Agonda

Part 12 Agonda

Our move to Agonda was a simple affair. With bags packed we walked the 80m to the main walk through where upon half a dozen taxi drivers offered us their services. Our kind bike man also owned a taxi so we handed over 300 rupees while he supervised the loading of of our bags. We ate breakfast from a tiny stall selling chai and samosas while the last details of our transfer was arranged between owner and driver. Heads nodded, smiles beamed, hands were shaken as we were ushered on board for the five minute journey up the coast.

The road was now familiar and unlike us, our driver knew the shortest way to the village without the aid of experimental forays down unknown tracks. We turned confidently down the tarmacked road, turning right at the T junction at the end. We passed the now closed and shuttered shops, slowing as the wheels left the tarmac to engage with the dry red dust of the track. Wheels ground to a halt, bags were unloaded and soon we were marching between the huts to the beach.

The beach was quiet, the restaurant empty save for a lone Indian guy dozing on a chair. He nodded as I said we had come to stay in the tree house, closing his eyes as we climbed the steps to deposit our things.

The hammock was hung beneath the tree house taking advantage of the space and shade. Sarongs were draped along the balcony to air and add colour to our new home. A mattress was found as a bed for Peter and myself, the mosquito net was unpacked and hung.

Agonda beach is a huge wide sweeping beach that rises up along the sea edge to form a high ridge that then slides gently to the sea. When the tide is fully in the odd wave manages to flow over the ridge onto the beach behind but most of the time the waves lie hidden from view.

To the North a stream flows into a large lagoon that in turn empties into the sea via a narrow channel.

When the tide turns the flow reverses causing a current to pour, at first gently and then with incredible force back into the lagoon.

It was quickly discovered that if one threw oneself into the current, adopting a floating stance, one could be carried right to the far end of the lagoon without mishap. There the water was knee to thigh deep, allowing you to safely reach the shore only to race up the beach to do it again before the current got too frightening!

Home was quickly established, school work was done in the restaurant and the day passed in a haze of relaxation and peace.

Holi, or the Festival of Colours as it is sometimes called, is celebrated all over India. There are various stories associated with the Festival, some of Sikh origin others of Hindu. Some mention Prahlad as their main character, others mention Krsna but who ever is worshipped the main aim at the end of the week long celebration is to throw, and become covered with, the most vivid assortment of brightly coloured powders available.

Loud drumming, dancing and chanting is also involved and as we walked up the main street the next morning it was easy to find the hub of celebrations.

Clouds of colour hung in the air, people jumped high throwing huge handfuls of dust at each other. Cars and bikes came under assault as they eased their way past the crowd.

It is considered a blessing to be daubed with powder, the more powder you receive the greater your blessing.

I shared some of the fluorescent pink Holi powder I had with the eager hands around me and soon was throwing and receiving blessings from all around.

The drumming increased in tempo, the dancing became more frenzied until everyone was jumping on the spot, throwing and chanting, laughing and calling until a final burst of drums brought an end to that particular session of celebrations.

People sat down to rest while others popped into a nearby store to replenish their supply of powder. Water was passed around and a semi calmness descended. A calmness that held underlying currents of energy, of anticipation.

Within ten minutes the lead drummer was encouraging his troupe back on their feet and a slow rhythmic beat began. One by one the crowd reformed, new faces not yet coated with Holi powder joined others smothered from head to toe. The chanting commenced as the beat increased, the calling and answer routine becoming faster and faster until another round of frenzied dancing took hold of the crowd. Powder once more filled the sky, voices rose loudly in praise and celebration, drummers pounder their instruments as the festival took hold of the crowd once more.

Our bags were empty, the children were suitably covered and so we retired to the sea to paint the fishes pink, blue and green. Holi powder is easily washed off if it remains dry. Water, sweat and humidity allows it to seep into the pores and once dried onto the skin it takes a few days for the effects to wear off. The children remained Holi-ed for the next three days as did the smiling people around us.

We booked in for an extra night, put the Holi cleaned clothes on a line under the tree house to dry and watched the setting sun.

Agonda was beautiful with its quietness, in high season I am sure it becomes a lively place to party as Indians and Europeans seek out the sea and surf, but for now we had it nearly to ourselves. For now it was a place of rest and pleasure.

The children were given a day off school and a day of indulgent sleep was had before our long hike up the length of Goa to Arambol.

