Sunsets at Goa

Sunset at Cavelossim Beach
(the view from the path to Dona Sylvia)















Sebastian with Chris




















Elizabeth Mary














Eliza, Charlie Paddy and Seb

Goan Travelling with the Tribe: Pics

Paddy on our porch at Dona Sylvia














Chris and the kids at Colva Beach















Mauli getting 'baptised' at Sahakari Spice Farm











The McNamaras high up in the Ghats

Goan Travelling with the Tribe

Travelling from Pune to Goa in India by car with four children eight years and under, including a baby, while sounding frightful at first instance was really very enjoyable, but I would recommend against undertaking the entire journey in one day. Pune is approximately 500 kilometers north and slightly inland of coastal Goa but it took us nearly eleven hours each way, not including breaks. We hired a Chrysler Tavera which came equipped with enough seats for 10 people, theoretically we thought, although we did pass one on the way with seventeen occupants. It also sported a roof rack, a DVD player and a driver named Mauli. We had booked the car for 5.30am in the hope it would materialize by 7.00am and sure enough, at 6.30am our driver knocked on our door with a vague apology for his tardiness justified by the fact he had “needed more sleep”. The six of us and Mauli were very comfortable on board and the DVD player was a brilliant means of occupying fidgeting youngsters along the way. If I don’t see Pooh Bear and his friends or Robin William’s Genie ever again, I won’t be sorry. In hindsight, I would also suggest taking as many of your own CDs as possible if traveling by car, otherwise it is apparently driver’s choice and here, nasal, screeching Hindi rock saturated in saccharin is all the rage.

India is a gorgeous, astounding country and the kaleidoscope of images moving past your car window is well worth the more tedious aspects of undertaking the journey by road. There is a timeless quality to the Southern Indian countryside and, but for the occasional hum of vehicles along the narrow roads, the rural surrounds and their occupants do not align themselves with any particular century or era. Even the national highways meander through bustling villages that evolve out of the misty rain like sub-continental Brigadoons. They provide an invaluable insight into the interactions of communities on a small scale, long forgotten in the western world.

The landscape of Southern India on the cusp of the monsoon in mid June is a visual feast of lush and vibrant plains. The farmers and laborers go about their duties at a gentle pace appropriate to the sticky heat and with a graceful simplicity no longer prevalent elsewhere. Their rainbow of saris and turbans pepper the fertile fields like sequins on emerald silk. Oxen undertake the tasks of machines and the tools and ploughs are roughly fashioned out of trees and other available natural materials. It is clearly hard work, but like most things in India, it is undertaken with good humor. Groups of straight backed women elegantly balance huge parcels on their heads as they stroll along interweaving paths while farmers chat and laugh in their small working teams, ankle deep in rice paddies, and shepherds huddle together whispering conspiratorially under umbrellas that shelter them from the intermittent sun and rain.

The Western Ghats cut through the states of Maharashtra and Goa and the road that conquers them is long and narrow and winding. There are the occasional corpses of burnt out buses and cars along the way that advertise the very apparent treachery of the crumbling edges and blind corners of these spectacular hills. Mauli, our driver, who had steadfastly maintained a speed of 10 kilometers below the limit on the straight wide highway leading to Kolhapur, tackled the bends climbing up to the peaks at a bewilderingly fast pace. Between his driving and his choice of music, all of my senses, not to mention my stomach, felt abused and nauseated. The children were also fairly pale and reserved over this stretch of the journey as their lives flashed before them and their lunch came up to meet them. But Sebastian slept peacefully through the entire ordeal. Fortunately Mauli realized our discomfort near the highway’s pinnacle. He turned off his music and drove in a far more sympathetic fashion on the descent. We rallied sufficiently to enjoy the magnificent panorama of rolling hills embracing valleys of villages and even had a giggle at the Guard of Honor formed by the hungry monkeys on the walls straddling the road.

