FIREWORKS...

TODAY'S SOUNDTRACK - A nationwide hangover and Where The Streets Have No Name (Live in Mexico City) by U2.

...in the sky and on the streets and, alas, from the backside.  But more on that later.  Bet you can't wait...

     I had a brief consultation with Dr Oliver Noronha about my back on Monday.  We talked about the pain, its location, severity, etc.  He then gave me a tube filled with tiny little pills, covered in some liquid to shove under my tongue, five at a time, hourly.  As I limped away, two hundred Rupees worse off, but feeling better for having seen him, I noticed that he's not the osteopath I took him to be, but a homeopath.  He might as well have given me mints soaked in water, which I suspect, in fact, that's exactly what the pills were.  Still, I must admit that I did feel better about an hour later.  A thousand milligrams of paracetamol and eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen.  Mind you, things have been improving over the days and I'm now back to my year long, regular and constant low level throbbing. 

     After visiting the doctor - and then the fucking pharmacy - I made it to Pedro's, where those two stoned fuck faces were involved in a long and detailed discussion about soap.  SOAP!  I had to leave - the chemicals hadn't kicked in yet and the pain was making me feel nauseous - it was the most stoned conversation I've ever been party to and I can understand why people always walk away from me after I've had a smoke and I'm trying to impart some vital information to them.  About my fucking shoes, probably, or the virtues of all seating stadiums.

     We've moved flats and we've even got Sky TV in it, which would have been appreciated the afternoon I was in the apartment doing nothing, feeling grumpy and sorry for myself.  This new apartment has a bath, a better kitchen, better furniture, better balcony, better view, one less bedroom.  Gaz is now on a mattress on the living room floor, but he can't complain to me because I offered him the bedroom.

     Now to the fireworks - yes, the perennial joy of travel to India, the wild shites.  I watched Titanic the night before and can't help but wonder if there's some kind of correlation there..?  Never mind.  I went to use the toilet this morning and Gaz was curled up on the floor - both ends, apparently, poor bastard.  The other fireworks we've seen were being let off last night after India beat Pakistan in the cricket world cup semi final.  Cars drove around last night, beeping their fucking horns until all hours.  It was like being in Rome after Italy won the football world cup.  God only knows what it's going to be like on Saturday should they win.  A billion people with a hangover...

     Once again, the changes in Calangute are bothering me.  Your friends and mine, the leathery Brits, are a problem.   They lie there on their sun loungers, slowly cooking, waving their empty bottles or glasses in the direction of the beach shacks staffs, trying to get their attention and more drinks carried over.  I watched this yesterday - some old cunt was waving her empty Kingfisher bottle for at least two minutes before one of Pedro's Boys noticed.  I wanted to go over there and wring her scrawny neck and tell her to go and get it her fucking self.  I know how incredibly judgemental I'm being, but I can't help it.  Anyway, it's my blog, so I'll write what I like, okay?  Also, the amount of speedboats dragging groups of people around on inflatables, paraglideers, etc, jet skis and what have you make it hard to fully relax in the water because you're constantly in fear of getting clocked in the head by one of the things, a la Kirsty MacColl.  And the stink of diesel's not very attractive, either.

     So it was, then, that we went to The Mango Tree in Vagator yesterday afternoon.  Ah, that's better...  All the way to Vagator, wherever there was a TV, it had a crowd around it.  As I mentioned about Saturday, I can only imagine things are going to be even quieter.  Getting a taxi anywhere may well prove impossible because no one's going to want to miss the final.  Vagator is so quiet, at least in comparison to Candolim/Calangute that you could be in another part of the world rather than just ten miles up the coast.  Less traffic, more cows, the vibe is just so much more relaxed that I issued a rebuke to myself for being a cheapskate and booking us a flat in Candolim because it was cheaper.  A few beers and then we walked to Chapora, a beautiful little fishing village a short walk away.

     In Chapora, we saw, but didn't speak to - fuck that - the self-appointed Guardian of the Hippies who forced himself upon me, Dad and Jacob last year in The Mango Tree.  A Londonder, he goes around Chapora and its environs, looking for and picking up tourists/travellers who've managed to get themselves in trouble in whatever way they've managed.  Last year, however, had been rather quiet, for, as he put it himself, "I've 'ad a broken arm, a coupla sprained wrists an' two Ketamine cunts!"  I couldn't bear the thought of another conversation with this fucker, so I instead marvelled at his continued existence and we went down to the jetty. 

