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Time to go home

Our last homestay, the only one I booked through Airbnb, is down a tiny track, not far from the beach, a pink villa in the middle of nowhere, lovely spacious room with a balcony overlooking the jungle and a kitchen!

I picked it for its close proximity to the airport, so when we heard a low flying aircraft mid afternoon I was not surprised. We are close to the railway line too so occasionally we hear the rumbling of a goods train. 

I didn't however expect twenty or so fighter bombers to zoom over our roof terrace in rapid succession. 

Thanks to the excellent wifi here I discovered that Dabolim airport is used for military training four and half hours a day four days a week! 

I thought at first India had gone to war! 

The lovely part about our last few days was that our friend Wilson came overnight on the train from Kerala to see us. He cooked for us which was a real treat, amazing fish with veg in a pan. We walked through a palm grove with a drove of pigs scuttling through the undergrowth to reach the beach, totally deserted, apart from the fishermen's shacks. It's hard to understand how such a large stretch of sand has not been developed.

We were invited to breakfast at a bakers in the next village, run by a friend of Wilson's who he had known way back in Sharja. They make 'Pão' Portuguese for bread rolls, 4000 a day, which are then sold by boys on bikes, cycling up and down the local lanes ringing their bells. 

Last minute panic when I try to check in for our flight and discover the connecting flight has been brought forward by 12 hours! Yikes I better get packing.....

Casas velhas

For the last couple of weeks we have been enjoying visiting old houses from the Portuguese era. Some are crumbling, some restored and some have totally fallen down! 

In some they have been left as if still in a bygone era, ballrooms with chandeliers and old mirrors, dusty or waxed furniture, and the ageing owners if still alive living in one or two rooms. 

Others have been renovated by new owners, or in the one we visited yesterday in Velsao, the great grandson of C R de Sousa who was a trader in Zanzibar has returned from Canada to turn Maison Rodesa into a charming residence.

Here the stencilled walls have been gently restored by the great grandson of the original decorator, but sadly all the old furniture was stolen while the owner was away in Brazil.

Just down the road is a crumbling derelict house which belonged to the same family, but with no known descendants to save it.

Beach bums

Benaulim is a sleepy spread out village, set back from the beach, and a welcome relief after our Costa packet experience further north. 

However a rather unwelcoming start from the German manager of the guesthouse who accused us of being late ( yes Indian trains do sometimes run late) and having too much luggage. It might have helped if the guesthouse actually had a sign outside! Our over zealous rickshaw driver drove miles down different lanes trying to locate it, even though I kept saying stop no it's not down here! 

Here there is a different expat tribe...British pensioners who rent for 'the season' to save on heating bills and avoid the worst of the winter. Who can blame them, but they are a different breed to the 'Longtimer' hippies we met from Arambol. 

Three days later we are driven south by Dominique in a battered old jeep to Agonda for our beach hut escape! He kept us enthralled throughout the journey with his tales from his days as a cook on cruise ships all over the world. The changing landscape through little villages, over wide rivers and into the depths of cashew forests showed us another beautiful side of Goa.

Swimming in the Arabian Sea early in the morning was blissful, pale sea and sky merging into one like a sheet of glass. 

Shady beach bars with low tables where you can laze all day drinking mango lassi. After dusk the restaurants exchange sun beds for tables with candles for dinner on the beach.

Our third beach hut on stilts was probably the nicest...but it was so rickety it felt as if you were at sea. Set under the trees you could sit for hours watching the wildlife, someone left the gate open and in the early morning a herd of cows came wandering through, munching the garden for breakfast.

We returned to Benaulim for three days, this time to the old time Mango Grove guesthouse. Farmstay would be a more apt name...pigs rolling in the dust, no need for an early morning call with the rooster strutting around the grounds. Dirt cheap rooms with a balcony facing the little road, but hot water powered by solar panels!

We chatted with Mr Caetano originally a seaman, both sons away at sea on cruise ships. He has owned the guesthouse since the 70's, old school, wary of booking.com, but woe betide anyone who doesn't honour their reservation. 

Next day we go next door to look for wifi and breakfast and stumble across a beautiful garden resort with pool. 

Such a contrast, and when we later meet the delightful owner, who speaks to me in Portuguese, he explains his philosophy of providing an oasis for his guests, who again have been returning year after year. But unlike his next door neighbour he has invested and renovated his house on the sand.

We talk about Goan history and his memory of the hand over from Portugal to India. He felt Nehru betrayed the Goan people, and that 90% of Goans would prefer to be independent rather than part of India.

Temple run @ Hampi

We came to Hampi to see the ruins of the 14th century empire of Vijayanagar.

Decaying temples are spread all over this vast arid landscape, with mountains of boulders and lush areas of palm and banana plantations and brilliant green paddy fields.

Each morning we took a rickshaw to explore different temples. In the depths of the underground temple a sense of spirituality is hard to ignore. We went back the next day, and the temple was submerged in water! 

Charlie climbed the 572 steps to the top of Anjanadri hill to the Monkey temple, the possible birthplace of Hanuman, the monkey God. 

I wimped out at about 200 steps and sat looking at the stunning view of the river under a tree. Suddenly a rustling sound and a troop of monkeys swung through the tree, one carrying a tiny baby and I just missed getting peed on by another! 

The village is divided by the river Tungabhadra, you cross to the other side by boat or coracle. Chill out zone extraordinaire...a road of little restaurants with low tables and a mix of music from lounge to reggae, snippets of conversations from travellers from all over the world, all dressed in the universal uniform, which we as pseudo ageing hippies have also adopted! 

Goa...old and new

Decades ago I dreamt of going to Goa, but then our life took different directions, and most likely we would never have come if it had not been for an early morning coffee in Portugal last summer with an artist friend who said she was writing a proposal for an installation at the new Goan museum of contemporary art (MOG) near Panjim. 

Charlie told her he also had a proposal for a fringe show at the Marrakech biennale, both opening in February. So we made plan...if Silvia was accepted we would come to Goa and if she was rejected we would all go to Marrakech! 

Guess what happened! 

Our first few nights were in a restored guesthouse in Fontinhas, the crumbling old 'latin' quarter of Panjim, where some buildings still have floors made from Portuguese ship wrecks, and the old colonial language is seen on all the signs and shop fronts. 

We met Hanuman Kambli, a printmaking professor from Goa College of Art, who took us to the Vasco de Gama club for lunch.

For the next couple of nights I'd found a guesthouse with a little pool nearer the beach. It turned out to be Benidorm meets Moscow, the whole street full of multi coloured flashing lights, sausage and mash, karaoke, quiz nights and pink tourists.

This must be where the UK OAP's spend winter now, these are not the ageing hippies I expected to rub shoulders with in my patchwork pants! 

The opening of  'Morphology of Archive was amazing, the diversity of art work incredible, and we felt proud to support our friends. I was introduced to the 86 year old Goan father in law of the director who was delighted to speak Portuguese with me!

There was also a series of hand colours sepia portraits by Waswo X Waswo of the 'Longtimers' , the Europeans who have been coming to Goa for the decades I haven't. They arrived to the opening on a bus from Arambol. Almost like a family. I felt sad to think what they must feel about what some parts of Goa have become.