Our car and our driver were both Maharashtran born and bred and this proved to be very telling once we crossed the boarder into Goa. Mauli may as well have been traveling blindfolded such was his lack of familiarity with the new state and of course, he had no map to assist him. Fortunately Chris has an innate capacity to find his way around any terrain in any country and he quickly assumed the mantle of navigator as our driver became increasingly confused and distressed by the alien surrounds. Our Maharashtran licence plates also made us the subject of much scrutiny among the local constabulary of whom there are many with apparently little order to keep. In fact it seemed we were the closest to renegades many of them had encountered, at least since the Christmas peak period. Our driver was initially fined as we crossed the boarder for not possessing an important piece of pink paper, presumably a permit to enter from another state. As anyone who has ever traveled through India will attest to, paper permits are required for nearly everything from buying a sim card for your mobile phone to opening a bank account, so the lack of an appropriate permit in any circumstances is much frowned upon. I knew the situation was hopeless when Mauli started searching through the First Aid Kit in the vain hope that it might miraculously contain the magic pink paper. It didn’t and after much debate with the guards at the boarder crossing, our driver sheepishly returned to the car with a nasty piece of paper purporting to demand the equivalent of a day’s wages from him.

We crawled through Goa with both driver and navigator frequently stopping for directions to the resort that was our destination. Mauli spotted a wise looking local out of the corner of his eye and did not hesitate to attempt an illegal u turn in the middle of a congested intersection to gain quick access to his target. The two police stationed at the intersection were not impressed with this tricky maneuver and our driver was signaled to pull over. It quickly became apparent that not only was he to be fined for his imprudent driving but also for the fact the vehicle was not registered as a tourist car in Goa (another absent piece of paper). By this stage we had been traveling for over eleven hours and enough was enough. Our young chauffeur was gallantly arguing his case to the police but his futile attempt to bribe them with the equivalent of less than AUD1 was not getting us to our destination. I decided desperate measures were required. I wound down the tinted window and held the bouncing baby on my lap. Seb’s fair face and juicy limbs immediately caught the attention of one of the constabulary and he could not resist the opportunity to greet a little white Buddha. As he approached, he noticed there were three other faces with pinchable cheeks in the vehicle and he sought the attention of his colleague. Within seconds, both police were enthralled by the children and all was apparently forgiven. Although the officers did make some mention of a payment from Chris but upon observing our aghast faces, they did not pursue this request and sent us on our way.

We arrived at the Resort Dona Sylvia at Cavelossim Beach in Goa at 6.45pm, over twelve hours after our departure from Pune. The Staff at the Resort warmly welcomed us with a refreshing drink and that gracious hospitality so common among Indian people. With our bags unloaded we sent the exhausted Mauli to rest with additional rupees to cover his day’s transgressions and turned our attention to our sumptuous environs. The Resort is nicely situated on Cavelossim Beach and is comprised of very well appointed sound proof cottages with both air conditioning and ceiling fans. The beds are soft and comfortable particularly by Indian standards, the bathrooms are very clean and well equipped and there is cable television, a bar fridge and tasteful furnishings. We found ourselves in a delightful two room cottage with a large shaded porch overlooking the ‘largest pool in Goa’ and closely situated to the main resort restaurant. The staff were consistently warm and attentive to all of us. Our children assessed our situation as “Paradise” and we were happy to agree.

We had booked a package at the Resort that included all meals at the main restaurant. The fare was mainly Indian buffet with an impressive continental breakfast and a western children’s menu for fussy eaters. The dishes were delicious and plentiful, with the local fish specials a particular highlight. The package included two tours. The first was a seven hour tour to North Goa, including a boat trip, which we didn’t take because we had just spent an eternity in the car the previous day. The second was a four hour tour of South Goa which included a trip to Colva beach and a tour of the Big Foot museum in Loutolim. We took this tour and concluded it was okay but fairly limited. It was very handy having a driver for the week and we really enjoyed exploring the area while catering to our specific interests at our own convenience. For a family of six, hiring a car and driver for the week is a comfortable, economical and practical means of getting the most out of an Indian experience.