Sleep well from Agonda xxx

Bike Ride to Agonda and Back

Part 12 of our Trip around Goa 

Morning tends to come abruptly in India. Dogs, woken by the cockerels, who in turn were woken by the late night/early morning guests returning to their rooms, join the morning chorus of birds, pot washing and throat clearing. Voices mumble to each other in surrounding rooms, sweepers shwoosh their way around the area gathering the fallen leaves into piles as the world comes to life.

Blurry eyed, the children sat on our porch writing up the details of the previous day in their journals as Peter and I began the negotiations with our taxi driver. The assured 300 rupees for the entire trip quickly turned into 300Rps just to Agonda, 500Rps if we wanted to go to Cola and No he couldn't wait. 500 there and 500 back, the day was getting expensive!

We smiled, we nodded, we shook our heads and turned away. Instantly the price became lower but it was still more than we were willing to pay. During our discussions the evening before, Plan B had been briefly aired before being put away for future discussion. In light of the costs involved in exploring the immediate area, Plan B was enthusiastically brought back out and given a good shaking. Plan B involved motor bikes!!

For 400 rupee high season, 200 rupee low season you can hire a bike for the day, if you hire for a week or more the price is even less and for a little more money you can hire yourself an Enfield, some of which come complete with army style heavy duty side cages to carry your bags.

Tourists are not actually allowed to ride bikes in India, there is no insurance to cover them, there are no checks to see if you have a licence, the roads are manic, helmets non existent and any accident, whether caused by you or the other party, will always be your fault yet is is still such a simple way to get around.

We settled on two mopeds, big enough to get us from A to B, small enough for us to potter through the countryside enjoying the view. One of our chosen mopeds unfortunately had a flat tyre, “No problem” beamed our bike man and giving Peter the Enfield to ride he jumped onto the flat tyred bike and sped off down the road with us in hot pursuit! The tyre was pumped, the tanks were filled and with sad eyes Peter handed back the Enfield and got onto his little bike.

The busy National Highway was left to the Express Buses and overloaded trucks while we headed North along the coast road. The occasional vehicle, most of which looked like they were on a serious mission, raced past us as we meandering along the quiet road, past paddy fields flowing with ripening rice and trees full of Guava.

Agonda was actually found more by luck than by judgement as we gazed this way and that, paying only scant attention to the road. A small sign by a bus stop said 'Beach' and pointed down a narrow dusty track that led over an even smaller bridge and onto an assortment of huts and buildings hidden amongst the trees. Brakes were squeezed, gravel was scattered as we slid to a stop, the dust of the track throwing up clouds of fine red powder in my wake.

We parked the bikes in a small clearing stunned at the noise coming from the trees around us. Looking up we discovered branches filled with large fruit bats, wings gently fanning back and forth as the heat rose around them. Squabbles over space erupted every now and again sending an occasional huge expanse of wing soaring overhead to settle in another part of the tree where the chittering complaints would start afresh.

We watched fascinated as the territories within the trees were declared or shared.

Between the trees and huts, golden sand beckoned. We left the bikes in the shade well out of the reach of falling bat debris and went to explore.

Agonda beach is a wonderful example of what Palolem once was. Huts nestle amongst the trees, beach restaurants lie spaced along the shore, fishing boats are pulled up onto the sand, their nets piled high beside them. In high season the sands would have been covered with people coming and going but now only two Indian couples ventured towards the sea and the restaurants lay mainly empty.

We walked to the sea to wash our dust covered feet before walking back towards the trees lining the shore and home to the only tree house in the area. At the restaurant next door three long term residents lounged happily on the sun beds and asked if they could help. We asked if the tree house was empty. A debate started as to whether the people had left last night or this morning, a debate that was both interesting and pointless as no one knew for certain! In the end it was decided that as the door was open and no one had come out to see what all the noise was about, it must be empty!

“How much” we asked. Another debate began about the price, the owners were away celebrating Holi and again no one knew for certain when they would be back or even how much they would charge at this time of the year. We settled for drinks causing yet another round of debates as they tried to decide what they had available. Peter, one of the long term residents who had arrived some time last autumn, volunteered to make coffee having emptied the fridge of the one bottle of Limca for Cian and given the only bottle of slightly warm Miranda to Angharad.

