A typical day in Mumbai...

Matt's last day in Mumbai....

Well it seems that my Indian experience wasn't quite over, not just yet. After enduring a fairly painful but by now routine 12 hour journey from Goa on the slow train to Mumbai (see above), Pat and I had about 2 days to kill in the Los Angeles of India. This presented little problem as Mumbai is by far the most buzzing and exciting city in India in my opinion and we ran out the clock on our second last day by hitting some obligatory markets, checking out Ghandi's old house (now a museum with some classic dioramas of poignant scenes from his life), Chowpatty beach and due to fortunate timing, catching up with Noddy, Mirri and Goose over a few beers at the Alps beerhouse nearby the Gateway to India.

Good times with the boys at Leonards, a backpacker haven, Mirri, Goose, Noddy, Pat and me.

Ah yes, a fine day indeed and now only one day remained of my Indian sojourn. What could go wrong?

The story that is about follow needs a little background information that I have not yet included in the blog but shall do so now. One of the highlights of my trip so far was an opportunity that we had to tour the main Ghurka army barracks in Pokhara, the second largest city in Nepal, and enjoy lunch with the very hospitable and generous Major Peter Hill, the barracks commander, and his lovely wife Rebeccah, whom I had met by chance back in Kathmandu.

Major Peter Hill and his Aussie wife Rebecca.

In case you're not aware, the Ghurkas are a very elite unit of the British army that recruit the best of the best of the rugged, tough and RIDICULOUSLY fit young men of the mountains of Nepal and have done for some 200 years. They have a fierce reputation despite the average height of only 5'3'', and they are known throughout the world as some of the most lethal and effective soldiers out there. The Ghurka legend was well known to me and so this opportunity was one I took with great excitement.

Tim , Pat, the Major and me within the Ghurka barracks. Fanbloodytastic.

After enjoying a wonderful afternoon in the company of Peter and Rebekkah, we very fortunately were allowed to purchase some authentic kukuri knives, a heavy machete like blade which is the symbol of the Ghurkas and a weapon which is issued to them upon enlisting. Great souvenir indeed, particularly coming from the Ghurka army depot, but little did I know the drama that was to unfold a month later on a typical day in Mumbai...

Pokhara is a real adventure centre, below is a shot of us paragliding over the town. Unbelievable fun. During our time there we also went on a 3 day rafting trip and did some kayaking, although I like to call it spinning uncontrollably in the middle of huge lake and getting really pissed off.

"Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to read is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Actually, bugger it, I couldn't be bothered the changing the names either. "

Monday 22nd December, 2005.

My last day in India was supposed to be relatively routine, I had a few small jobs to do in the morning, after which Pat and I were going to meet up with our Canadian buddy Ian and head off to Elephanta Island in the afternoon. A few beers, maybe a late-night movie, taxi to the airport with a few hours wait til my midday departure on Tuesday and that's that for India. My morning chores only involved posting a boxful of christmas presents, picking up some books to post home as well and dropping by the street markets for a pair of jeans. Clearly not a huge set of tasks one would think, but I still gave myself a good four h ours before meeting up with Pat at midday, this was India after all...

8:00am
Headed off with presents in tow hoping to beat any crowds and finish up early. To my disappointment it seems that nothing in India gets started until after 10:00am at the earliest. Walked the empty streets that only yesterday had been teeming with market life until well into the night but found nay a single commercial enterprise to be open. Even McDonalds didn't open til 9:00am for crying out loud but I could never be angry at my beloved home of Maharajas so I patiently waited til I could at least I could get a bit of food down for brekky. Maharaja burger of course, which was to be an exceptionally rare highlight of my day.

Ah, my beloved McD's... I was lovin' it indeed.

9:30am
After wasting nearly an hour and a half of my alotted time waiting for anything to open, I moved on to general Post Office, right near the magnificent Chirapatti Shavaji Terminus (CST or Victoria Terminus as it until recently was named) where I sought the services of the package stitchers who were just starting to open trading for the day. Any packages sent from India, as I far as I can tell, need to be wrapped up in cotton cloth, a service which is provided by countless little shanty shops outside the post office. Quite a neat little art they do of it, I had a full box of presents all wrapped and stitched up and sealed off with those royal looking globs of red wax. Paid the exorbitant fee asked of me, wrote the required address and I was off on my way to send my package to Australia.