The monsoon period has officially commenced by late May in Goa and with its arrival, the tariffs at the hotels and resorts plummet. We had been advised by trusted locals that the monsoon can take some time to build and does not usually hit its straps until late June, so we took our chances, headed to Goa and were not disappointed. The weather was mainly fine and sunny for the five days we were in the state, and there was only one significant period of rain over four hours one afternoon. After a very hot morning, we welcomed the relief that accompanied the downpour and were equally pleased when it cleared in time for a swim before dinner. There are clear disadvantages to visiting Goa during the off peak monsoon period, the chief of these being that swimming in the ocean is not advised due to the high risk of rips. However, we noticed that many locals and surfers were not deterred and as our children are happy to paddle on the shore, building forts and drawing sand pictures, we barely noticed the prohibition. Many of the local eateries around Cavelossium were closed until October and this meant we ate most meals at the resort and why not, they were free. However, the shops that remain open, particularly clothes and shoe shops have slashed their prices in an effort to clear stock before the new season so there are many bargains and the wallahs are unharried with plenty of time to barter.

Cavelossim Beach is not in the Goan hub known for its sex, drugs and rock and roll. In fact most of the resorts located in this southern precinct of Goa cater more to families and honeymooners. Needless to say, the Dona Sylvia in the evening at this time of the year does not exactly ‘go off’. The evening entertainment at the resort consisted of a few local dancers and musicians honing their skills in the hope of chasing Bollywood dreams and just quietly, I don’t like their chances. We also dropped by the disco one night and had a boogie with the kids on the deserted dance floor. Paddy declared, “This is the best night of my life!” He clearly doesn’t get out much. On the other hand, the natural twilight entertainment is sublime. In the evening before dinner we wandered down the charming path to the pristine white sands of the beach and watched the most spectacular sunsets as our children danced and played tag against the backdrop of a mixed berry and mango sky.

On the fourth day of our stay we decided to explore the Sahakari Spice Farm located just out of a pretty little village called Ponda, an hour from Cavelossim Beach. On the preceding days, Mauli had done of bit of exploring on his own and was now feeling far more assured in this part of Goa. He chuckled as he pointed out all the wrong turns he had taken on our trip to the resort and took great delight in reminding us as we approached the intersection where he had been pulled over by the police. We took some comfort in the fact he could see the humorous side of our initial arrival in Goa because he was really very crestfallen when we farewelled him on our first night. However our hapless driver’s glee was short lived as he was yet again flagged down by police on the road from Colva. As he warily approached a stern looking officer I confided in Chris that Mauli was likely to need therapy on his return to Pune and would probably swear off transporting families and entering Goa altogether in future. Mauli returned a short time later waving a fine for not wearing his seatbelt which is mandatory for all drivers in Goa, unlike in most others parts of India where seatbelts are rarely present in vehicles, let alone worn. He was somewhat incredulous, as were we, as we observed car after car breezing past the police with beltless drivers but, as we pointed out to Mauli, they were fortunate in their choice of Goan number plates. In any event, he cheered markedly when my husband handed him money to cover the fine, and we continued on our merry way to Ponda with Tigger and Roo bouncing about on the DVD screen.

A sign on the entrance to the Sahakari Spice Farm advised us that the plantation had closed two days earlier for renovation. Despite this, the guard on the gate waved us through and we were greeted by Sidhesh and his friendly staff who did not hesitate to temporarily re-open to accommodate our wish for a tour. The Spice Farm was truly beautiful and the paths threading through it were conveniently stroller friendly so we could push rather than carry Sebastian. Sidhesh was charming and his hour long tour was very entertaining for both adults and children alike. There was plenty for the children to touch, smell and see with the highlight for Eliza being her first official introduction to an elephant. After the tour, we were treated to a lovely lunch of traditional Goan vegetarian fare and were all ceremonially baptized with some water from the plantation creek. A delightful excursion for all.

One afternoon Chris and I decided to treat ourselves to one of the many varieties of massage offered at the resort. We selected a Stone Therapy Massage and as we both booked for the same day we received two massages for the price of one. The massage was undertaken by a doctor of alternative medicine and his male assistant and involved lots of hot rocks, aromatic oil and rubbing, virtually everywhere. Chris found the experience of being stroked on his inner thighs by two men way too confronting and returned more stressed than when he departed. Initially I had to exert considerable concentration to stop myself from laughing, partly because I am ticklish and partly because I found the reality of being so intimate with two male strangers in a country where even husbands and wives barely touch in public absolutely hilarious. With some effort I managed to regain my composure and my maturity and relaxed into a heavenly seventy five minutes of excellent tension release.

