The train to Goa; or, how to spend 35 hours not being at your destination

The main lesson of this blog is that you really shouldn’t ever take a train in India if you are in a rush.

We decided to get the train from Kerela to Goa, an 18 hour journey. There weren’t any first class carriages available, and none left with air conditioning either, so we opted for the cheap and cheerful 6-berth sleeper carriage with a fan. The train was due to depart at 10am, but arriving at the station nice and early we saw a new departure time had been written on a whiteboard. ‘Delay. 6346 will now depart at 22.00h’. A 12 hour delay seemed an awful lot, but we sucked it up and did the sensible thing – checked into a 4 star hotel and prepared to sit out the wait in relative luxury.

Mindful that a 12 hour delay could well have turned into a cancellation, we asked the hotel to ring the station at 9pm, to check everything was on time. They assured us all was well so back we went, heading straight to the platform with confidence. Needless to say, 10’o’clock came and went. We asked at the front desk. ‘Definitely after 11’ they said. The train actually arrived at 2am, by which time I was asleep on the floor, probably in one of the platform’s many puddles of wee, and Joe had nearly finished the book which was supposed to have lasted him the whole trip.

The carriage was filled with about 70 bunk beds, with no dividing walls or curtains. The beds were sheathed in blue vinyl and we weren’t offered any pillows or blankets. Against the odds I was straight out and only woke up 8 hours later. The next day was an extremely long one. We sat opposite a well-heeled young couple who threw all their litter out of the window and invited their little girl to join in. It was frustrating to sit back and watch, but no doubt they found our habits equally offensive.

This act of disposing of one’s rubbish through the nearest window is a rather popular pass time here. Regardless of wealth and social status, when it comes to abandoning litter, everyone is equal. It’s the same on the streets and in the towns, there doesn’t seem to be any bins or a collection system. As a result, large piles of colourful plastic line the streets and countryside alike. Despite all the litter, as the train whizzed along we passed a wind farm of well over 200 turbines, it could have been the view from a train cruising through European countryside. I am not aware of the costs of 200 wind turbines and the positive impact they have on cutting carbon emissions, but I can’t help but feel that the money spent on the turbines could employ an army of bin men for years.

After 1 taxi ride, a rickshaw, 12 hours in a hotel, another rickshaw, sleeping on the platform for 4 hours, 22 hours on the train interrupted by a landslide – bus diversion, and one final taxi, we arrived in Goa. Tired and fragile, the hotel beckoned and a deep sleep ensued.

Kerala India

This is the final part of our journey through Asia. We’ve left Bali and now face the monsoons of Southern India. Naively, I assumed the rainy season in Kerala would consist of a short burst of rain once a day with glorious sunshine and blue skies the rest of the time. In fact we were both counting on good weather, as we’ve only just started to get tans after 3 months of travelling, and lugging a year’s supply of aloe vera gel doesn’t feel worth it if its constantly raining.

We considered taking the surfboard with us over from Bali when we found out there was good surf during the monsoon season, but out of laziness, decided to leave it behind thinking we could always rent a board if it looks good (real reason is we’re both crap). Looks like it was the right decision as the sea here is like nothing I’ve seen before: gargantuan waves break haphazardly, some far out at sea and others smashing into the sand churning the water and making it murky and green. The sound of the waves crashing into the cliffs can be heard a mile off and I’ve not seen a single person go in. On the way to the beach, a girl gutting a bucket of small Pomfret told us her dad was a fisherman, but that it was a very dangerous job and they made no money.

I am now on to my third pair of flip-flops, which works out at one pair per month. It’s a mystery as to what happened to the last pair. As normal I left them outside the door of our hotel room to keep the sand in the bed to a minimum – a sandy Laura is not a happy Laura. The next day I woke to find one of them was missing. A wave of sadness swept over me as it became apparent that someone or something had stolen it. I felt genuine anger that I would have to buy another pair of flip-flops and wanted to lash out. A kid must have run off with one of them as a dare. There were no kids around to strangle, probably for the best, as I’m no warrior and would have come away worse off. The hotel manager thought it was most likely that a dog had gone off with it, which is probably true, as there are at least 10 dogs for every person here. If this is the case in the rest of India, that makes approximately 10 billion dogs on the subcontinent.

Anyway I have some new flip-flips now, they rub and my feet feel like they are slowly being grated away with each step. I reckon they’ll be perfectly broken in, in a month’s time.

Travellers tash

In the maul-like queue for the flight to Trivandrum I noticed that every man had a moustache. I’d forgotten that virtually all men and quite a few boys in India have moustaches, and if I was to be taken seriously and not appear like a boy on a school trip I would need one too. So far I have shaved my chops and am now the proud owner of a faint shadow on my upper lip. According to Laura, my micro-tash looks a bit ‘Mexican’, but once I nip the ends off and it gets a bit thicker I might just have the makings of a young Edwardian gentleman. Bravo I say!

(Pre-tash photo)