We settled and shared the home life that had been forged between these people. Ann came from London, Rebecca was born in Bridgend, all had been here before, all stayed for at least 4 months a year in the same huts with the same neighbours caring for any new arrivals like hosts rather than guests. By the time we were ready to move on, a price of 600Rupees per night for the tree house had been decided and we booked ourselves in for two nights starting the next day.

The sun was now high in the sky and hot. The air rushing past us on the tarmacked road was even hotter. Waves of oven like heat blew across my face and arms as Angharad sheltered in the lee of my back. The road wound up into hills, seemingly far from the coast, before turning down into sheltered avenues full of trees laden with cashew fruit and nuts.

The sign to Cola beach was large and impressive and not one that could be easily missed although it didn't state a distance. We turned back on ourselves to slowly bump our way along the red dust road. Large rocks lay strewn along the way, rain eroded potholes jabbed at our wheels causing Angharad to bounce out of her seat behind me.

The track twisted and turned through sun baked brush and thorn bushes until I began to wonder if we were indeed going the right way. Peter took up the lead, picking a trail through the holes and ridges as Angharad and I wiggled back into our seats after a particular big bump! The track began to lead down at an alarming rate, the soft dusty earth doing nothing for my confidence as my wheels lost traction again and again. Unaware of any danger Angharad laughed and called out as each jarring stone knocked my front wheel out of line.

It was with relief that we passed two bikes coming in the opposite direction. “You have done the easy bit” they laughed as they passed. Their clean white faces grinned at our red dust covered bodies “not far now!”. 400m later we came to a small clearing containing two bikes and a car and gratefully stopped. Steps led their way down through swaying palm trees, their huge leaves rustling in the breeze, while in the distance we could hear the sound of waves beating upon a shore.

“Steps Again!” sighed Peter, shouldering the bags full of water and swim wear. I smiled. “Think of the calories” I murmured tapping his shrinking belly as I passed. In the past 4 weeks Peter had lost a stone in weight, a feat that had proved quite elusive in the UK. Between the heat, the healthy vegetarian diet, our daily walks and swims he was at last becoming the man he was when we first met. He grinned back and followed me down.

Cola is a strange beach compared to the ones we had seen so far. A long extremely narrow sandy beach at the base of a cliff like ridge, drops rapidly into the sea causing the huge swells to pound the shore with a ferocious force. A life guard sat at a rocky point and I asked his advice before venturing in with the children. “Just be careful” he nodded back, picking up his rescue float as he spoke. Not totally reassured we stepped into the cooling sea noting how the beach went from ankle depth to neck in a single stride.

The good thing was the fact that the rollers pushed you inwards, the bad news was that to get past the first 10 foot of huge crushing waves you needed to be out of your depth. The children bobbed beside us at arms reach washing the grim and dust of the trip away. Peter and I abandoned any form of exercise as our life guard watched us attentively until we returned to the shore refreshed and still alive.

Further along the shore from the steps, the beach opened up to a fresh water lagoon separated from the sea by a large drift of sand. The waterway winds itself away from the beach, running along the valley floor to disappear around a corner and out of sight.

Tall coconut trees grow on terraced ledges, beneath which large stiff ridged tents complete with decking and chairs lie in lines.

The white of the tents has become darkened in the humid environment but there is still something not quite right to the eye as they line the waterfront. I have seen and stayed in tree houses, wood huts, stone huts, woven huts, wall to wall huts and isolated huts during my visits along the coast but these dwellings looked regimental in some way. Impersonal with their identical ropes and seats, armyfied in their orderly lines. 

The lagoon was refreshing and cleansing after the beating of the sea and despite the orderly formation of the tents, the setting was idyllic and picturesque. I was glad we had come but I didn't want to stay here. 

Peter and I gathered up the children and our bags and headed back up the sheer sides on the cliff counting steps once more as we worked our way to the top.

The sun had moved during our foray onto the beach and bikes that had once been in the shade now stood in the blazing sunshine. Children were told to walk as Peter and I skidded our bikes over the 200m of gravel and ridges to the top of the cliff. There the children were allowed to mount and with Peter once more picking the path through the rough track, we headed back to the main road. We rewarded ourselves with ice cream from a tiny store by the big Cola beach sign and decided what to do next. We didn't really want to go any further North so we decided to explore more fully our route back to Palolem

.

Time and again we stopped to gaze up at trees full of nuts or fruit, time and again we were passed by trucks full of people holding balloons on their way back from Holi celebrations. As I passed one such truck a loud Bang was heard and it ground to a sudden halt.

