Holy fuck it’s hot.
I’m walking to the bus station in Goa - I’ve read I can get a local bus direct to Gokarna. There’s a couple a day. Should be no issues. It’s only a "20-minute" walk to the station but by the time I reach the station I’m dripping. I’ve taken to slinging a lot of things over my shoulders. All that "stuff" I was subtly commenting on (aka slagging off) at the beginning of my trip? Yeah I’ve bought it all. I’m funky shirts galore. More books to replace the books that I’ve already sent home because I had too many books. So many bracelets I no longer need to worry about sun burn on my arms. It’s all weighing me down like an anchor of tat. Scarves, ponchos and hats that I bought because I was too cold are now unthinkable items in this heat, being lugged around from beach to beach in 35 degrees. When I arrive at the bus station I drink 1.5 litres of water without taking my mouth from the bottle. Not a drop is spilled.
I arrive an hour or so early… sensible! It gives me opportunity to assess the situation. Buses are coming in quick succession and they all seem to be leaving to their destination bang on the timetable. But I was silly to feel confident, because 45 minutes after my bus was due to depart I’m still stood there. By this time there are three of us waiting. All tourists and no Indians. You can sense something isn’t as it should be. I meet Lars - an 18 year old guy from Norway who’s come to India alone just after finishing his college schooling. The mad bastard. He’s only here to "see what’s going on" before ultimately heading to Nepal to hike. There’s also a middle aged Russian guy who looks like he was supposed be in Benidorm but has taken the wrong flight. Panama shorts, checkered shirt and a white netted trilby hat. He speaks no English but I get the impression he has put his faith in me to find out what’s going on.
After scouting out the station I find a wee ticket window, which I completely missed earlier in my sweaty fuss.
"EXCUSEEE ME. There’s a ducking queue here!!!" comes a cockney accent. I’ll leave autocorrect in for this one. I could tell from the right off that whoever said this was pissed off. I turned around to see another middle aged guy standing there almost foaming at the mouth. To be honest, I want to tell him to go fuck himself and give him an onslaught of over the top, completely unnecessary, and massively exaggerated verbal abuse… because one person standing around like a morbid melon doesn’t mean a queue. This is India. You don’t push in you don’t get anywhere…But I don’t do that. I’m being calm. It’s not his fault he’s being a salty banker (damn autocorrect).
"Sorry mate. You can go ahead, I didn’t know you was waiting… but you should know that’s the rudest anyone has spoken to me in a long time".. Ahhh the sweet taste of the high ground.
…
"Gokarna?" I ask the guy behind the ticket window, eventually. He just looks at me confused.
"No……" he replies. The silence afterwards is awkwardly long.
"No… what?" I eventually ask.
"Not today… Get that bus instead" he answers so calmly… no rush… pointing at another bus in the depot, which has already started its slow roll to leave.
I turn around baffled. I know this bus doesn’t go to Gorkarna but regardless I find myself legging it back to my bags and shouting to Lars and Russian to GET ON THIS BUSSSSS!
What then ensured was a fun and random day of bus hopping down the coast. Not necessarily as the crow flies but we make it eventually. Every single one is packed to the rafters. At one point I’m sat on the dash board with the hot wind blowing through a hole in the front windshield, soothing the back of my neck. At junctions, I have to keep swinging forward and holding to a safety bar so the driver can see in the left wing mirror. I just keep wondering if the other larger cracks in the windshield will cause it to shatter. On another bus I was sat at the back, right over the wheels. Another lethal spot. As the bus hits a big pot hole I’m flung up off my seat about a foot and crack the top of my head on the supports above. You might say, "put your seat belt on Ryan, you sausage"…. but there aren’t any!
The day reminded me of a time when I use to hitchhike a lot. You don’t know when you’re gonna get picked up. You don’t know where the next destination will be. But any sort of moving away from where you’re waiting feels like a win. I’ve waited for hours and hours for lifts in the past. It can be a lonely and exhausting experience. Wondering why you didn’t just get a bus or train or plane. But the moment that car or lorry pulls over and the window comes down… you’re on your way… you’re mooooving again all from the good will of the people. All that anguish and doubt about what you’re doing and why you’re doing it washes away and is replaced by excitement for the next stop.