Our farewell from the staff at the resort was as gracious and friendly as our welcome. The children joked and played hide and seek with some of the pool attendants as we checked out and our Aladdin DVD was returned to us with much gratitude having done the rounds of the guards and the drivers who all found it “very amusing”. We wisely decided to split the return trip over two days and spent an afternoon and evening in Kolhapur. We bought a few pairs of the leather sandals for which Kolhapur is famous. Mauli directed us to a shop and accompanied us while we made and paid for our selections. On returning to our car he cheerily advised us we had paid twice the going rate for the shoes, which was not terribly useful information after the fact. We stayed at the Shalini Palace Hotel situated on the pleasant Rankala Lake which we walked in the evening before a reasonable meal in the hotel dining room. Built circa 1930, the Hotel once was the maharaja’s summer palace and has the remnants of grandeur about it. We were allocated the Maharaja’s Suite which included a large marble balcony, huge air conditioned bedroom and bathroom and a small alcove or study. However, ‘shabby chic’ would be overstating the appeal of this suite that was equipped with no flushing toilets or hot water but with an abundance of nocturnal creepy crawlies, especially in the bathroom. As night fell and the rain set in, it was actually quite spooky and I half expected to run into Scooby Doo and the Gang in the upper hallways on the prowl for ghosts. I sank into the four poster bed not expecting to get a wink of sleep only to wake very refreshed to the sun twinkling brightly through the heavy drapes. After a very basic continental breakfast in the dining room, we were on the road by 8.30am more than pleased to embark on the last leg of our journey back to Pune.

Ten minutes from home, Charlie, who was snoozing beside me, sat up and emptied the contents of his belly into my lap. Fortunately the car seats were vinyl, as were the seat covers for that matter, and I did my best to mop up the over flow with one of the baby’s cot sheets. Nonetheless, it was a most unfortunate parting gift to our friend, Mauli that perhaps typified his whole sorry week with us. However from our perspective, it was a minor upset that did little to undermine our fabulous time in Goa.

The Monsoon, Mumbai and Mum: Pics

Mum with Paddy and Sebastian
at Shi Sha










At Leopold's in Mumbai with the McKenzies

The Monsoon, Mumbai and Mum

“I feel it in my fingers; I feel it in my toes….” Remember that song ‘Love is All Around’ from the movie ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’? It was performed by a band called “Wet, Wet, Wet” and every time I look out the window or walk out the door, I think to myself, “wet, wet, wet” and then that song starts up in my head. It’s a nightmare; it’s constantly raining so I am constantly singing to myself, “You know I love you, I always will….” I am in soft rock hell.

Yes, the monsoon has officially descended upon us and it rains, pours, or drizzles pretty much all the time. Fortunately in Pune, it doesn’t torrent or flood like it does in parts of Goa or even Mumbai. On 26 July 2005, parts of Mumbai recorded a phenomenal total of 996ml of rain in one day. The century old drainage system and derelict roads didn’t stand a chance of coping with such a deluge so tragically lives were lost and kilometers of goods and property were swept away. Contractors were employed to improve the roads over the dry season, but when the rains hit Mumbai this past weekend it appeared nothing has improved and flooding was widespread. The Indian High Court has recommended the contractors be charged with criminal negligence. We shall see.

Pune’s infrastructure is fairly shoddy as well but so far the rain has eased sufficiently at times for the water to drain away. I remember reading before I came here that during the monsoon, Pune disappears into an enormous pothole and it does seem that most of the roads have been swallowed by huge lakes leaving narrow paths for already congested traffic to bicker over. Much of the wiring around Pune lies exposed to the elements so we have been experiencing extended blackouts while the local government employs band aid measures to re-connect the electricity supply for short, irregular periods of time. Then the rain sets in and the process begins again.

For the past week, the first 5 pages of the local newspaper have been devoted entirely to reports on the weather and how it is impacting on various parts of Marharasthra. It seems most Punites are very miffed with the condition of the roads, particularly as they were supposed to be massively upgraded in the past 12 months. They are hoping for a similar rebuke against the local government from the High Court. Everyone is very vague about the duration and intensity of the monsoon in Pune but from what I can gather, it seems we have at least a month of very wet weather ahead with the rains easing over August and clearing by September.