Peter, just behind me, stopped as person after person began to dismount from the back. The axle had broken or something and they now needed to walk. 30 or 40 people clambered down onto the tarmac from the tiny space at the back of the cab as Peter and Cian watched fascinated. Indian people, it was surmised, can pack a truck even better than they can pack a bus!!!!

It was nearly 2pm when we passed a large turning to our right. It was too early to go back so I pulled to the side of the road to allow Peter to draw level. “Shall we see where it goes?” I asked, “Why not” he grinned turning his bike as he spoke.

The road was sign posted with something about a Dentist Mission (?), no other clue could be gleamed from the arrows as we started down the solid tarmac road. 2K later the road branched at a T junction that ran parallel to a sweeping beach and in large print a sign said AGONDA BEACH!

If this was Agonda, where had we been before??

We followed the road past the familiar tourist shops, sarongs, carvings, cash credit and money exchange, fruit stalls, barbers and of course the huts and restaurants. The road eventually turned into a red dust track, the sign at the last restaurant stating Free Wifi and happy hour. We parked up and went inside for drinks and snacks.

While the children settled in the cool and comfortable restaurant with their Fantas and pakoras, I walked out onto the beach to try to see where we were. The beach swept left and right as far as I could see yet up in the distance I recognised the colourful beach huts we had visited before. Some how we had managed to enter Agonda through the back door and on our way home we had stumbled upon her main entrance. Free Wifi was a good sign, great food confirmed the restaurant in our minds and a plan for the morrow began to take root.

One of the joys of travelling, as opposed to holidaying in one particular spot, is the flexibility of decision making. Some places are purposefully sought out following the recommendation of people you meet along the way. Other places are stumbled across as you journey from one area to another. Tiny gems in a journey of discovery.

I had come to Palolem in search of the tree houses I had lived in years before. As Palolem had developed the simple tree houses had gone, replaced by expensive en-suite palaces. In Agonda I found my tree house, I also discovered a place similar to the Palolem of old but with all the creature comforts of our modern day internet and ATMs.

We journeyed back on the bikes as the sun dipped down behind the trees, the shadowed coolness a welcome change for my sun baked arms and head. We passed through villages on the edge of town celebrating Holi, the coloured dust being thrown high into the air as we passed.

We explored other side roads, discovered other small beaches, other tiny settlements. Bikes give you the freedom to get off the bus routes, to explore dead ends, to venture down tracks that lead only to a cluster of huts full of barking dogs and curious smiling children.

Back at our rooms the children celebrated Holi in their own way with the coloured powder they had bought back in Gokarna. Tomorrow the celebrations would begin in earnest, but tomorrow we would be in Agonda!

And on to Palolem

Part 11 of the Adventure

Om Beach to Palolem

It was with regret that we left Om Beach, two weeks had not been nearly enough on the tiny tranquil beach, with her shells, her dogs, her sand and the rolling sea. Yet our adventure was now just over half way through and we still needed to explore the coast back up to Arambol.

We took down the hammock, packed our bags, hung the last of our shells around the restaurant and amid much hand shaking, hugs and smiles we walked for the last time along the beach towards the steps.

This time however we veered to the right just before the point and walked through a large restaurant called the Om Ganesh. Behind the restaurant a narrow track wound its way up the near sheer mountain side, red dust and stone, loose earth and grave clinging to the ground in not an altogether safe manner. Our rickshaw driver was roused from his bed on the top story of the restaurant and a wee bit blurry eyed he loaded us in and headed up the track!

It was a long painfully slow climb to the top, and more than once we wondered if we had made the right choice as our rickshaw lurched from one pot hole to the next, sliding ever so slightly but ever so definitely on the loose scree. The thought of having to lug the bags up 128 steps as the sun rose had made us chose this, until now, unknown option and I was glad to do the journey only the once!

At the now familiar bus stop we consumed our travel breakfast of biscuits, refilled our water bottles from the Public water tap pleased with the way our bodies had now adapted to the local water and settled down to wait for the bus that would take us on the 2 hour journey to Chaudi.

Both children have adapted to travel mode in a way only children can. For some journeys they peer bright eyed through the windows commenting on everything and nothing. On others, especially early morning starts, they nod off into oblivion only to awake an hour later refreshed and ready to go!