The bus rides to Gokarna were beautiful. Criss crossing through these tropical landscapes. Roads through dense forest and over barren hills. Skirting over rivers with the coast on the horizon. All blue skies above and bumpy roads ahead. Rice fields and palm trees. Always being told "Gorkana… yes, this bus" only to get on it then be told "Gorkana… no, next bus". But really, who cares? Not me. Not Lars. Probably not the police who stopped the bus at the border to check for alcohol smuggling (it’s a lot cheaper in Goa that most places).
Gokarna… what’s it like?
If you’ve read my previous blogs… it’s got a bit of the calm spirituality of Rishikesh, the tropical atmosphere of Goa, and the rough round the edges, not-completely-destroyed-by-tourism feel of Bundi - though I assume some people would dispute this as any ‘non-pilgrimage’ tourism goes against the history. ‘Like Goa before the hippies arrived’ is another common description. It’s a place of pilgrimage, mainly dedicated to the worship of Shiva, and with this comes all sort of interesting sights.
Some time on my first evening in I’m stood alone on the communal balcony at the hostel. The hostel is on the top of a cliff and the view from this balcony overlooks the main beach. It’s thin and spans long… as far as the eye can see… at some point it meets more hills and cliffs on the horizon. As the sea tide comes in it forms a crescent in to the beach. The rest of the view is sea to the left and made up of dense palm trees to the right. You’d be forgiven for thinking it’s a non-inhabited jungle. But within all those trees you’ll find 20,000 people living there in a mixture of simple shacks and colourful beach villas.
I’m in a lonesome daydream… lost and subdued by the views… but the hallucination is broken by a familiar voice. Not too familiar, but one I’ve definitely heard before. I turn excitedly but I’m still not confident of the voice. My eyes taken time to adjust to the change of light but when they focus I see Prabhu staring back at me… holding the same confused face. He is someone I met in Udaipur - I think he actually recommended this exact hostel. After Udaipur he went back home to Chennai but is now on a road trip all around the coast of India to eventually make it back to Udaipur for Holi in about six weeks time.
After the laziness of the last few days of Goa I felt like I needed to move my body and planned a big walk for my first full day in Gokarna but fuck! I was so done in. I set off and felt tired from the off. I started to get heart burn and felt a headache coming on. I’d woken up with a cheeky little cold sore. I know these signs, I need rest so back to the hostel I went. It was here that I emailed work to extend my sabbatical. I was about half way through the trip… six weeks in… six weeks left, but I knew it wasn’t going to be enough. To be honest, I don’t know if the extra 3 month extension is really enough but it’s going to have to do, eh.
The day after feeling well rested I set off again for the big walk. A gang of travellers from the hostel were hiring scooters to ride out to Murdeshwar to see one of the world’s largest Shiva statues, but I didn’t fancy it. I wanted to stay away from the tourist sites for a bit. I looked at it on the internet - that’ll do for the mood I was in. I wanted to walk the streets of Gokarna and see people living their lives, not look at another monument. I’d seen on a map a community built suspension bridge about 10km away so that became the overall destination, but the real point of the day was the journey there and back.
First I wandered around the village to find the most looking non-touristy restaurant I could find and parked myself there for an hour to try as much new food as I could fit in my belly! Most people come and go as quickly as possible - a perfect place to sit people watching. I tried an uttapam for the first time, which is like an onion omelette made with rice flour that’s fermented so it ends up a bit 'bready’ and it’s served with spicy green peas. Delicious. And then instinctively I get the thali to try a range of the local gravies. And of course, chai and lassi.
On my way out of the village, I stumbled past a fish market; 20 to 30 women all sat down at the side of the road on upturned plastic crates. Surrounded by colourful round buckets… About double the size of your average UK washing bucket. Each bucket was filled with different types of fish that the fisherman had caught this morning, most still covered in sand, flies and dirt but fresh as you’re gonna get on solid ground - although some looked a little older, a little worse for wear… these get fed to the loiter cats. I don’t think I need to expand on the smell… Guys and girls rolled up on their scooters bargaining away before riding off with the days catch in a clear plastic bag dangling from the handlebars. While you might imagine the classic fish monger shouting over the tops of everyone the days prices, the sounds are a much more subsided affair. A conversational murmur without a single person shouting high above the rest. The loudest sounds you’ll hear are from the laughs of the fish sellers as they chat with each other when there are no buyers… or more so them laughing at me watching on from a short distance away, then waving fish in the air asking if I want to buy and telling me to come closer.
