Morjim to Candolim

BLOG PART 4

Morjim to Candolim

Early rises are not, I have decided, the best time for the male James. To be fair, Peter was still red around the legs, Cian had tiny blisters on his shoulders and even Angharad was looking a wee bit jaded as we shouldered the bags and left the sweltering heat of the cottage. Luckily we didn't have to walk too far as Goan bus's are very good at stopping for anyone who even looks in their direction, let alone waves frantically from the middle of the road. Peter was quickly pulled out of the way as the bus ground to a halt beside us. Bags were handed up, seats at the back were found and grateful to be on our way without the weight of the bags upon our sun scalded shoulders we settle down to enjoy the view.

Photos taken from an Indian bus, as I am sure I have mentioned before, are not an option. Our bus like so many of the ones I have travelled in during my various visits, was no exception to the general rules pertaining to Indian roads. I am sure specialistic training is given to all large vehicle drivers in India, as to do what they do naturally, is surely am impossibility.

Our bus hurtled down the narrow roads, slowing only fractionally for speed bumps and dogs. It swerve last minute to avoid moving and stationary cows and overtook anything and everything it could whether it could get past or not!! Most waving people were picked up without the bus actually coming to a full stop, whistles and hand signals becoming a language in its own right. Peoples bags were handed down until a space could be found on the over head rail, bodies squeezed in, wiggled over, smiled politely and handed over money to the co-ordinating, whistle blowing conductor. All was done in good nature, no one complained as the bus lurched first one way and then the other. Corners took on a new meaning as 'all left' or 'all right' saw every one of the standing, sitting or leaning people move with a synchronisation that was more inflicted upon them by something similar to Mach Force, than by any co-ordinated practice!

Slightly battered we arrived in the chaotic sprawl of Mapusa Bus Terminal. Buses reversed, pulled forward, and reversed again to the accompaniment of the now familiar whistles and hand waving. Engines revved loudly, dust rising in hot swirling clouds as exhausts belched blackening fumes over all and sundry. Voices shouted destinations, food sellers called out their delicacies, piles of pots, parcels and packages were carried on heads as people merged with the traffic and then flowed out onto the streets of Mapusa.

Our driver kindly waved us in the direction of our next bus as we too entered the bustle and noise of the station. Samosas were found and consumed, ginger cookies, thick, crumbling yet moist and delicious were added to our supplies. A bus reversed into the gap we were standing in forcing us to one side. A head emerged from the rear calling out what I thought was our desired destination. Having been caught out in the past with pronunciations of similar sounding towns and villages, I confirmed that this bus was indeed going to Candolim before ushering everyone aboard.

Way back in 1998, I had ventured with my children for the first time to India. A last minute package holiday in Candolim had seen us all frolicking in warm sea's, eating Christmas dinner on a clean sandy beach and enjoying the hospitality of a small, friendly hotel.

The streets are now jammed with restaurants and tourist targeted shops. White faces outnumber the Indian ones, Russian, German and English abounds in the cafes and bars.

The beach has been filled from one end to the other with private resort entrances, beach restaurants and fee charging sun beds. Parachutes, attached to powerful speed boats fly tourists in tandem along the shores, banana boats, ringos and the other favourite water sports are filled with shrieking people and everywhere music fills the air. The power cuts so common in this area, bring a peaceful rest-bite for a moment or two before generators are pulled into life and it all continues again.

Saying that small pockets of comparative quiet can still be found. We called at Lucia's at the far end of the main drag, the No 1 Bed and Breakfast according to Trip Advisor and asked about rooms. They were fully booked for the rest of the year (recommendations on Trip Advisor has serious advantages to those who give a good service)! Undaunted we asked for somewhere near that they could recommend. Their wonderful reputation as delightful hosts in Trip Advisor is well deserved as they not only recommended, but also phoned to confirm availability, arranged collection by the proprietor and advised us of all sorts of things while we waited. Dudsagar Falls and the Spice Plantation were mentioned and before we knew it another phone call had us a price for a whole day of activities with a driver! We thanked them profusely for their assistance as one by one we were ferried on the back of Francis's moped to our new home.

