Seafood sizzlers and Singapore Slings

MP, KC and Raj - the Lucky Star boys


Prince in pensive mood (probably trying to work out how to make me buy some jewellery...)


Shridevi with three of her seven daughters


Ah, Goa. Home of Kingfisher beer, the shark sizzler, the speedboat and the humble peanut seller.

Had a rapturous reunion with Mike and Tris in our GORGEOUS Baga Riverside apartment (all high ceilings, gleaming bathrooms and air conditioning. Oh yes...) After depositing my bags, quick shower and hairwash then destination Cafe Lila for freshly squeezed orange juice, fried potatoes and filter coffee. It's good to be back.

I have to confess to having very low expectations of north Goa, having endured rather than enjoyed my last week there in 2008. But it was great. Whether because of the recession or the Goan tourist board coming to its senses and easing back on the ridiculous over-development, this year has been quieter, friendlier and surprisingly like it used to be.

Everyone complains about the numbers of Russians there; they spend less and don't speak English, so are universally unpopular with traders, restaurateurs and taxi drivers. They're not a problem for their fellow tourists, although - however good they are to look at - they're sadly lacking in the rudiments of good manners in any language, including their own. Brits, Germans and other west Europeans are significantly thinner on the ground, but most tourists seem to be domestic: honeymoon couples and rich kids from Mumbai, Delhi and elsewhere in the north.

They love their noisy watersports, but the speedboats are less pervasive than a couple of years back - and, one positive development - the four-mile stretch of beach that runs from Baga River to Fort Aguada is now liberally staffed with lifeguards, their look out points slotted at regular intervals between the beach huts. Whether in response to the recent attack on a small Russian girl in the sea, or as part of a planned development, this has to be a good thing.

The beach police continue to be a threat, regularly dragging the traders off the beach to demand money with menaces. Mike was particularly upset when it happened again to Shridevi, our peanut seller friend. We'd been chatting to her kids on the beach, cuddling the new baby (another girl - her seventh!) and buying ice-creams when she was dragged off by an officer (a woman this time) and didn't reappear for over half an hour. In the meantime, we were left literally holding the baby, together with two other children under seven.

The system is corrupt, with beach police topping up their salaries by as much as 30,000 GBP in bribes, according to our jeweller friend Prince. Anyone who doesn't pay up can be prosecuted for illegal selling and put in the cells for a couple of days.

Shridevi obviously thinks the money she makes on the beach in season is worth the money she has to pay out in bribes. Four of her children (aged seven to 15) are also beach sellers, meaning that, for six months of the year, schooling is sketchy or non-existant - in spite of recent legislation that requires all children to attend school.

Munjo, the seven-year old, is our special favourite. We've known her since she was three or four years old and she has a smile that lights up the beach. She's a precocious madam, and has started charging for her 'massage' services, earnestly rubbing Tris and Mike's shoulders and legs before pitching in with her sales patter.

Prince, the handsome jeweller from Kashmir with the hypnotic voice, still hasn't married his girlfriend of seven plus years. Apparently her father won't give his permission, but she's refused to marry anyone her family chooses for her: it's Prince or nobody. We're still waiting for our wedding invitations...

It's hard to beat north Goa for cuisine and cocktails. Tris has developed an appetite for Singapore Slings and Old Monk, a dubious Goan dark rum. I can be seen sipping the occasional Blue Margarita, but my first love is still a freshly squeezed papaya juice, thick and pinky orange and tasting of sunshine. We celebrated my 45th birthday at Fiesta, a candle-lit garden restaurant where diners recline on silk cushions in hollowed out canoes, or at glass-topped tables over smooth white pebbles and shells.

Lucky Star, the biggest and best beach shack at the end of Tito's Lane, is still the same: the warmest staff and best banana milk shakes in Goa. KC, MP ('Yampi') and Raj seemed as pleased to see us again as we were to see them. Waiting for our shark sizzlers, we heard the news of MP's wedding and the baby on the way this summer. He'll be a great dad.

The Rajdhani Express to Goa

12 February, 2130
Indian trains are not built for comfort; but, at just over a pound for a three hour journey, who's complaining?