Aside from the inconvenience of extended power cuts, we are finding the rains very challenging because we can not get out as much as we would like. The traffic is even more chaotic, if that is possible and between this and the questionable substances now washing up on the sides of the roads, a simple stroll has become quite hazardous. Most days find the children and I holed up in our apartment chasing one another up and down the walls. This is not what I signed up for. Can you imagine, Paddy, Charlie and Eliza pent up in a confined space day after day with very little to distract them? Can you imagine how their mother is not coping with this situation? Do you remember that ghastly novel, “Flowers in the Attic” by Virginia Andrews? We are the Dollangers. ‘The Diary of Anne Frank’ has taken on a whole new dimension for me. While we still have many misgivings about moving onto site with the unfenced dam and wet marble, it has now become a question of whether our children are less safe in the presence of a gaping hole or a rapidly fraying mother.

We may move out to site as early as the weekend of 22 July (Patrick nearly passed out with excitement when we mentioned this to him) but I am not holding my breath. Even if it is very wet and muddy out there, at least the mud is relatively clean and the roads on site are sealed so the children can play on the lawn with a reasonable guarantee they are not in the path of an impromptu detour around an impassable cavity. School is still scheduled to start on 9 August (please, please!) so the children and I are counting down the minutes. Every afternoon as Chris walks in the door, we all slide off the walls and spring at him with our ferocious appetites for news, “Any new developments? Is the school still opening? Is the playground ready? Did you manage to pick up some valium?”
Mum was here last week and she thinks we are in the most challenging phase now. I hope she is right and not just saying this to preserve her daughter’s sanity.

India is an extremely challenging place to live but this has it rewards if you approach living here in a positive frame of mind. For the most part we have given up trying to ‘solve’ the problems we encounter on a daily basis in all facets of our lives. Solutions are impossible to come by and seeking them out is futile and painful (think head and brick wall). This is not to say we are throwing our hands up and despairing. Actually, we do that as well but we are trying not to. The general approach to life here is to confront every situation with the assumption it is tolerable and then to make the best of it. This requires you to live in the moment and not to give too much thought to what could possibly go wrong in an hour’s time because to do so is to risk being overwhelmed by the possibility of any number of negative outcomes, all of which are beyond our control. All we can control is the present and making the best of it results in positive reflections of the immediate past which auger well for the immediate future. For example, if the power goes out or the water goes off, it may come back on in ten minutes or ten hours, there is no way of gauging which. One response may be to panic about the washing you haven’t done or the fact that everyone is going to suffocate in the humidity or that you can not check your emails because the computer battery is flat (that one is truly agony!). The other response is to get on with what you actually can achieve and hope the power comes back on in the midst of this. That way, even if the power doesn’t come back on, at least you have achieved something more constructive than panicking and wailing about “How can people live like this?” Needless to say, I have panicked and wailed more than I care to mention but I am becoming more accomplished at going with the flow and this is proving very useful, particularly in coping with the ‘school situation’.

Seizing the moment is not only a desirable way to live your life in India; it is the only way to live if you wish to cope sufficiently to enjoy the experience. It certainly appears to be the approach of the locals who are very talented at taking everything in their stride and making gold out of straw. The monsoon has seen waterfalls and mini lakes emerging everywhere. Despite the fact these have played havoc with the traffic and trains, the locals have welcomed their arrival with enthusiasm. As you drive along the highway, at every point where a stream of water flows down a rock face, you will find cars stopped and the occupants stripped down to their underwear laughing and clapping as they are baptized by the cool, clear water rushing down to greet them. Children stand beside potholes filled with greasy muddy water in the hope an SUV will plough through the puddle and immerse them in its contents triggering lots of stomping and hollering not unlike an urban rain dance. When we were driving down Marine Parade in Mumbai as the heavens opened on Sunday, people were lined up on the elevated esplanade wall allowing waves to crash over them and soak them like participants in some kind of ‘extreme sightseeing’. Never mind the fact there were rocks beneath them or that most Indians are not confident swimmers.

