The morning brings that awful unsettled feeling that you have to stay close to your room. It sort of resolves the issue of what to do today. It has to be last night’s meal. I just hope it is the uber spiciness rather than anything more dire. By the afternoon I dare to venture out far enough to buy some bananas for this evening’s coach ride. A bowl of plain boiled rice in a cafe near the pick up is strangely calming. The Vietcong survived for weeks on little else.
The bus arrives in good time but leaves 25 minutes late. No windows and no seats just horizontal spaces with a curtain if you want. I by chance have a single though the other side of the bus are doubles. I think they probably pack in as many passengers as conventional seating.
After an hour we stop. Eventually we all get out to watch the driver and attendant repairing a leaking radiator hose. Another 45 minutes gone. By the time we reach Bijapur it is over an hour late. I sent an email via a friendly chap from Leeds to Sabala to say I’ll be late but…..
A tuktuk takes me out there with his mate for guide but the gates are padlocked and a dog is barking. They make a hell of a racket and I decide to give up-its midnight by now- and head back to the other place I had in mind that is open 24/7. They have a room and I’m glad to see the back of a bad day by 1 o’clock.
Having had the full on guided tour yesterday, today will be a rambling around. A tuktuk takes me to the river where a ferry awaits. People and motorcycles all jumbled up. More traghetto than vaporetto.
A few minutes walk takes me to the village past farmhouses spilling onto the road. An old summer palace is being restored and ditto a wooden chariot
I fall into conversation with two French ladies who are looking for the same temple. They are from Angers and Nantes though one was born near to Dinard.
I venture in and am suitably anointed, they are more wary.
They have engaged a tuktuk for the day and offer me a place in it. One is petite and the other not large so we all fit in decorously. The driver is keen to impress and he goes to all the places I had in mind and some I hadn’t. A climb up to Durga Fort offers views back over the valley and the river. You see why the kingdom grew so rich.
Durga Fort
The hardest part is a peak of just under 600 steps leading to a temple and fine views. We make it eventually in the heat. At the top a guardian insists we remove our shoes which is tricky given the bare rock is roasting. I scuttle from one minute patch of shade to another. But it was worth it.
The virtual absence of other visitors is remarkable. And most are Indian. There is an intriguing musical instrument that could bang on forever.
We eventually stop at a cafe run by a friend of the driver that is relaxing on couches Mughal style. He soon gets stuck in to his bit about websites and trip advisor with two Australian girls who followed us in.
Chantal and Anne-chantal have been delightful company for the day and I part from them with regret in Hampi where we have ended up. A local bus creaks its way back to Hospet and I jump out at the corner by the hotel. They are preparing for another mega wedding. The place will be solid tomorrow with 800 guests!
I return to Naivedyam for supper but in the A/C salon. Order pakora which are delicious but the dal is unusually spicy, cooled only by cucumber raitha.
A visit to the coach agent reveals that there is only the one evening bus to Bijapur, so can’t bring it forward.
The driver is ready and waiting and off we go. Guide no longer available so a new name to remember. He speaks good English clearly and is not just dates and places.
The countryside from Hospet was green and fertile so you can see how a great kingdom developed on the back of it. From the east coast to the west, down to Tamil Nadu, for over two hundred years. Rice, bananas, sugar cane in abundance. Pairs of bullocks hauling trailers of cane to roadside conversion plants. Huge stacks of stalk residue piled up that seem to go unused. Nothing in India goes unused. Though apparently cow dung is not dried for fuel as Modi has set up a programme of gas supply in the villages, piped or bottled.
Virupaksha
There are stone buildings everywhere you look. Some small others impresively large for a culture which rejected the arch as being tainted by Islam. The granite meant they could use beams of a remarkable length without having to be massively thick.
A huge carving of Ganesha from a single rock allows of an introduction to some of the main characters in hindu mythology. Son of Parvati, he had his head cut off by a demon and then acquired the elephant head. Shades of Kipling. Over fond of sweets and ladoos he became enormously fat.
And Vishnu was a very naughty child constantly playing tricks. Stealing all the girls clothes when bathing, tied to a tree by his mother as punishment. A chubby boy.
Young Vishnu
This part of the site has various one- two- and three-shrine places for prayer, depending on how many gods you are involved with.
As we near the largest he points to the carvings at the corner which are of an erotic nature. His explanation is that they were used by parents as an education for their children without the embarrassment of doing the birdsandbees stuff.
I pay 25/- to join the fast track to go into the shrine. A policeman is controlling the point where the two rivers of supplicants meet. No-one would take any notice of a security guard! The shrine itself is bright with flowers and strongly lit. Curiously there is a large very modern safe in front to hold the offerings. CofE take note.