I arrive at Ernakulum station at 1930 local time, having completed the first leg of my 15-hour train trip to Goa. Next is the overnight Rajdhani Express, third class A/C. I have to confess to a tinge of disappointment not to be travelling first class (or even second), due to the fact that all the tickets have been sold. In fact, I only made third class by booking Tatkal - emergency ticketing - at second class prices. Hmmm.

Elaine, my new Welsh friend in Mavelikara, had filled my head with talk of pillows, hot water and crisp white cotton bedding: the glories of first class Indian rail travel. Apparently, the facilities decline and the numbers go up the further down the funicular food chain you go. Just hope I don't end up sharing a bed with a nutter/groper/Jehovah's Witness.

Ernakulum station is impressively large, with clear information and staff who speak English. Given that my Malayalam currently runs to 'see you later' and the names of colours and jungle animals (courtesy of colouring in time at Jyothis), this is a distinct advantage. I'm booked to travel middle berth 10, carriage B4 which, the helpful notice board informs me, is 13th after the engine. Bet I miss it and have to drag my enormous pink flowery suitcase the entire length of the train.

Arriving at Ernakulum, I decide to check said suitcase into the cloakroom and find somewhere to have supper. Check in (10 rupees for up to 24 hours - bargain!) is handled by Kerala's answer to French and Saunders. Having quizzed me on my name, address, marital status, father's inside leg measurement, the larger of the two (let's call her French) slaps an oversized bindi between my reluctant eyebrows and informs me that, at the grand old age of 39, she isn't married either. In a country where, if you're not hitched by 25 you're over the hill, I'm tempted to leap across the counter and embrace her into the sisterhood. But content myself with a firm handshake instead.

Saunders, meanwhile, has been subjecting my passport photo to intense scrutiny. "You look very different now", she accuses me. I know, I say: I'm nearly 10 years older. You tend to go downhill in the looks department after all that time. "No!" she says, firmly. "You are too black in this picture. Now you are white and much more beautiful." I look at the nice, tanned pic in the pink passport holder, mentally review my current pallid, hair scraped back, sore throated self, and wonder again at Indian concepts of beauty.

13 February, 0830
Very impressed with the Rajdhani Express. It arrived promptly at 2235, and carriage B4 was indeed 13th after the engine, with my little berth ready and waiting for me, and blessedly free of Jehovah's Witnesses and other pests. All I had to do was pull it out from the wall and make it up with the clean sheets provided in a neat brown paper bag. Pillow and towel followed, then a briskly efficient guard coming round to take breakfast orders.

Can't claim to have slept brilliantly, partly due to fears that I would fall out of my narrow bunk and land on the sleeping Indian below (this didn't happen); but a great experience. I lay under my clean sheet in the cool carriage, Jeeves and Wooster on the Walkman, feeling the rhythm of the train as it thundered its way through the south Indian countryside.

Breakfast next morning comprised mango juice (a pleasant surprise), two slices of brown bread and butter (ditto) and the ubiquitous deep fried brown stuff (somewhat less exciting). Then, before I know it, we're arriving in Margao station in Goa, and Tris and Mike are just a short taxi ride away.

Walking to BGHUD

On the days I teach English at BGHUD, this is my favourite walk to work, and a tranquil start to the day. At this time of year, Kerala is lush and green, with tropical fruit and flowers growing everywhere.

Walking through the back lanes I pass cows and goats grazing in watery meadows. Bunches of tiny green bananas hang down from huge leaves, which local people cut and use as disposable plates for their vegetarian thali meals. Impossibly heavy jackfruit, the size of footballs dressed in prickly green, can be seen wherever I go. I've yet to taste jackfruit, but it's on my list of things to do before I leave.

I've seen colourful birds the size of small parrots hovering around the banana groves, and squirrel-like creatures with stripy backs running across the path. Today, a whole family of children, mother and grandmother came rushing out of their house to say 'hello' and wave their toothbrushes at me, grandmother keen to show me the large silver fish she'd just bought from a vendor on a bicycle.

I love this place, away from the noise and bustle of the main roads and busy shops. It's beautiful.