     All afternoon, you can watch the small fishing boats from Vagator beach, going round the headland towards the jetty.  The boats are small and prettily coloured, but also worn and battered looking - these are working boats and the work is hard.  There are boats up on stilts, some still sea worthy, others clearly derelict, but most likely cannibalised and you get the feeling that nothing will be thrown away until it can be certain that there is no further use for it.  All the boats, fully operational or otherwise are beautiful - Dad mentioned something about beauty of dereliction and he certainly had something there, I'd say (I ought to get some more photos up, eh?)  The boats are all emptied of their catches and those not anchored are immediately refuelled, perhaps restaffed and head straight back out to sea.  There is an instant market on the jetty where the catch is transferred to buckets, tubs, whatever receptacle is to hand, and covered in ice which is transported there in the back of a medium sized red van.  It was probably a little slower than usual yesterday, though - the TV was on in the office and a large crowd was gathered outside it.  But everyone down there seemed to be working - unloading or reloading the boats, lugging the catch, rolling barrels of fuel down the jetty, shovelling ice, making sales, buying fish, haggling.  But it's all done relatively quietly, unlike, say, Anjuna Flea Market which we gave a wide berth yesterday.  Been before, thank you. 

     We ate in Vagator, hot, grilled Kingfish and cold, chilled Kingfisher.  Divine.  Then India won the match and all Hell broke loose, but in a good way.  Fireworks, yelling, celebratory lunatics pissed up on their Enfields...  A happy bedlam, I think.  Roll on Saturday.

     And then I woke up this morning with Gaz on my bathroom floor in a pose reminiscent of eleven years ago.  You've gotta have constants in life...

SOME PICS

POWDER AND PAIN...

TODAY'S SOUNDTRACK - The yelling pain from my lower back, dangerous amounts of traffic and "Love Rears Its Ugly Head" by Living Colour.

     Well, Gaz and I ended up in Tito's on Friday night.  Actually, that's not strictly true.  Tito's and Mambo's have gone all Tenerife and are, respectively, demanding a HUGE entrance fee and couples only.  Fuck's sake.  Tito's has armed security which kind of lessens the hippy vibe somewhat.  There may have been another reason they didn't want our sort in there - all three of us got 'Holi'd' up near Babute's on the main road.  We were walking to Nirvana for dinner - which was perfect as always - when we heard the shouting of drumming, so we went over for a look.  The first geezer to clock us came over with a handful of red powder.  We thought we were going to have our foreheads discreetly marked, but no.  Those fuckers rubbed handfuls on our heads, taking turns to twat each of us.  Still, we did look pretty, faces red, green, a bit bluish.  Felt a little uncomfortable when it started landing on my food, mind you...  All we heard for the rest of the night from locals was, "Nice colours!  Happy Holi!"  Yeah, nice one - who's gonna get my Withnail t-shirt back to what it was, eh?

     So after sacking off Tito's and Mambo's, we ended up in Cape Town Bar (I think), which had free entry and a definite lack of self importance.  Danced like twats for several hours, eventualy getting in at about hald four, which is quite impressive for an old cunt like me these days.  I was up for staying out longer, but Gaz went all rubbish and insisted on leaving.  Wuss.

     We were woken at half eleven by a bloke banging on the door to fix the French Door which fell out on to the patio the previous evening while Gaz and I were out and Dad was sleeping.  I'd been informed on the phone that the door fixer would be along first thing.  Guess they start later in these here parts...  But never mind - down to Pedro's for breakfast/lunch.

     A couple of interesting things about visiting Pedro's this time - the greeting of recognition is always great, as were the inquiries about the kids, but why do Pedro and Cyril, his right hand man, as it were, have it in their heads that my name is Richard?  Gaz maintains that it's because I look like a dick - everyone's a fuckinig comedian...  An afternoon down the beach, then, eating great food, drinking cold beer, swimming in the warm ocean and enjoying a generally convival atmosphere.  Alas, something always has to come alonbg to spoil one's perfect mood.  In this case, we needed to be spared two things.  It may well be some horrifically ageist and sexist instinct (in which case, I can't help it) within me, but please, please, please pass a law banning the wearing of bikinis by the over sixties.  And then make sure that if they have to wear them, then they keep them on.  Jesus, I know that no one's going to sculpt statues or paint portraits of me as a perfect physical specimen, but for fuck's sake, put your leathery, wizened, mahogany coloured tits away, i beg of you.  May never get hard again...