The colour of the building is down to the thick layer of pale yellow wash that gives it a Bath stone feel. Back to the car and on to the Royal Palace. Most of what you see is the stone lower floors. The upper stories were sandalwood for coolness and scent but they were destroyed by fire when the Islamic Alliance conquered.
An enormous stepped tank is now empty showing its full glory. Each of the black basalt stones was cut far away at source, marked and then put together on site, like a huge jigsaw. It is a remarkable piece of engineering.
The Queen had her own private bathing pool in the Lotus mahal away from prying eyes. When the British were there in 1850s they saw these private quarters and misnamed them zanana, referring back to the Islamic customs they saw at the Mughal Court.
Lotus mahal
Col Alexander Greenlaw took an extensive collection of photographs in 1856 that have allowed of reconstruction of the fallen stones in some places.
And of course as an all-powerful king you have your own fleet of elephants, suitably housed nearby. The stables housed eleven in all each in its own private stall.
The domes are alternating styles of Hindu and Islamic. It was a recurring theme of the guide that the two existed side by side. That is until 1565 when a confederation of five Islamic rulers dealt the death knell of a kingdom weakened and in political disarray.
The last section we visit is the Vittala temple slightly to the northeast. It is ornate in the style of the massive temple in Madurai but unpainted. And elements of deterioration leave the underlying brickwork exposed in a pleasing contrast to the granite.
Vittala temple
The twin peaks represent cow horns. In front of it stands a construction that has become the abiding image for Hampi, a large stone chariot.
There was a time when the wheels rotated but no longer. Everyone wants his picture taken in front of it. You see wooden versions in the villages. I am reminded of the huge symbolic catafalques used in Iran for muharram.
The guide is keen to point out what resembles an early version of Michael Jackson
Moonwalk?
Every building needs protection and the Yali covers most angles. A composite of seven creatures elegantly combined- elephant horse snake rabbit eagle- I lost track.
It has been a long hot day-more Kipling- and I’m quite glad by late afternoon to be heading back to the cool of the hotel and a shower. The guide has been excellent and no sign that he must have to go through the same script every day. I suppose different visitors mean variations in what he says and in the questions posed.
Later a short walk through chaotic helter-skelter traffic takes me to Naivedyam restaurant. A helpful head waiter steers me away from ordering too much, and a puri, mushroom masala and rice are enough. Not impossibly hot, though the (unnoticed) A/C salon would have been refreshing if I had seen it sooner. Apparently he asked the chef to tone it down. He is keen for reviews onT/A and gives me a card they have printed for him with his name on.
A small melon and black grapes will make pudding along with a couple of pieces of halwa.
Although tomorrow I can venture alone to the area north of the river with plenty to explore, Wednesday is suddenly looking to be a blank canvas as the bus doesn’t go till 18.15. So far the only possibility is the Sloth Bear sanctuary but it is afternoons only that make it to tight for catching the bus. Who knows? This is India don’t make too many plans.
A broken night’s sleep but up and away in good time for the station. On the way two enormous black water buffalo suddenly appear from a side road and are charging straight at us. Driver explains they have escaped from a nearby illegal fight in a field where thousands will be present. The winner is chasing off the loser. They swerve at the last minute and thunder past. They were both well over a ton I would imagine.
At 7.30am the station is a maelstrom of people parcels luggage children all to the sounds of bilingual blurred
announcements. The platform shows on the board so no problem. It pulls in a few minutes late but leaves bang on time. My seat is unoccupied on a bench of three. Not terribly comfortable but all I could book. A quick trip down the train shows no better in A/C 3. Finish the Dennis Lehane, stare out at the endless green and dusty landscape, watch a downloaded episode of “Outnumbered” for some cultural disorientation and occasionally stick the tablet by the window to check on GPS location signal.
The first hour has turned into four then five and then, about ten minutes late we pull into Hospet. Can’t say it was one of the all-time great train journeys. A lot of them were engrossed in phones and tablets, listening to pop music and dancing. One guy was doing repairs to a phone. Couldn’t avoid thinking most were semi-literate. Wondered why travelling. Work? It’s not expensive for them. Nearly all between 16 and 25.
The hotel is not far and reception efficient. The room is described as “cosy a/c” and located towards the back. Its a good size clean but basic. But the aircon works though the TV is an analog dinosaur. And I suspect few if any watchable channels.
My first task is to head out to buy a ticket for Bijapur on Wednesday. Finding the office is facilitated by the GPS on the tablet functioning offline. I can navigate just like the lost souls you see wandering through the streets of Venice.
Back at the hotel I arrange an all in package for Hampi on Monday.