Francis, a devout Christian, lost his wife last year leaving him to run the family guest rooms with the aid of his two sons. He is possibly the most sincere, attentive and polite person I have ever met and his need to please knows no bounds. He practised our names one by one until he had memorised their exact pronunciations. He called a dozen times after we had said yes to the rooms bringing added items he felt would be useful.

The rooms are clean, functionally furnished and huge. 

A fridge stands in a kitchenette area allowing for cheese, chocolate sauce, fresh fruit and chilled water to become daily luxuries.

We have two bathrooms, one with electricity supplied constant hot water, the other fed by the huge black plastic water butt that sits upon the roof and reaches temperatures of excess during the afternoon.

A long narrow balcony runs outside in the shadow of the building allowing cooling air to swirl and freshen the children as they study, the sun only just reaching it in the late afternoon. All in all the most perfect of places to rest up after our two weeks of beach based activities.

Within a day the essential shops had been noted, fruit, veg, ATM.

Fresh bread rolls arrive at 7am each day in a huge covered basket of such a friendly bread man. He stops just outside our door, hooting his hand held bicycle horn and charges me the same as the locals! It is a well known and accepted fact that tourists are usually charged at least 1/3 more (usually a lot more) for local products.

A tiny store 100m away supplies us with water at the recommended marked price and right at the end of the narrow lane that runs outside our door, lies the most amazing curry house that serves ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce, much to the children's and my delight!

Having settled into our new quarters and enjoyed a well deserved day of rest, it was unanimously decided by me that we should ALL partake in the 3k uphill hike up to the red bricked Aquada Fort. We had been advised to wait until late in the afternoon before beginning the climb as the heat at this time of the year is incredible. We have just entered the first week of the Indian summer and temperatures are reaching in excess of 36 each day and drop to a bare 30 by night.

There is also a fine line to found between the cool of the afternoon and the point where darkness instantly descends! At 4pm we began our journey full of enthusiasm. By 4.20 we had reached the base of the imposing hill that stretched away into the distance in what looked like a 3 in 1 gradient! The climb began. Half a kilometre later people were in desperate need of encouragement. Why were we going? When would we get there? Why was it so hot, uphill, dusty? Why couldn't we catch the bus!!! I loosened two of the straps on my bag and encouraged Ahgharad to use me as her horse, Peter and Cian I left to their misery as the climb continued upwards.

The road levelled off to everyone's relief but the Fort was still some way away causing a fresh round of sighs and huffs. When the road began to climb once more even I was wondering how much longer the family could survive. The Fort came into view and the last reserve the children had was sapped away with the realisation that the whole place was closing!!!

Without daring to break the step, I marched everyone straight past the gates and onto the lighthouse beyond. With relief I paid the 100Rps for our entry and encouraged the children inside the cool construction. 88 steps up, including the ladder to the roof rewarded us with breathtaking views not only over the area but also deep into the Fort next door. Walkways were spied, towers were explored by eye, as the last of the Forts visitors filed out of the gate.

Cooling wind blew new life into the melted souls that had climbed the Hill to this amazing view point. The rough location of our place of residence was guessed to amongst the palms that stretched away along the coast. From here the hotels and shops disappeared beneath the lush vegetation that covers this wonderful country. From a distance, (as the song says) the world looked green and blue, rubbish, blackened building, belching fumes all disappeared and for a few moments India lay before us in her beauty.

The climb down from heaven to earth, the return of the noise and smells of the main street plus the evening of failing to get the WiFi of a very expensive café to talk to our laptops, brought us back to the reality of the Goa we had come to explore. A country of diversity and hidden illusions.

There are No Photos of the Fort nor the lighthouse and views I am afraid, as both Peter and I forgot to take our cameras, Peter thinking that I would take mine and me thinking he had his!!!!

You will just have to make the climb yourself one day!!!

(A random photo of Calolim to make up for the lack of the Fort ones xxxx)