     Actually, spare me three things - middle aged men in G-strings.  What's that all about?  Does your arse need tanning that much?  This bastard - must be Scandanavian; they always seem to be - was also kind enough to bend over as I was staring at him in fascinated abhorrence.  He's also got some kind of stupid skull cap he wears, a silly little pointless pony tail (and a thinning patch on the top of his head, thank you very much) and a wanky little pencil moustache hugging his upper lip.  Through no real fault of his own - apart from all of his above actions, of course - this complete stranger who has done absolutely nothing to me, has provoked an instant, intense and irrational loathing.  He's clearly also provoked alliteration.

     It's just all gone a bit Benidorm, at least in Calangute which, I know, is not representing of Goa as a whole.  It's all Brits with skin the colour wooden furniture, guts the size of sheds, elderly Yorkshire accents, if they're not Russian, that is.  It just feels as though something's been lost, somehow.  Where are the groups of young people (careful, Conrad, you're showing your age), looking for the parties, off their skulls on every single thing they can lay their hands on, sleeping around willy nilly?  I'll be honest, it may be the last part I miss most.  Is it progress?  We could almost be in Aiya fucking Napa or something, and that really hurts.  Nothing stays the same, I know - how can it? - but it feels as though someone's stolen this place from me.  And I want it back.  Also, there are lots more Indian holidaymakers here, especially at weekends, as if they've now discovered what a Hell of a place they have.  Perhaps that's down to a new youthful affluence, I don't know.  I'm not knocking the Indian tourists, you understand, just making an observation.  Sorry to say it, though, but Goa has changed and I'm not convinced that it's for the better.  It's hard to define, this feeling, but it can most certainly be felt.  Once people start telling their friends about this great place they've been to, wherever in the world that might be, then it stands to reason that more and more people are going to go there - Palolem in southern Goa is a prime example of this.  What was once a beautifully tranquil beach is now just the same as everywhere else and that is a genuine shame.

     Mind you, Newton's Supermarket in Calangute must have the most beautiful work force on the planet.  Blimey, Charlie.  When you're in a place where Freida Pinto wouldn't stand out, you know you're in the right place.

     I was also lucky enough to see a dirty great big punch up on the beach yesterday.  I was walking past a group of Indian lads (all wearing Goa t-shirts, clearly tourists) when a life guard ran up to them.  He put the stuff he was carrying on the sand a launched a haymaker at one of these lads, and there was about ten of them.  Next thing, it all kicks right off.  Other life guards came out of nowhere - for all I know, they came out from the sand, because they just appeared, like that - and began to wade in, swinging their floats about, feet and fists flailing around everywhere and everyone was shouting.  Eventually, two life guard jeeps came tearing down the beach to try and sort it out.  When I left them to it, it was far from over, but the thrilling violence had come to an end and I couldn't be bothered to listen to an argument I couldn't understand.  Would have been interesting to know what triggered it all off, though...

     And now, yes, my back has gone on me.  I had to leave Gaz and Dad early last night because of the pain and I had a dreradful night - pain and terrifyingly bad dreams.  I may go down to see Oliver at The Kismat later, because this just won't do.  I've taken fuck knows how many pain pills and I'm curtailing this.  There's barely even been a mention of the dancing Hippy at the night market with his smugly ethereal expression who was only missing a set of finger fucking cymbals.

     Anyway, boo ya! 

WELL, NOW...

TODAY"S SOUNDTRACK - The incomprehensible babble of 26 million people, men gobbing on the train, Goan traffic and tranquility and 'Bohemian Rhapsody' - Bad News' version.

     Things started rather creepily on this jaunt, alas.  The bus driver from Thornhill to Gatwick had the silky smooth voice of a phone pervert.  It was rather unsettling.  When he announced, on the bus's PA system, that we had arrived at Gatwick's North Terminal, all I heard was, "What are you wearing?  Yes, I know it's three in the morning."  Jesus.

     Airline departure lounges are places that are not places, they exist nowhere.  For the purposes of transit travellers, they're not part of the country they're in.  They're like some kind of passenger purgatory, a purgatory where proprietors are free to charge whatever they want for their goods because they know you're trapped until some Divine provenance sets you free.  EIGHT QUID for a ham and cheese sandwich?  Are you insane?  You're out of your fucking mind, you.  I'll wait for the airline food.  When airline food is a preferrable option, you know that the world's been stuck on its head.

     Dubai aiport is a prime example of this and, as such, is not even worth this sentence.  I've even had to back twice to correct typing errors.  Three times.