At Chaudi we climbed upon a tiny 24 seat bus, already bulging at the seams, stowing our bags in the even tinier boot. Ladies were given priority on the seats but with so many people, Angharad on my lap, her small bag tucked between my feet, bodies squeezed into the gaps between the seat back-rests, space was not a luxury any of us could enjoy. The good news was that as the bus lurched around corners no one moved, so tightly were we all packed inside our sardine tin.

The bus conductor had arranged people according to their stops, those going all the way to Palolem towards the back, other stops nearer to the front, but as we stopped and picked up more people, this order became crushed even further until it was near impossible for some people to reach the door to disembark. Still no one complained, no-one became short tempered, no one pushed or swore. Each person helped, as best they could, the person next to them, offering to pass a package, helping move the smaller children, smiling and bending until people had passed and the bus headed off once more.

At Palolem itself we re-entered the commercialisation that defines Goa's tourist areas. Touts gathered around the bus before we had fully disembarked shoving cards with pictures of huts, hotels and rooms under our noses, splitting partners and children as they each fought for attention. The bus began to move with our bags still in the boot and touts were quickly put aside as we banged on the bus panelling to make him stop.

With all our possessions safely by our feet we looked again at the thrust of cards and smiling faces. “How much?” we asked and the battle of the prices began. 400Rupee, 300 rupee, 250 rupee.

“400 very clean, big hotel, near beach!!” one called,

“300, free Wifi, ON the beach,” called another.

We turned to the Free Wifi man. After two weeks in Karnataka's Wifi dessert, we really needed a few days of internet to load Blogs, check e-mails and generally look to life outside of India.

“How far?” was our final question, “100m” came the reply and we were sold!

Touts do have their place in the world and can be a very useful commodity to someone newly arrived in a strange location. You are under no obligation to stay at the place they show you and some of the huts and rooms are so well hidden off the beaten track that without their guidance the tourist would possibly never find them. 

80m along the beach two shops stood either side of a narrow sandy path which in turn led to a gathering of beach huts raised off the ground on sturdy poles. Behind these lay a concrete block containing four spacious rooms, all neatly tiled, all with on-suite bathrooms and real running water!! A long covered and tiled terrace ran along the front of the rooms looking out onto the palm trees swaying above us.

“Good roof!” exclaimed our host, “Coconuts no problem!” he added grinning broadly.

We examined the rooms, nodded our approval and booked in for two nights with the option of more. We showered in hot sun-baked roof-tank water, still aware of our water impact and turning the shower off while we soaped up. We unpacked the bags and did our laundry, hanging the cleansed clothes along a washing line that ran the length of the terrace. We hung the hammock, wrote the journals and signed into the net of the W.W.Web to see if the rest of the world was still out there.

That afternoon as we explored our immediate surroundings a new plan began to form. Agonda beach, 6km north of Palolim, had been recommended by a fellow traveller while we were in Gokarna, Cola beach had also been mentioned.

For the price of 300 rupees, according to the girl in the internet office, a taxi could take us to both beaches, a taxi that would allow us to explore the area without our back packs, a taxi that would wait for our return and allow us to decide if we wanted to move on.

The plan sounded good and as we walked the entire length of the beach that evening in search of our supper the plan became firm.

Palolem beach is a tourist beach. In the Bourne Supremacy, our hero is seen running along the shore of an idyllic beach as waves lap the shore, what they didn't show you, from the opposite angle, are the wall to wall restaurants, beach huts, tourist shops and rope lights that curve their ways into the overhead palms. Palolem was busy when I came here in 2002, now the town fills the entire waterfront in a solid block of construction. Palm fronds still wave in the air, coconut still fall from time to time but roofs are now solid, restaurant floors are concrete, music systems intense, live music has that professional feel.

At the far end of the beach a long narrow bridge weaves its way partially up the rocks. At the beginning of the season a shallow stream flows beneath the bridge to the sea. Now it is dry, sand has filled the channel and the bridge looks out of place stretching out over the smooth flat sand of the beach.

At the end of the bridge steps lead at first upwards before plunging steeply down into a tiny cove. Beach huts of exquisite design are neatly spaced along the steep sides, two restaurants, one raised on poles that pushes it halfway up the cliff face, offer magnificent views across the sea onto the long stretch that is Palolem beach. A beach now lit by a myriad of coloured lights, silent from this distance and magical in the evening air.

