Panaji (Panjim), India

Not much to tell of Panjim other than it proved to be all that I hoped it would be.  Commentary on the City will be sparse I regret to say as my time was spent mainly ensconced in an air conditioned room, on a bed of clean sheets and under a solid ceiling with not even the whisper of a crack for a rat to slip through.  Perfection.

On my very brief wanders from the room I went all 'superior traveller' with a little bit of local patronage - lunch was a 30p 'mutton' (apparently goat in these parts) curry secured from the most dingy looking backstreet canteen I could find.  Eaten with chapati covered hands both flavour, experience and all too prevalent bone were enjoyed in equal measure (er, apart from the bone).  Returning to my room I lay down and began the uneasy wait that often succeeds an Indian meal to see if I had just made a serious error of judgement...

Raising my accommodation budget from 5 to 20 pounds a night (all that commuting had to be for something) I turned the TV on, turned up the A/C and turned down the [sort of] crisp [once] white sheets.  The desired outcome became the outcome and having smashed my previous Indian record of 15 minutes continuous sleep I awoke ready to resume the travelling lifestyle where luxury is blasphemous and comfort controversial.

Rucksack on back and rough directions in mind I emerged at 9am into the 30 degree heat of a South Indian morning.  Heading for the bus station which had seemed fairly innocuous (maybe 50 or so belching buses) on my arrival I began the process of trying to locate the bus that would take me part way to my next destination.

Deciding that where I had disembarked the day before may be a good place to embark the day after I began the following process (repeated circa 10 times):

'Margao?'
'Other side, over there.' A phrase combined with a point and a wave in a general 180 degree (sometimes more) direction.

Other side?  What other side? Over there?  Over where? Ah that other side!  Ah over there! My inquiries and repetitious following of pointing hands revealed that I had only previously glimpsed the scale of this particular bus station.  Stretching in all directions and with not a clear destination on the front of any bus in sight I asked again and again, triangulating the angles of suggested direction and zig-zagging between bus after bus.  A snail lost in a forest of human feet.  After about 20 minutes of such pantomime-like behaviour I found the bus I needed standing as an oasis in a desert of false hopes and wrong turns.  Simple.  And my what a bus - with the same number of passengers as seats this was travel of a most orderly nature.  The trip to Margao passed in restrained fashion - traffic jams and congestion inhibiting our speed and thus the worst excesses of the driver...

Margao obtained it was time to find the next bus - a far simpler process this time - as I sat and waited I stretched out over two seats surprised at how empty the bus was - I should have known.  The sign read '50 seated, 11 standing', I assume, with hindsight, that the driver couldn't read.  Stop after stop meant passenger after passenger joined the melee.  I gave up count post about 30 standing - the Central Line at rush hour is deserted by comparison.  Businessmen, families and the entire third grade of a reasonably sized district school stood shoulder to waist to shoulder to waist immersed in heat the like of which would be considered excessive for any self-respecting sauna.  Spending time equally between the left and right hand side of the road the liberal (read almost constant) use of the horn worked its magic once more as all in our path lost the game of 'chicken' our driver revelled in - an overladen bus with dubious brakes and, at times, a seemingly irresistible force of forward motion proving top trump against most other road users.  As we careered ever onwards the already tired suspension became overwhelmed and the bus lurched from side to side as our progress and speed made no allowance for corner or straight.  Acting as one the bus and its human cargo leaned from side to side in perfect resonance; with each extra mile of speed our collective lean gained an extra degree.  Never before I have regretted so much the choice of a window seat.  When the view from said window is invariably of tarmac or sky things are not as they should be...

After an hour which passed at great speed but with an interminable slowness we achieved our destination.  Like the nervous flier I stepped from the bus onto terra firma and thanked the lord of travel for keeping me safe once more...to the beach...

Anjuna, India

F*ck. India. F*ck. You know. Yeah. F*ck. India man. Totally.

I can't believe it - you know, I thought I got here the other day and it turns out it was over 7 years ago.  7 YEARS?! You know, 7 years man, wow.