Not having eaten since the veg sandwich from the resort I take the easy option and stay at the hotel to eat. It is well reported by T/Advisor. Called “Blue Mist” it lives up to this by having almost no lighting. Two veg and rice is more than enough, followed by a kulfi lollipop.
Need to set the alarm to make an early start for Hampi before it gets to hot.
Yet another bright hot sunny day dawns. They have been relentless. There are a few absent faces at breakfast and some cautious eating – digestive systems are starting to crumble with the inevitable rumble-tums that India can cause. Dick Brown is not going to eat a curry for the next twelve months!
A day by the pool reading and catching up is hindered by so many people trying to check in for the domestic flight. The WiFi of the resort is reduced to a trickle so my attempts to upload the photos on my camera to the tablet are rendered futile. Haven’t yet worked out how to use the WiFi button on the camera. I suspect it will be a revelation.
A game of floor Chess with Steve takes a while. I eventually resign after losing a rook towards the end and run out of attacking possibilities. He has failed to walk in to a couple of mating traps I set.
The idea of having a proper end of tour dinner comes to nothing. John is distracted by his wife’s illness, some are talking of having an evening nap before leaving at 1am and other are feeling a bit the worse for digestive wear. We muster 12 in the end at Wes’s shack and have a last good meal.
All gather in the foyer amidst a pile of luggage. I manage to say farewell to almost everyone in the melee. I am going to miss being part of a big happy group, not to mention the lack of cricket. It will be something to anticipate with a new slant this season when coming up against Worcs.
Off to bed at 1am in an attempt to snatch a bit of shut-eye.
Arriving at Margao CC, we are finally met by an age-matched team. They are a bunch of bright chatterboxes whose obvious joy in playing is a tonic. Their enthusiasm includes batting in a sprightly manner and both openers depart only because they have retired. A total of 234 looks daunting. Although John Pigott and Glyn Thomas make a promising start, it becomes a struggle once Glyn is forced to retire on 49.
An expectant Glyn
We end up about 30 runs light. Group photos and presentations follow. Happily their opening bat is diminutive as the only remaining shirt was a medium. I leave most of my kit and the bag with one of the umpires who is also a coach.
The evening is to be an end of tour dinner on a river boat. The whole thing turns into a shambles. Carnival means it is the busiest night of the year for traffic, we arrive so late there is a suggestion the boat has already gone, the one we go on has only us on board, the music volume renders conversation nigh on impossible and we are left sitting all over the place. An unfortunate end to an entertaining series of games.
Breakfast up on the roof terrace where it is still relatively cool. Interesting conversation with a Belgian girl from Liege travelling on her own about Pondicherry and Antwerp.
The son of the house I overhear talking good French to her and chatting to me he lapses into good Italian. He has never been to England though has visited Perugia. His local knowledge does not match his linguistic skills. Directed to the Goa State Museum, it is a huge demolition site and has been for two years. I eventually track down the new location by the river housed in the Old Secretariat. It is a shadow of its former self. There are several fine sculptures dating back to the 10th century.
The ones called hero stones date back to the 12th century and record life in many aspects. This seems to be praying before a lingam, fighting and possibly dancing.
And then there is a wonderful contraption that was used by the Portuguese in 1947 for a lottery.
A wander round the city reveals some of the preparations for the celebrations due to start on Saturday for Carnival. I think the faces will be worn by revellers as Daliesque images.
A stroll down along the river through green clean tidy municipal gardens passes the time till the coach is due to arrive from the South.
No message by 2pm confirms my belief they have aborted that leg and I make my way back to the bus station. Just before I reach it a text finally arrives to confirm mutiny on the coach has resulted in their going straight back to the resort. There is a fast bus on the point of leaving for Margao. It goes non-stop and the driver is a driven man. 40 minutes!
The island was an oasis of green with an interesting guided walk to see the flora and fauna, from what I hear. The five hours in the coach was the downside.
Treat myself to a pomfret for supper in the shack.
Tomorrow will be the last game. A chance to retrieve the first four losses.
An early morning to get the 8 o’clock train to Margao suffers a hiccup when reception has forgotten to do my breakfast box. They end up chasing me down the road with it as I go to find the taxi- Black spot no. 1.
Train to Margao on time and ditto the express to Karmali. A 40/- tuktuk into town finds me in a wide open elegant space with the red laterite Bom Jesus basilica on my left and the stark white Cathedral on my right.
The Basilica had its lime render removed by an officious restorer in 1950s so the soft red stone is continually eroded by the monsoon rains. It sits heavy and brooding.
Inside is cool but light. Interestingly the visitors are largely Indian. I go to read the info and map I printed out and realise I have dropped them somewhere recently. I had read them waiting for the train so fairly fresh but – black spot no. 2.
There is a huge pulpit halfway along that has remarkable sculpted figures around the base.