I learnt a good photography lesson here. Caught between watching the scenes and wanting to carry on with my walk I didn’t make time to start a proper conversation with anyone or to take good photos - walking away I said I’ll do it later on my way back… only when I returned the market had packed up for the day and there wasn’t a glimmer of a fish seller in sight. It made me think… sometimes just take photos and ask questions later! Still I took a photo of the empty scene as a memory.
Along the walk I kept seeing these really strong colourful pastel buildings that were so reminiscent of the Wes Anderson style that I ended up just looking for more.
I finally reached the bridge - which was so underwhelming I just had to giggle to myself… still, there was a really calm, peaceful and scenic view over the river and the fields I was enjoying. Until… I hear a motorbike engine echoing over the trees. Getting louder and louder. It’s coming down the trail where I’ve just seen Manchester United memorabilia, which set off its own combustion of thoughts. The bike appears from the trees. The rider goes full blast trying to make it up the ramp to the bridge but as he hits the ramp he loses balance, hits a post, stops still, looks at me confused, then like a cartoon in slow motion rolls back down and crashes at the bottom.
There’s a moment of me just standing there looking. That limbo zone in between witnessing something and realising you should probably help. When I get there I can smell nothing but whiskey and tobacco and he doesn’t seem too happy that a gora is helping him up. He motions for me to go away but I can’t help but to just stand back and hang around to watch him fumble about. He tries again to get up and I’m about to see it all happen again but my impatience and good will gets the better of me so I run over to him, grab the bike from behind to stabilise him and push! Shaking left to right still he’s knocking the bike in to neutral and is revving so hard but going nowhere. I’m now stuck behind him shouting “GEAR! GEAR! FUCKING GEAR!” whilst he’s still revving. Eventually his pissed mind figures out what’s wrong and he knocks it in to gear and shoots off leaving me to taste fumes and a burning clutch. Karma karma.
The way back I take the beach route. On the way I stumble through some private land and get attacked by another dog. It’s not wild but just protecting the propert. The ability walk away casually whilst a dog is growling and barking and foaming at the mouth whilst following you isn’t a skill I had in my India bingo card but I’ve managed it none the less. I saw a stick up ahead and went to get it but the clever bastard knew what I was doing, ran past me and stood in front of the stick. I think in the moment it actually laughed at me. I felt a bit like the scene from Jurassic Park when a raptor sneaks up… “Clever girl”.
Down at the beach I spent some time with the fisherman who were fixing their nets after the days catch. Most are from the local area but some have travelled from other parts of the state. They used to be farmers but said unpredictable weather had led them to search for wages elsewhere. They invite me to go fishing with them in the morning for a small ‘tourist insurance’ fee provided I give a hand rowing the boat - this is something I’d have loved to experience but I have a night bus to my next location.
In the evening I meet up with Prabhu on the cliff side watching the sunset. There’s a few other groups hanging around. One guy is sat on a rock, legs folded, can of larger in one hand, joint in the other, laptop on his lap, headset on. I hang with him for a bit as he goes in and out of calls giving solid IT advice. Taking a sip and a toke in between each one. Another call comes up on his laptop screen. He turns to me and is already giggling to himself about something before he says “watch this”. He answers the call… puts on the most Indian accent I’ve heard (his English was standard up to this point) “hellos good mornings sirs… yes yes I understand you perfectly my sir… my advices is… have you tried turning it on and off again?” and this point he mutes himself and joins me in a joyful laughter. It’s his own version of meeting buzzword bingo. He lets the joke sink in then get back on the microphone and then actually solves the problem far more diplomatically.
In the early hour of the morning waiting for the bus to leave Gokarna I’m thinking about the quick visit. How I’d managed to fit a lot a little things in and how I’d enjoyed being by myself, not doing typical tourist things. But scratch at this delight and underneath you’ll find an undercurrent of tiredness. This has been my 15th place in 6-7 weeks. The bus will drop me off in the morning to the 16th. One half of me feels like I need to stop somewhere for a longer time… 1 to 2 weeks to settle and zone out for a bit. The other is craving more dopamine. More experiences. A desire to finish 'the plan', which lasts for another month. It’s just as well that my next location is Hampi - a particular location that’s famous for people going there to do… nothing.
Too hot??? Time to return to UK😀the weather is perfect now