This place does that to you though man - you know?  I remember rocking up here, I was just a confused kid. Part of the rat race, a nine 'til fiver, one of the many.  Rushing headfirst into the grave via 2.4 kids and a mortgage - proper scary stuff.  Not anymore though, not for me.  I'm changed, one of the few.  One of the lucky ones who stepped off the merry-go round.

I still remember the moment it clicked.  Like it was totally yesterday, clear as the beauty of this life is to me now.  I was sat on the beach one night all stressed out and as I lay back to look up at the skies it hit me man - you know?  That moment, that feeling.  I was a star, one of an infinite number, nothing but yet something, nothing but yet everything - you know?  Real deep stuff.  I ran back to my room and threw out everything I owned (except the stuff I might need).  That was such a turning point, casting off the shackles of my previous life in one fell swoop.  I felt so powerful, so pure - you know?

The time I have spent here will stay with me forever man - you know - so many memories.  I remember one night just lying in bed reading - I was being eaten alive by bed bugs but with each new bite I smiled.  I am part of this world and so are they. 

"Come eat my flesh" I said, "Let it nourish you, it is your flesh now". 

Never has the circle of life been so clear to me.  In the same room I had another experience that still makes me stop and go wow - you know? A rat fell through my ceiling at 4am in the morning - I awoke and said aloud:

"Hello Mr Rat.  Have you come to tell me stories of your world?"

I got out of bed, lay on the floor and looked into his eyes, deep into his eyes - you know? So deep - into his soul.  We communed man, me and that rat.  We didn't need words - it was deeper than that. He told me of his struggles, the need to feed his ever growing family, he told me of life without a home, moving constantly to find food and shelter.  I said I understood because I did.  I cried because I felt his pain.  I think in that moment I was closer to that rat than I ever have been to a human.

It is so peaceful here and so pure.  Humanity distilled you know? F*ck that's deep.  One day about 6 years ago I headed down to the beach, sat down and started making circles in the sand with my hands.  Just two circles in the sand - you know. No reason, just because.  It was the most pure thing I have ever done.  So simple.  Without realising it I became part of the universe; my arms making the circles, my heart beating, my breathing, the ebb and flow of the ocean all were in tune, all were one - you know?  Time became irrelevant as I made the circles, the beauty of the moment, the eternal symbolism took me ever deeper into the purest meditative state.  I wanted not for food, longed not for water.  As my hands began to bleed I cared not.  The moment was all consuming, I knew never again would I connect so completely with the world.  The circles I drew never ended never began.  My hands became numb but my soul came alive; it overflowed with the beauty of life.  The day I stopped I just sat there and looked at the world completely anew.  Everything was in sharp focus, the colours intensified, the sounds heightened-  my senses screamed as I struggled to comprehend all before me.  It was such a natural high - you know? Something in the universe spoke to me that day.  When I sat down it was 2004 when I stood up it was 2010.  6 YEARS MAN, 6 YEARS.  Wow.  I still get goosebumps.  The feeling hasn't yet returned to my left hand and I had to have three fingers on my right hand amputated due to infections but I care not for such trivialities for the memory of that moment conquers all.    

I have also met some people here that I have really connected.  People who you have known for a lifetime after only a minute - you know?   People you would do anything for - true bonds.  Luke is a  friend I will know until my dying day I have no doubts.  Pure of mind, body and soul he is a beacon of clarity in a sometimes blurry world.

Luke's dad was one of the first guys to head to Goa in the 60's. That's so cool to me.  A real founding father.  Someone who totally had to travel by train and bus - completely overland - to get here.  The difficulties of the journey paling against the promise, blanked by the siren call of the destination. Man those sound like good times.  Luke told me that although his dad set-up a multi-million dollar software company he still wears a bracelet of beads he made himself in Goa back in the day to keep him true to his roots.  That's spirit man, real soul.  He says the beads help keep the 'man' at bay and make him remember you don't need money to be happy..  I so respect that.  I can see Luke is definitely his father's son - he's so full on about being chilled out - you know? He is so dedicated to this life, to finding purity.  Although he has the money his dad has given him he refuses to touch it in case it taints the dream.  He says having nothing makes you closer to being something.  I think that's f*cking poetry man..  He totally lives by what he says.  He hasn't touched the trust fund in over a year and only lives off the interest.