We settled amongst the huge cushions, a low table just in front and pondered the magic of our adventures so far. Dinner no longer cost us the 400 rupees it had at Om Beach, even water had doubled in price but it was different, it was new and in a few days time we would leave once more.

The food arrived in stages, each dish cooked on one of the two tiny rings hidden in a screened off area deep below us. Smells wafted along the breeze making mouths water, bellies rumble as we waited patiently for supper to arrive.

I am sure I have possibly mentioned before, the time delay from ordering, to food appearance. One of the first things I learnt in India was to never wait until you were really hungry before finding somewhere to eat. It is different in the cities, there the service of wonderful steaming food is virtually instant but in the Beach front restaurants that spring up each summer, things are run on incredibly minimalistic facilities. It is quite a sobering thought to realise that so much can be produced on one or two rings and in no more that four pots!!

There is a true story told by a friend of mine who, many years ago, ordered a fish curry at some remote beach shack in the North of Goa. He settled down to wait as he was an experienced traveller and knew what to expect. He ordered a second beer and then a third as the clock slowly ticked away an hour. After an hour and a half he noticed the shack owner walking up the beach, rod in one hand, fish in the other. “Now we have fish” he beamed, “I make curry!” Matt ordered another beer and 20 minutes later ate one of the most amazing curries he has ever consumed.

Our food was just as delicious. It was served with beaming smiles and happy faces. The season is slowly coming to an end, soon these people will be packing up and heading back to their homes as the rains lash the Goan shores yet their enthusiasm, their happiness seems to last until the very end.

Full and content we slowly meandered back to our rooms, enjoying the cool evening air. We walked past the restaurants with their music turned down in accordance to the 11pm curfew and entered the silence of our rooms. We slept well, we slept deep and no coconuts fell on the good roof!!

(Sorry about the lack of photos – I have no idea why I didn't take any lol!!)

Shiva

A Day with Shiva

It took us a day to recover from our huge overland excursion to Udupi but true to our word as soon as we were suitably recovered we headed back to the bus stop to find the majestic statue that had been spied from the train.

The men at the bus stop knew exactly where we were going, even if we were still unsure and amid much arm waving the correct bus was located. We climbed aboard and headed for the very front seat.

We have discovered, mainly through trial and error, that the comfiest place on an Indian bus is as near to the driver as you can get!

During our many trips we have noticed a common theme amongst the various drivers. They seems to value their own comfort over or around the bumps and holes, much more than they value the rest of bus.

Once the front wheels have been eased over a speed bump with a sort of reverence, the driver is inclined to throw his full weight onto the accelerator to positively hurtle the back wheels into airborne supremacy !

The road travelled was familiar as we had followed the same route to go to Udupi without realising Shiva had been along our path.

An hour later we were set down by a large golden arch that straddled a sandy tarmac road stretching into the distance. “2k that way” our helpful bus man informed us as he and the rest of the bus sped off in a cloud of dust.

We drank the last of the water, put our hats firmly on our heads, shouldered the small bag and camera and headed off along the dusty sun scorched road.

School children walked past nodding politely, they briefly practised their English, giggled loudly and walked on. Faces in the tiny stalls peered out as we strode along, vehicles hooted their horns as they rushed past, yet the many cows that crossed our path barely acknowledged us as they ambled on their way.

We reached the edge of a small town, souvenir shops and cafés becoming more prominent than the homes and school we had passed so far.

In the middle of town, lying to one side of the road, lay a beautifully decorated temple tank, its waters full of life and crystal clear.



Dragon flys hovered above the silent waters.

Terrapins swum in the shallows, diving deep to hide amongst the weeds each time some of the huge fish circled past in their patrolling packs.

Valuable fluids, lost during the walk through the mid day heat, were replemished in one of the side street restaurants.


The breeze swept shade appreciated nearly as much as the cold stone floor of the café terrace which calmed the burning hot soles of our flip-flops.

Toes were eased out of dust covered shoes and stretched on the cooling marble base of the table, ice cold liquids and even colder ice-cream were slid down dry dusty throats.

Revived we continued our search for the statue.

Two more corners and the sight we had been awaiting opened up before us. Flanked on either side by long sweeping beaches stood a temple entrance tower of magnificent proportions. Twenty stories reached up into the clear blue sky, each level decorated with finely carved life size statues, each one different, each one with a story of its own.