Health, or the lack of it

Having recovered from last week's cold/gynae problems (don't ask), I'm now battling a raging sore throat. Must have done very bad things in my previous life... Apparently the air here is quite polluted, and I'm assured things will get better once I hit the white sands and sea air of Goa. Call me pessimistic, but I think it's more likely to be the start of another two week bug, courtesy of 100+ small children and their interesting germ collection.

But are we downhearted? Er, well, just a little. And slightly apprehensive thinking of the overnight train journey later this evening, without a sniff of hot lemon and honey. Not sure the Mavelikara hardware stores run to thermos flasks, but I'm planning to hit them anyway in a spirit of hope over expectation.

Last week was a challenge. Week three of anything new is always hard for me, and I had some health problems to deal with too, so it didn't help that one of the kids (don't know his name, but let's call him Damian for now) was being a monster child.

Monday, he stole my scissors and cut the ends off every skein of embroidery silk, leaving me with 8 inch lengths of uselessness. Tuesday, when I ran out of colouring sheets, he started spitting. At me! Wednesday, I ran out of patience and marched him off to teacher. My strategy this week is to give him something to do early on, in the hope of distracting him from any plans for sabotage.

I've grown very fond of some of the kids. Two of the older ones, Anuba-Yen and Susan (bottom picture), love learning to sew. See-Kutin (wearing a blue wool moustache) is a cheeky monkey but good fun. And Febin loves to draw. He's pictured with one of a series of pictures he's done of me; on this one I've actually got hair, so that's good.

The session yesterday was great. I worked with a small group and we made a caterpillar. We drew around different sized metal tumblers to make circles, cut them out and decorated them with crayon, then stuck them on to a piece of pink card to make a wiggley caterpillar. The Malayalam word for caterpillar sounds something like 'puru', but is completely unpronounceable. I tried my best, but must have got it hopelessly wrong, as there was a lot of giggling and Keralan head waggling going on.

Anyway, the finished caterpillar picture was great. One of the boys cut out flower shapes and I made some leaves. We stuck some shiny stars in the sky (and on the ends of the 'puru's' antennae, and some small fluffy yellow balls for its eyes. Lovely!

Lovely Varkala

1030 on Monday morning and I’m typing this in the Ladies Waiting Room at Varkala train station, having extended my guilty weekend pleasure an extra night.

I heartily approve of the ladies waiting room idea. While all the male passengers are outside in the full glare of the sun, presumably doing manly things, I’m indoors in splendid isolation. I have my bottle of water, my small cup of ka-pee (coffee) and an ancient and interesting piece of furniture that looks a bit like a Victorian coat stand, It has a useful flat surface that I’ve commandeered for laptop purposes.

Varkala, as always, is lovely. Breakfast of fruit, brown toast and milk coffee at the Abba café, staffed by softly-spoken Nepalese boys who are always happy to stop and chat about their home and mine. Then a three-mile walk into town to buy an adaptor plug and new sunglasses, during which I accidentally buy two new sarees.

Lunch is a huge plate of salad: brightly coloured fresh vegetables, fish and sprouting beans. Then a scramble down from the top of the cliff to the beach. There are stairs of a sort, but a lot have crumbled away, so the descent isn’t exactly elegant.

It doesn’t take long to walk the length of the beach, watching the Indian boys playing Frisbee or dancing to music, and the pale-skinned tourists trying to cram a year’s worth of sunshine into two weeks’ holiday.

As the sun goes down, tourists and locals promenade along the cliff top, buying and selling. There’s the usual mix of brightly coloured fabrics, local embroidery, hand-made leather shoes and silver jewellery. Jewellers come from Kashmir and Rajasthan, while the fabric bags, ‘blankets’ and cushions are mainly sold by Karnatakans. Yesterday I bought an entire new outfit: dress, shoes and bag for under £20 – bargain!

Dinnertime and I’m spoiled for choice. All along the cliff top restaurants have laid out the catch of the day on huge slabs of ice; barracuda, butter fish, tiger prawns the size of tennis balls and the occasional lobster. The sizzling seafood platter is something else.

After dark, the cliff top is blessedly free of touts flogging drums, maps and the ubiquitous clacking silver balls. If you stay out late enough, the lights of the shops and restaurants gradually disappear and you are left with palm trees silhouetted against midnight sky and all the stars of the southern hemisphere. It’s beautiful.