F*ck man.  I need to get off this computer.  I can feel my soul being drained.  When you next see me don't call me Glenn, call me friend.

Mumbai, India

Mission: Mumbai

An 'Indian' season on channel 4?
My cousin wanting to go for a 'curry'?
The Times Travel magazine running an 'India' special?

To the untrained eye mere coincidences, a series or unrelated events meaning nothing and indicating even less.  To the covert field operative: a cleverly relayed message, a set of instructions to be followed and a clarion call to arms.

Best not to question how the powers that be manage to pull the required strings to 'make contact' but time and again they do and every time I know I work for the best.

As seems to be the way with these things the administrative duties fell to me to undertake.  Flights needing to be booked, visas applied for and injections suffered.  Bond may have had Miss Moneypenny but that was the movies and in the age of 'decentralised intelligence' (a personal moniker but one I am sure would be approved) it is evidently felt preferable to keep things spread out to diffuse any scrutiny.  Very wise and really quite brilliant.

And thus off to Heathrow.  A blacked-out Mercedes? An ever ready Aston?  That would be the movies again.  Nondescript is the game in reality, blend in, don't stand out.  No flashes of authority or need to reference a higher mission as the man at the coach office took 20 minutes to do the work of 5.  'The incompetence of others reflects the efficiency of self' is a personal mantra.  Basking in the anonymity I had so carefully prepared I felt sure my trail was cold and that those following me, walking beside me or dallying in front of  were merely going about their daily business, even if that business had them boarding flight BA199 to Mumbai.  A glance stolen here and there, a surreptitious sideways look taken in the blink of an eye confirmed my suspicions of the innocence of my fellow passengers.  'Complaceny costs', another little phrase I really have to pass up the chain.

A mere 8 and a half hours later we touched down onto Indian soil.  To anyone taking the time to notice (I felt sure there would be some) I looked the archetypal traveller (well, within reason) - all set for a sojourn around the subcontinent.  Though I lacked the seemingly mandatory dreadlocks that my research had unearthed formed a ritualistic headdress of the 'die-hard traveller' and yet to cloak myself from head to toe in 'cotton, anything as long as its cotton' I had at my disposal a plethora of well chosen phrases to fill out my new persona:

'I have come to find myself';
'India is just so spiritual man';
'I just want to be, you know?

Lacking sleep - the mind of a covert field operative rarely shuts down - I set my watch to local time and calibrated my senses to local life.  Shunning the diplomatic lane I knew I could use I instead queued with the mixed bag of natives, holiday makers and backpackers.  Handing my passport to the officious looking official at the desk I held my breath slightly - ever my passport is a road map to the missions I have previously completed - but not a glimmer from his eye, not a curl of a lip.  He had been briefed of my impending arrival I realised.  Not a stone unturned, not a corner into which the light did not shine.  I could now see the logic of my being funneled into 'Immigration Lane 8' - far from the quickest at the time.  Smooth progress raises ruffled eyebrows.

Leaving the airport I wondered if a car would be there to meet but no.  Really most sensible.  Therefore with used rupees in hand and a prepaid ticket to ride in my possession I stepped forth into the stifling heat and awaited the next sign, the next way marker on my journey.  With barely time to take a breath a head devoid of hair and a mouth devoid of teeth hove into view - balanced atop a precarious bag of bone and sinew I could tell the driver was a man of wit and wile.  An experienced asset who would not hesitate to do what it took to complete his assignment and see his charge safely delivered.  The best was being afforded me.

Driving as fast as  the little cab would carry us we stopped only briefly to attend some admin or other - the message carried by the little girl who came to the window I could not decipher but meaning - 'money, chocolate, sweets' - had I'm sure.  Such delays were temporary only and in order, I'm quite convinced, to elude any potential tails we proceeded to cover the distance to the hotel in a hail of horns, barging between buses, paying no heed to motorcyclists and squeezing through gaps of which even Pythagoras would have doubts.  Shrouded by a 30+ degree heat haze and the noxious product of more internal combustion engines than Henry Ford ever dared dream possible this was acclimatisation on the fast track.