While the constant wet takes some getting used to, providing you waterproof yourself sufficiently, getting about in ceaseless rain is quite tolerable because the temperature hovers in the mid twenties. The locals have barely batted an eyelid about the change in the elements but the rain has brought with it further examples of the social gregariousness of this delightful city. Chai stalls which sell steaming spiced tea served in little latte glasses are very simple structures usually comprised of a shed and a blue tarp awning hastily strung up and attached to the closest tree or power pole. Since the rains have come, these little stalls have evolved into buzzing social hubs where commuters huddle together under the blue waterproof squares sipping sweet milky tea while chatting and laughing with the other shelter seekers. A cup of Chai will set you back less than 10 cents so locals from all walks of life flock to these stalls to partake in the glowing warmth of both the tea and the company.

The animals who wander the streets also seem unphased by the damp but are happy to take advantage of any shelter offered to them. We jumped in a rickshaw this morning and as I went to toss my bag onto the bench behind us, I noticed a stray kitten curled up in the corner. Chris mentioned this to the driver and he nodded and confirmed all was as it should be. All the same, I will be looking first from now on, lest my bag inadvertently becomes a deadly weapon. The other day a rickshaw rattled past us couriering a goat munching contemplatively on some straw. I wonder if driver and passenger haggled a fare at the start of the ride or if the goat insisted on the meter?

Raincoats are the accessory of choice for most men but the ladies tend to sport umbrellas which apparently provide miraculous protection to their immaculate saris. If you look very closely, you may observe the odd mud splatter on the hem of a dragging sari but otherwise this elegant Indian dress appears to be made of Teflon.

I had my first real taste of Mumbai on Sunday when we drove up there on a very soggy day for a bit of sightseeing and to drop Mum off at the airport. Chris is fairly familiar with Mumbai and acted as tour guide, which was quite fortuitous in view of the fact our driver did not speak any English and was evidently visiting Mumbai for the first time as well. By the time we realized the driver was desperately lost the rain was sheeting down, so Chris’ commentary consisted of deflated statements like, “If we could see a meter ahead of us we would be facing the Gateway to India” and “No, that’s not a lake, that’s the Oval Maiden”. Despite the deluge, Colaba is obviously a beautiful part of town and the wallahs and locals we encountered were very friendly. I can easily see why Chris is so enamored of this corner of the world. The highlight was meeting the McKenzie family at Leopold’s for lunch. It is one of the first times I have personally visited a place I have read much about and imagined in detail. It was nothing like I imagined; much smaller and Coles Cafeteriaish but a good vibe all the same. The staff were great and very tolerant of tourists, especially the energetic pre-pubescent variety who had been promised a game of cricket and delivered an afternoon of window shopping for jewellery.

The ride home to Pune was entertaining, if a little too hair raising. Over approximately 160 kilometers we witnessed 4 separate accidents or their immediate aftermath. In one instance, a nasty collision between two vehicles vying for a toll gate at high speed resulted in both cars simultaneously hitting separate concrete pillars. We were contemplating buying a little car while we were here to undertake weekend trips and short journeys but we have decided against it. In town, the driving patterns, while not fast are too unpredictable and we would be likely to cause a bingle and on the highways many locals drive too quickly with no apparent understanding of how long it takes to break at high speeds or how slippery smooth roads become in the rain. We think we will stick to hiring solid cars with seatbelts and experienced drivers.

I have also concluded that highways and main roads in and around Pune are toilets by another name. Literally every few hundred meters along the highway, we saw large groups of men “taking a slash” as Chris so eloquently puts it. I know it is wet and this does things to one’s bladder but really, can no males hold on here? There is nothing discreet about it either. They may face away from the road or they may not. They certainly don’t bother seeking out any privacy offered by a little distance or a tree. Instead they stand in lines next to the road apparently in some perverse attempt to replicate the cosy ambience of a public urinal. As for sparing passing motorists a clear view of the ‘shake’ or the ‘tuck in’; forget it. Time is obviously of the essence and these tasks are easily undertaken en route back to the vehicle. My children and I have seen far more of Indian men than I consider tasteful or educational.

Speaking of indiscretions, we were waiting in a rickshaw at an intersection yesterday when we couldn’t help but witness two donkeys mating on the other side of the road (where else, but India?). Our conversation went something like this:
Eliza: What are those donkeys doing?
Celia: Mating
Patrick: They’re making babies.
Charlie: Don’t be silly, that’d be like saying Mum and Dad mated to make us!
Dead silence in the back of the rickshaw except for a stifled giggle from Paddy, or was that Chris?