You don’t quite expect mermaids at the bishop’s feet. What is absent is any sort of genuflection by the crowds in front of the mummified remains of St Francis Xavier.
The nearbydeconsecrated Church of St Francis is a low key study in wood with glorious painted panels on the ceiling.
It’s hot even out of the sun and my hands are damp, the camera slips and hits the stone floor with lens on zoom. “lens error camera will restart” but it doesn’t. It’s jammed and no longer usable. Black spot no. 3 and the worst. At a pinch there is the tablet camera but it is ungainly and nowhere near as good.
A tall tower on a nearby hill beckons – shades of Fountains Abbey. It was a huge augustinian establishment that flourished for centuries till the Portuguese expelled then in 1832. Thereafter it rapidly fell into disrepair and ruin, leaving only the huge tower standing.
You have a sense of how it might have looked originally when you consider the panels of rich coloured azulejos.
Now all is forlorn and abandoned. Treading carefully over the loose rubble I spot a piece of Pottery that is the turned over rim of a small pot. As I pick it up I can see something nearby that appears to be glazed. Under the dust I can see 17th century blue on white brushwork on a tin glaze. It is a part of a small plate and has a finely turned foot. The monks obviously lived well.
A bus whisks me along the river to Panjim and the GPS on the tablet guides me to the guesthouse. It is simple fare, homely but welcoming and the run has an old hasp and bolt with a padlock, similar to the old colonial houses in Ecuador.
Having checked in I then foray out into town to buy a new camera. The first stop is not where the hotel keeper has described it and anyway they don’t have any decent compacts in stocks, just a tacky coolpix. The next does have a good new Canon and eventually we agree a price. He uses it to take a pic of us on it. His card reader doesn’t work and he won’t go next door so that is that. Not sure what the eventual purchaser will make of the pic. I find a third shop. Yes they have an ixus 190 but it is at their other shop! Which is where I was so their card reader won’t work either. A fourth shop has a catalogue which includes an ixus 190 but it will take 15 minutes. Remarkably it arrives in ten minutes, the card reader works and I have a new camera. Not a bad way to spend two hours.
There is a restaurant “Viva Panjim” 20yds round the corner which is fine on trip advisor so that is easy. It’s busy, a few Indian diners, mostly Europeans. The food is good though I have failed to account for goan cuisine being notoriously heavy on hot.
The days have flown past. Arriving at the maidan in Mumbai now feels a lifetime away.. We are now battle-hardened veterans for whom 35 overs holds no fear or threat.
So when the opposition of academics ask to play 30 overs, we smell weakness. Sadly it is not to be. Apart from Dave Goring, none of the recognised batsmen makes much impression on the score book. Having virtually opened I am astonished to find, when I join him for the last two overs, that he is still rushing up and down the pitch. We scramble 14 runs but 119 never feels like a defendable total. His 37 will earn him some extra luggage.
Lunch is delicious, but we have to field thereafter. Before we can do so, we need solid countryman Dick Brown to deal unceremoniously with a crippled rat that is crawling around the kitbags . They don’t call him Chopper for nothing!
It starts promisingly with two seamers and then Thornie bags one and I induce three of the academic dashers to throw away their wicket and they are four down and not halfway there. The arrival of the 12-year-old son of one player offers the prospect of an easy wicket but he survives numerous snicks and pop-ups whilst Pop at the other end lets loose with a series of boundaries that quickly put the game beyond our reach.
The final over starts with two enormous sixes. And then there was tea and lookalike cucumber sandwiches.
Captain Steve Ahab and Chopper Brown relaxing
The mood is not lightened by a misguided attempt at retail therapy on the way back which involves a three hour detour up to Panjim.
We are late back, hot tired and deflated and most opt for either a buffet in the resort Gardens or a short trip to the nearest beach shack.
There remains only Friday’s T20 to redeem ourselves.
An early morning cycle ride gives an energetic start to an otherwise very lazy day. Being out there with the scooters and cars whizzing by gives a good flavour of the traffic. And we have an impressive wait at a railway crossing. The trains are incredibly long,
The mist burns off eventually. The heat leaves you feeling in little need of food during the day time. A solitary packet of crisps seems more than enough.
A walk along the beach late afternoon shows it largely deserted. Closer inspection reveals endless alcohol bottles with lids on rolling around in the falling tide. Stopping off in a bar I am the only English speaker. It’s Russian rollout time. Watching their faces it’s hard to discern why they came on holiday. Glum and a lot of shouting at the staff.
Dinner is at a shack along the beach which is connected to the mother-in-law of someone in the party. A good meal eaten to the sounds of sixties pop. Memories trawled through reveal the names of most of the artists.