Arriving at my hotel I deemed it wise to lie low - body and soul sometimes need time to catch up and pursuers sometimes need time to lose touch.  A room out the back awaited me - not at my bidding but again I felt the unseen tentacles guiding my path.  Away from the street and thus prying eyes it provided basic if adequate surrounds in which to see out the time before my scheduled departure early the next day.

With the alarm set for 5am I packed my field gear into the two bags which would, I hoped, see me through every possible eventuality over the forthcoming months.  Packing the night before a basic technique of the covert field operative - minutes in the morning make the difference between safe passage and awkward questions.

Awaking from my doze I lingered not a moment.  Showered and dressed with a ruthless efficiency I made my way the short distance from the hotel to the train station.  Taking the back streets as a precaution and travelling by foot I skipped over the bodies of man, woman and child still stretched out in a pre-dawn slumber.  Keeping moving while trying to discern quite which platform my train departed from meant only four or five questions as to where I needed to go needing to be asked.  Swinging onto the train with only moments to spare I caught my reflection in the carriage mirror - harassed and hot - I looked like that which I aimed to be.  A traveller...

Onwards...

Lima, Peru

Lima, oh Lima.

The capital perhaps but to most, at most, an airport, one night’s stay and a place to pass through on the way to better things.

Not I though. Determined to see another side to this much maligned city I intended to spend a few days seeing the sights yes but also traipsing the back streets, seeking the edge and caressing the seething underbelly.

Deciding to stay in Barranco as opposed to the perennially more popular Miraflores I paid heed to the advice of the PS Guide to South America from which I expect royalties, or at least a passing mention, upon publication.

First impressions seemed positive too - a rare break in the fog - the so called donkey’s breath that encases the city in a damp grey slime for 8 months of the year meant I awoke to sunshine. Time to explore.

Stepping over the drunk who had fallen out of bed (or never quite made it into bed), tracing a wide arc around the rather pungent young man of undetermined origin and dodging in-between the dole queue types waiting for breakfast I emerged from my hostel/flophouse not 50m from Lima’s coast and began my wandering...

All sounds quite promising doesn’t it? Well no, not even close. I wanted to like Lima, I wanted to see the side that others don’t, I really did but I didn’t.

As the fog rolled in things slowly fell apart and thus I have compiled a top 5 mustn’t do’s for anyone visiting Lima:

1 - Spend time in Miraflores. Too busy, too noisy. I have to agree the quiet streets and aging architecture of Barranco are infinitely preferable.

2 - Eat at a restaurant in Barranco on the main square recommended by the Lonely Planet (I should have known better). I won’t go into details but you can keep your Atkins, leave the GI book on the shelf for losing weight has never been so rapid.

3 - Expect to see the sun for more than half a day. Even hoping for half a day displays a misplaced optimism.

4 - Take a taxi at rush hour. The first corner in a grand prix is an orderly procession by comparison.

5 - Go into a rather lovely boutique in Barranco and by one item of clothing you love and one you despise. 1 in 2 just isn’t acceptable on a travelling budget.

Ok, so perhaps I am being a little harsh. I didn’t get to truly experience the cuisine for which Lima is famous (by virtue of the fact of experiencing the type of cuisine for Lima isn’t famous) and no I didn’t sojourn in the evenings to sample the nocturnal delights of the city but honestly, looking back, this doesn’t phase me too greatly.

Earlier than expected time to say a less than fond farewell to Lima and head once more, 5 years after the first time, to Huaraz.

Huacachina (Ica), Peru

Having bravely (¨you didn’t go to ... and ... but they're BEAUTIFUL!!!¨) and sensibly decided to skip a couple of Southern Peru’s more famous attractions on the all too well trodden tourist trail (lack of time provided a rather handy justification) our next stop after Cuzco was to be Ica and nearby Huacachina.