Coach loads of Indian tourists were deposited in the large parking area to the right as eager as us to pay homage to this magnificent place. Behind the tower a hill rose to give an elevated view over the town and beaches, green grass and flowered borders flowed down from decorated walls and sculptures.

Removing our shoes in the outer courtyard, we raced across the hot floor to the coolness of the tunnel running through the entrance tower. Feet were washed in foot 'sinks', the cold running water washing away not only the dust but the heat of the day. Wet footprints, shimering on the marble floor, evaporated rapidly in the mid day sun as we walked with the others into the inner courtyard.

Gold decorations filled the sky-line, horns blew while three drummers hit out a beat totally unrecognisable to my ear, repeating it over and over again until a sort of rhythm could be found.

We looked up beyond the tall domes of the temple to the hill, we looked past the walls and flowers to the huge statue seated atop the large mound.

 There sat Shiva, blue and gold, ablaze in the sun.

We walked the floors of the temple, walking quickly over the sun heated tiles in our bare feet, lingering longer in the cool shade than was strictly necessary.

We entered the inner sanctum, paid our respects and returned to the courtyard to look once more at the imposing tower.

Reclaiming our foot ware, that was now baked as hot as the floor, we walked on heading for the mound.

One hundred steps led up a steep staircase to the top, one hundred steps of highly polished black heat absorbing tiles.

Our shoes were once more removed and added to the pile at the base of the steps before we raced up the edge of the stairs, trying to keep to the 1 inch of shadow caused by the wall as best we could. Indian people bounced past us with “ouch” and “oh”s of their own.

By the time we reached the top all sensitivities from the soles of our feet had been burnt away, a painful tingling and partial numbness replacing the usual feeling of floor texture and comfort.

The smooth black blistering tiles were replaced with a pathway of roughened concrete at the very top, allowing one to walk around the back of the imposing statue and gazed out across the Arabian sea.

A cooling breeze blew inland as we stood in the tiny bit of floor shadow caused by the surrounding wall looking out at the horizon and at the vast empty beaches.

Although there are no signs preventing swimming, no body was in the sea. Two or three boats bobbed in the shallows offering rides along the coast, a dozen fishing vessels were pulled up onto the shore, their nets neatly piled under sheets of blowing tarpaulin.

 Small tourist oriented stalls were scattered around the sandy entrance to the beach selling plastic buckets, bright European shorts and T-shirts, inflatable rings and sea-side hats, in the same styles we find back home.

Under Shiva's right knee lies a doorway beside a tiny kiosk, a sign declares that 10 rupees, 5 for a child, allows access. Handing over our money to a uniformed man, we entered the cold inside of the rock cave. Like the tunnelled fairground rides of old, large brightly decorated scenes were painted and carved into the walls telling the story of …. well to be honest I do not know exactly, but it did involve a huge giant of a man, a small boy, a dwarf, a crying woman and some very beautiful back drops of sun sets and mountains.

We gazed and wondered, we made up stories of our own, we completed the circular circuit that wound its way slightly down wards inside the cave and departed through a second door into the blistering heat of the day.

Our journey to the statue had involved one bus ride of approximately one hour duration and a 2k walk. Our journey home started with a 1k walk before a small mini bus hailed us calling “Gokarna Gokarna!”.

Thinking our luck was in we climbed aboard and handed over our 90 rupees marvelling how cheep the fare was.

Our little bus raced along the road overtaking cars and people only to pull rapidly to a halt in front of them to pick up more customers.

People got on, others got off, all smiled, some chatted as we settled into the ride.

Suddenly we pulled into a large bus terminal where we were instructed to take our bags to another slightly larger bus. “This bus end here” our smiling host informed us.

We paid our 80 rupees to go as far as the next main bus stop where another bus awaited in the busy terminal to take us to Gokarna for 100 rupees

The resulting three hours of changing buses, waiting and travelling, on top of our blistering heat walk to the statue, had left its mark upon us once more.

We climbed wearily into a rickshaw to take us on the final leg to our home.

We gratefully climbed down the 128 steps to soak our dust covered feet in the cooling salt water lapping within the bay before working our way slowly along the beach to be greeted by our dogs.

We have now been here 12 days, we should be moving on. Instead of making plans we ordered lemon sodas as the sun set and booked ourselves in for anther two days.

Two more days won't hurt!