     Ah, Mumbai...  Christ, what a Hell hole.  The traffic seems to follow the nature of those contributing to it; ie, humans.  It weaves in and out of lanes, nearly bumping into other cars, blindsiding motorcyclists, dispalying an utter refusal to illuminate headlights, as though the cars were pedestrians, walking on a pavement in a huge rush to be somewhere.  There are cranes and building sites all over the shop and the entire city pulses with strangely - considering the state of the roads - sluggish life that is, at the same time, flying off at a million miles an hour.  The taxi ride from the airport to the train station seemed to have two purposes; one, to actually get us to where we wanted to go and, two, to wreak havoc upon our nervous systems via the twin forms of sweat and pure, adrenalin squirting terror.

     Mumbai CSTM train station has an absolutely beautiful exterior and is, in fact a World Heritage site.  One can still see the British influence on the architecture.  It is also, however, one example in a city chock full of architectural grace.  And dogshit, toxic exhaust fumes, beggars and at least one McDonald's.  C' cest la vie.  Inside the station, mind you, is unbelievable.  It throbs. People run through as though, well, as though they're late for a train.  Over a million people pass through this station every day and after spending an hour there, one only wonders that it isn't more.  If you're trying to locate someone, say an errant Gary Hopkins, you've absolutely no fucking chance.  Blind luck - and an extremely dodgy taxi driver - led to us bumping into each other outide the station.

     The same dodgy taxi cunt took us to the Gate of India in Coloba.  Well, actually, that's not strictly true.  After manhandling us into his taxi, he proceeded to drive through the worst traffic in the world, looking over his shoulder and shouting at me.  He kept yelling about how dangerous Mumbai is and that anyone who tries to sell you dope is going to shop you to the coppers once they've got your cash.  Then, of fucking course, he tried to sell us a load of dope.  "You can trust me, I won't go to the police, man.  I'm cool."  Yeah, right you are, you sneaky cunt.  Wanker also charged us 150 Rupees to not take us to the Gate of India, but to Leopold's cafe, where he undoubtedly got a kick back to drop us off.  He had a word with a bloke as soon as he pulled up and then this twat tried to sell us weed and charlie because, as she said to me, "I know you like it, man, I can tell by your nose."  I know it's rather big, but what the fuck?

     The Leopold was subject to the Pakistani commando attack a couple of years back and wears the bullet holes in its walls like some kind of badge of honour.  I don't think being attacked by wankers who want to kill people minding their own business entitles a bar to charge what they do, though.  They also do so with a greatly inflated sense of self importance.  That may sound stupid, but next time you're in the area, pay a visit and tell me that I'm wrong.

     We got on the train and God bless Valium and Bagpiper whiskey, is all I can say.  Out like a light within two minutes of lying down.  I was woken at quarter to six, however, by a teenage Indian boy throwing an empty Thums Up (sic) bottle at me on my top bunk.  I was even more annoyed when I realised that the empty bottle used to be mine and used to be full; at least, it was when the chemicals took over and knocked me out.  I don't know how good his English was, but he certainly seemed to get the jist of, "Robbing, thieving rob dog cunt sack."  Ah, yes, the UN weeps and mourns the day I turned down their job offer...  Apparently, Bagpiper is, according to the bottle I quaffed, at least, the world's number one selling whiskey.  Well, by Christ, it's certainly not the nicest, I can tell you that. 

     The noise of the train, all constant hawking and spitting, the chatting, the yelling, the movement and shrieking of the train itself - none of this is condusive to a good night's sleep and I was in a foul, foul temper until about ten minutes ago.  A bully boy transvestite was strolling up and down the train this morning, going up to be people and clapping his/her hands in people's faces, demanding money with strangely sexual menaces, merely, it seems, for the virtue of his/her existence at all.  Most odd.  I got disturbingly aroused and was going to sort myself out, but, good God Almighty, those toilets...  Imagine your worst nightmare.  Then imagine that, somehow, your Mum's in it, fudding herself, screaming your best friend's name over and over.  Then double that feeling - hello, Indian train toilet!   Dad actually had to use the toilet, y' know, for number two purposes, the poor bastard.  He chose the 'Western Style' bog, which, instead of a hole in the floor of the carriage, is a toilet bowl over a hole in the floor of the carriage.  Nice.  He found footprints on the seat.  I guess the principles of a sit down shitter need explaining to some people...

     And then, somehow, we were in Candolim, getting the key for our apartment and then having a beer in Pedro's, nearly drowning in the rather vicious current of the Arabian Ocean.

     So - what have you done today?