thought it had the absolute right to dominate and rule a vast and ancient country such as India, defies understanding in our hopefully more enlightened times. But though the last British sahibs and memsahibs departed more than 60 years ago, their legacy and influence – somewhat surprisingly in Goa as it was a Portuguese colony from 1510 to 1961 - survives to this day.

From touchdown in Mopa International Airport after a gruelling 9 hour overnight plane journey, we observed that all the airport signs were in English as well as the local language; perhaps not surprising for an airport but passing through towns and villages on a bone-jarring 2 hour journey in arguably the oldest and most rattlesome bus we’d ever ridden on, it was noticeable that even the most tumbledown of roadside stalls and shacks boasted an English sign.

The roadside shacks were a major feature of our opening impressions of Goa, lining both the more built-up areas and also all the connecting main roads, selling everything anyone could require, from electrical goods and pharmacy items to car parts and all types of food, including, unfortunately live chickens cruelly stacked on top of each other in small cages. In addition to the shacks, lone women, clearly poor but dressed in brightly coloured saris or shalwar kameez (tunics and trousers) sat on mats displaying wares of fruit and veg, sari fabrics or dried fish, waiting patiently for customers.

There were signs of continuing construction at the airport and its environs – cleared areas ready for building work, and vast, half-completed concrete viaducts and highways already looking imposing and impressive. This gave way to open land – flooded rice fields with neat rows of plants, empty pastures with perhaps one or two horned cows grazing quietly, and other areas, both cultivated and seemingly wild.

We crossed two major rivers over suspension bridges and the remainder of our journey to the hotel consisted of lush green vegetation – palm trees and many other bushes and trees, punctuated with pink, purple and yellow exotic flowers. Dotted in and around this near-jungle were old Portuguese colonial houses, each painted a different colour: beautiful balconied villas, some in pristine condition but many of which had perhaps seen better days and were gradually fading in places. We later learned that there was an old law forbidding houses to be painted pure white, as that colour was reserved for churches, so the colonial houses and the many shabby apartment blocks we passed offered themselves in a variety of reds, ochres, yellows, lilacs, blues and greens, pretty against the greys and browns of the road and the deep greens of the forest vegetation. Although the colonial houses were or had been grand, poverty was never far away and numerous times we noticed a well looked-after colonial house literally rubbing shoulders with a barely-standing shack next door, roofed and patched with corrugated iron, tattered curtains at the windows, ancient or very cheap furniture outside showing that they were indeed inhabited. We were learning that alongside wealth in India, great poverty is never far away.

Ornate white churches were a gorgeous feature in every town we passed through. Having been a Portuguese colony with associated missionary activity, a majority of Goans became Catholic, with a large minority of Hindus remaining, plus a small Muslim population. Since the end of Portuguese rule however, Hindus have come to make up the majority of the population, with Christians now the second largest population and Muslims still the smallest. Older Goans still automatically have a Portuguese passport and in recent years many have emigrated to Portugal and other EU countries, reducing the remaining Christian population. One legacy of the years of Portuguese rule is that many Goans have Portuguese or Western names, which feels unusual to English ears, but is in fact very common.

The beautiful white churches remain a well-loved feature of the main towns, and even the villages boast a smaller version or at the very least, a roadside icon or shrine to protect travellers on their journeys.

Cows grazed in fields and on occasion lazily walked free on the roads, causing a build-up of good-naturedly hooting buses, cars and scooters. No-one seemed to mind the hold-ups too much and people happily accepted the creatures sharing the road with the ever-present traffic. Cue much excitement in our tourist bus as we all scrabbled to the windows to take photographs of this – to us - novel sight.

We had been unprepared for the number of scooters – small motorbikes – on the roads. We were told that almost every family in India owns a scooter and these have overtaken bicycles as the main form of personal transport. Many people own cars but scooters are more affordable and were absolutely everywhere, busily overtaking and weaving in and out of the other vehicles. Everybody on the roads seems to toot their horn at all times and we worked out that in contrast to Britain, where a toot of the horn is often an expression of frustration and road rage, in India it is more of a courtesy thing; people give a short blast whenever they overtake another vehicle, just to let them know that they are doing so – something they do constantly, whether another vehicle is approaching on the other side of the road or not. It often seems to be a game of “dare” – a contest of whose nerve will break and who will back down first! It would be interesting to research the road traffic accident statistics to see if the constant tests of nerve pay off or not.

Dogs were everywhere, trotting along the roads or lying on the ground in sunny spots. It was unclear whether these were domesticated or wild, I expect a mixture of both.

At length we arrived at our hotel, the 4-star Novotel Dona Sylvia, in the little seaside village of Cavelossim.....

TO BE CONTINUED ....