The beautiful CST building.

10:00am
Seems that the post office doesn't send parcels. Right. So where exactly do I need to go sir? The parcel post office, of course. So off I go to the parcel post office.

10:15am
Well bugger me, I want a job with the parcel post office (PPO). I got up there and discovered the lazy bastards don't even open til 11:00am!! And shut at 4:30!! With an hour and a half for lunch!! I was too far away from my other jobs to warrant going there and all the way back to the PPO, plus I didn't want to walk all around town with my pretty yet cumbersome white parcel so I figured I'd ride it out til 11:00, giving me only one hour from then to do all my jobs initially designated with four.

11:00am
OK, so the little reception window was true to it window-printed word and opened at 11:00. The lady promptly shoved a few sheets of paper under the grill for me to fill out which I did so making carefully sure to list everything in the parcel box, including of course my precious Ghurka knives. Took me about 10 minutes to complete. I then attempted to head into the next room for the parcel inspection and final seal before I was told in no uncertain terms to step back out to the waiting area. Are not you guys meant to be open at 11:00? Oh, I see, you need over half an hour to SWEEP your damn tiny little floor before seeing anybody. Perfectly agreeable.

11:30am
Had pretty much given up on being able to complete my jobs by this stage considering that 3.5 hours had passed with little to show for it but a slightly higher blood temperature. The PPO guys finally allowed me to grace them with my presence, and everything seemed pretty amicable despite my slightly agitated state. Some trivial banter about the cricket lightened my mood as I rifled through my various parcelled goods for inspection and everything seemed back on track. But then the knives came out, quite literally...

What is this!!??!
Well its a kukuri knife from Nepal, a present for my...
This is a WEAPON!!??!! You can't post THIS!!?!
But I've carried it on like 4 international flights with no problems, surely if....
We cannot send a WEAPON in the POST!!
Yes sir, but surely there is no harm in putting knives in a box, they're not going to explode on impact or anything....
EXPLODE!!?? What will EXPLODE??!!
Please sir, don't do this, I really need to post these knives sir, it would really ruin my day if...

And with that the frickin PPO guy ripped up all my forms for the post in a none too subtle manner in my face. Well that was it, I began to lose it for the not the last time that day, I certainly refrained from calling him sir that's for damned sure. Amidst the wild gesticulating and arm flapping that ensued, I managed to garner from him that I could post the knives only if police permission was granted. There was no way I wanted to continue travelling with these three heavy knives on my person so I resolved then that despite it ruining any sightseeing plans in Mumbai, I would get the damned police permission and I would post them if it was the last thing I did.

12:00pm
Back to the hotel to let Pat know of our dashed afternoon activities. Made a few sketchy plans to meet up around 6:00pm at the Gateway to India, punched the wardrobe a few times to settle my rage, and then departed in search of a police station.

Here's one chap I observed obviously working under very strict OH&S regulations. I love it, jackhammers and flip-flops.

12:20pm
After not less than 5 contradictory sets of directions (i.e. 100m up on your right, followed by back 250m on your left), I finally came across what I was led to believe to be a police station. No more than a tin shack but it did have several men in uniform, although by the state of their activity levels, I could only assume they were all off duty. Still, I gave them my harrowing account of recent dramas and they all crowded around quizzically, pulling out the knives and swinging them about like great toys. When I asked them to kindly sign the form I had prepared following my little monologue however, I was courteously informed that they were in fact only security guards and could not help me in the slightest.

12:40pm
Eventually found what I thought to be a police station, this time in an actual structurally sound building. I gave the same speech (the second of many, many times as it turned out) and similarly, a whole bunch of officers gathered round to each have a play with these wonderful novelty items in my possession. Upon completion I was promptly told to ''wait here''; my questions of why, for whom, and for how long falling on either deaf, or more likely, completely ignorant/non-english deciphering ears.