Ica for many travellers, ourselves included, is but a bus stop and thus with a taxi secured we made our way to Huacachina. Leaving the city behind we headed for the towering sand dunes that dominate, surround and threaten to envelop all that stands in their way. Winding our way between the dunes a sign en route proclaimed, rather modestly, that we were about to see - The Oasis of America - and as we rounded the final bend thus it proved. For, revealed in all its quite breathtaking glory, was truly a sight to behold. Nestled deep amongst the dunes was an emerald green lake shimmering in the morning sun, framed by lush tropical vegetation growing with abandon in this otherwise arid landscape. For once the whole scene was complimented rather than insulted by the hotels - luxurious yet rustic their presence was subtle but somehow just right.

Really? This is Peru, of course not.

Rounding the final corner the ´Oasis of America´ was revealed as a dirty puddle (maybe green, maybe brown) surrounded by dying palm trees and ill-planned and badly made hotels which seemed to compete for the title of most inappropriate.

Never judge a book by its cover though (unless the cover is written in ......) and with the promise of sun and fun - in all the various forms offered - spirits were far from dented.

And truth be told (currently my phrase du jour) Huacachina proved to be a rather enjoyable stopping point. Bathed in sun for at least a couple of hours a day many an hour (at least 2 or 3) was wiled away sat around the pool enjoying the antics of others - the rather overweight gentleman who had come to the conclusion that the physical repulsion he induced in others would be negated, not by the losing of some bulk, but rather through platting and then beading his goatee was a highlight. Alas, to my regret the Joey and Glenn semi-Synchronised Diving Team (JGs-SDT for short) made no appearance - after such a successful debut in Mexico this can only be seen as a shame.

Deciding rather unwisely that merely laying in the sun was not the thing to do (far from my decision) we alighted upon the idea of a little tour of the Ica vineyards. Not internationally renowned for its wines the next three hours would prove without any shadow of a doubt why this is the case. Visiting three vineyards the wines (red, white and rose) progressed from a level of sweetness akin to licking the inside of a sugar bowl to somewhere just north of what is safe for human consumption. Forcing smiles and making appreciative noises I can truly say that not one wine that we tasted was fit for anything other than perhaps, er, erm, nope, words fail me. Moving onto Pisco our logic in trying some of Peru’s indigenous spirit was simply that things could get no worse than the wine - and they didn’t - but alas they got no better either. There is a reason that Pisco rarely travels beyond Peru’s borders and that is because it doesn’t taste very nice (yes, despite my hatred I used the word nice - thinking of Pisco and the wine debacle has reduced me to that level).

In addition to the consumption of the sweetest wines known to man the box to tick (there is always one) in Huacachina is a tour of the sand dunes. Blessed with a seemingly jet propelled buggy and a driver who although advancing in years seemed immune to adrenaline and thus became compelled to take ever greater risks to get his fix - this was to be quite an experience. All but one of our number (She had asked the lady at reception if we could go slowly...the driver laughed knowingly) were willing participants in a journey that travelled further vertically than ever it did horizontally.

Flying over bumps, careering down dunes our driver knew and pushed the limits of our aging buggy as far as they would go. Even when occasionally a halt to proceedings was called it was far from time to relax. Rather the sand boards (a plank with Velcro) were unloaded doused liberally in lubricant (focus...) and we were invited to negotiate the steeper dunes quite by ourselves - sometimes on the board, sometimes not - the sand, well, that went everywhere...

To end a rather enjoyable day (the buggying as opposed to the vineyards) we indulged in an all you can eat (not a challenge) and drink BBQ and thus Huacachina provided all that we could ask for - er, in terms of food and drink I mean. After three weeks of travelling together and having conquered a variety of afflictions (some self-inflicted and some, yep, self-inflicted) Joseph and myself spent the night getting quite pleasantly tipsy and, heaven forefend, meeting new people!

- So Joe - looking back on the last three weeks - any regrets? Anything you wouldn’t do again?
- Erm, yes.
- I should co co.

Cuzco, Peru

Finding a voice/Giving voice to my frustration.

I want to write a story.
OK.
What do you mean OK?
OK to the concept of you wanting to write a story.
Well that’s not much help is it?
Am I supposed to be helping then?
If you wouldn’t mind.
OK.
Well?
Shall we begin with Lesson 1? First things first do you have an idea for the story, a subject, setting, characters or a message you wish to convey, a moral if you will?
No.
Ok.
Stop saying OK.
Very well. So to be clear you have a desire, a want, maybe a whim to write a story but you lack anything resembling an idea?
Yes.
Indeed. Well let’s try to be logical as illogical precipitation of falls all around us.
What do you mean by that?
Everything, nothing, the world, the worm, totality, normality, who knows, who cares?
What?
Apologies, I think I just had a prosaic fit, much worse are my linguistic seizures.
What do you say then?
Nothing.
Right. Back to my story.
Or lack thereof.
Quite.
We, rather you, need a starting point, a catalyst, a stimulant, a certain something to ignite your, thus far, inert creativity. Can you think of anything you desire to write about, a story you have read that inspired you perhaps or an author of whom you are particularly fond?
No.
I think I need another coffee, a hit of heroin, 5mg of methadone, industrial strength amphetamines and a fully loaded revolver.
But you don’t take drugs.
Or have a propensity towards suicide, so often your first successful attempt tends to be your last, but I am considering taking drugs as a viable alternative.
Alternative to what?
To not taking drugs.
I fear you digress.
I fear you persist.
My story?
Unquestionably. Let’s try another path - what was the last story you read?
Let me think.
For my part a wholly preferable method.
Sorry?
No need, I am quite enjoying myself.
The last story I read was...

¨Can I get you something else sir?¨
¨Another coffee please, strong.¨
¨And a slice of that rather delicious cake if you don’t mind.¨
¨One coffee - strong - and a slice of cake, no problem.¨

It would be surprising if there were.
Were what?
A problem. Pray haste, back to your thinking, heaven forefend we should stall at this vital juncture as the potential butterfly of your creativity emerges from its seemingly dormant chrysalis.
The last story I read was...I don’t know to tell the truth.
And thus the butterfly is but a moth. So not a vociferous reader then?
No, does a desire to write necessitate a history of reading then?
Indeed not and though I am sure quite unintentional your stand against the snobbery of the, at times, sycophantic literary world is admirable.
Writing is art no?
And art is inspiration and thus our problem, our stream to ford, mire to traverse, wall to climb and obstacle to negotiate makes it presence felt once more.

¨Your coffee - strong - and cake sir.¨
¨Why thank you.¨
¨Can I ask you a question sir?¨
¨But of course¨
¨Who are you talking to?¨
¨Alas, as ever, my frustration.¨

For those seeking further information on Cuzco, the nearby former summer retreat of the Incas - Machu Picchu - and a background to the fall of a once great empire please refer to any one of the following titles:

Inka Tinker: A life of pick-pocketing on the streets of Machu Picchu - T Hief
Inka Thinker: Musings on the Sun God - Phil Osophy
The Caring Colonialist - Q Victoria (one owner - F Pizarro, never read, as new)

Puno, Peru

Prostitution of Culture

For I was once proud; I was because I had always been. Not for any reason was I other than because each generation desired to know me; to adhere to that which I had guarded, to follow where I guided.

For alas my lament is that time can not preserve all. The movement of man creates hunger afresh, his appetite whetted but never sated by the new, the different. Once isolated and innocent I have been exposed for all to see. He who courted me came with promises untenable, intentions undefined.

Where once I had nothing to prove, to be myself was enough for all that knew me; now I must parade and promenade myself in a degrading and humiliating cycle of pastiche. He makes me dress in my best clothes whenever his gaze is upon me and when not he forgets me. Offered money and some hope for the future he is willing to call himself by many names to appease those who try to protect me.

My children look upon me with disgust; I am but a tired old family member past their use; an embarrassment to all and a reminder of harder times gone past. I am but now a means to an end, no longer a badge of heritage to be borne with pride.

His clients come armed and ready to capture memories, to enjoy their time in my company but never imbued with any intention to understand. They enjoy the difference but never seek the reason. Their presence is justified as positive for guilt at the destructive process of which they are part would be an uncomfortable truth not desired.

When they are gone I cry myself to sleep. My children leave me in order to make money from that which destroys me – the inevitability forcing their departure. Without the reality of need I am doomed to become a play, no more than a series of well rehearsed scenes with no meaning beyond the denouement.

For I am culture and he is tourism.