1:15pm
After half an hour of tapping my fingers on the enquiries desk, I was finally taken up to a man in an office who I assume must have been some sort of big deal round them here parts, and once again I made my little speech which was coming quite readily by this stage. My performance was followed by more knife wielding, some hindi banter and then a dismissive wave of the hand on the part of the senior officer telling me to follow the same man that I had followed up in the first place. When asked of what the hell was going on, he informed me that I needed to wait for ANOTHER damned fellow at reception who inconveniently was at lunch, not to return til nearly
2:00pm.
Don't worry, wait here...

1:40pm
The man in question is miraculously back early and although providing no clarity on the whole matter whatsoever, he does direct me to the 4th floor of the building to talk to another department. So off I go, hoping against hope that some resolution is in sight, and arrive at the fourth floor ready to launch into my story once again. It seemed a bit strange that they sent me up there, as the place looked distinctively like a visa processing facility and before I commenced my familiar speech, I was asked to present my very absent passport. Well we can hardly well help you if your passport is back at the hotel now, can we?

This picture is completely unrelated to the story but I thought I'd chuck in a diorama of Ghandi on a hunger strike cause I was pretty hungry by this stage of the story. Seamless.

2:00pm
After a 15 minute wait in a back street noticeably free of any taxis that an accompanying policeman assured me would be overflowing with any minute, I walked the 150m around the corner to a frickin taxi rank and by a miracle of all miracles, found a taxi driver that not only spoke english but also knew where my hotel was. So back for the passport, and then back to the police station.

2:30pm
Upon presentation of my passport, I once again explained my situation only to be told, ''What on earth did you come here for, we can't help you. We're only a visa processing centre.''

£?"!&*%$(*&!!

A strange homicidal tendency that I have not experienced before or since was by that stage starting to well up inside.

2:40pm
After receiving only shrugged shoulders in response to my desperate pleas for some f#*k’n answers back down at the police desk, I was eventually accompanied back up to the visa floor and told that I would need to go to the AUSTRALIAN CONSULATE GENERAL for further assistance, implying as if they had actually provided some previously.

3:00pm
Being the first taxi that had any idea where the address provided to me actually was, I caught the 6th taxi that I had hailed down. Nice drive actually, I ended up doing some sightseeing of Mumbai after all.

Below is another example of some classic European architecture, this time the university clocktower.

3:20pm
Was pretty much on the other side of town by this stage, but my driver dropped me off at the wrong tower. Went through the usual process of trying to garner accurate directions from the locals.

3:30pm
At last, I arrived in the correct tower as given to me by the visa place and I asked the lift operator to take me up to the ACG. A puzzled look to say the least was given in response.

"I’m sorry but there is no Australian Consulate General in this building. I believe it moved elsewhere some 3 years ago."

I can’t quite remember, but I believe I responded by hitting my head with my fist, sobbing uncontrollably and eventually rolling around on the floor in the foyer, much like Basil Fawlty in the episode with the hotel inspectors. I figured it was apt as my whole day was starting to feel like an overly long Fawlty Towers episode. Thankfully a very kind gentleman knew of the current address and so I pulled myself together, repacked my spilt parcel of goods which I was still lugging around, and headed outside to hail yet another taxi.

4:00pm
Drove to the other side of town (again) and was admitted to see the ACG himself, a champion fella by the name of Don Cairns. Had a great chat (he informed me most of his calls regarding distressed Aussies come from Goan scooter accidents…) during which I was told beyond doubt that there was no way/no such thing as getting police permission to post my knives. Checked my watch to confirm that I had just wasted the previous 4&1/2 hours of my life attempting to attain the impossible.

4:30pm
Got back to the PPO just in time to post what items I could which I damn well hoped my family would appreciate. I then hit the markets to complete my other tasks of buying jeans and books.

5:30pm
Just missed the deadline for posting books (a parcel of books can be sent through the regular mail and is particularly cheap, a nice little feature of the Indian postal service) and so I was forced to negotiate with my parcel stitcher that he would not only stitch them up but post them for me the next day. I offered to pay him 250 rupees, the only money I had left apart from what I needed for a taxi to the airport, to which he agreed, shook my hand, sewed up my books and then asked for 350 rupees once finished. So here I am, trusting in this fellow to post my books for me, and haggling him down. (By the way, my books still haven’t arrived…)

The Gateway to India with the famous Taj Mahal hotel behind it.

6:15pm
Hmmm, I was a little late but it seemed Pat wasn’t actually at the Gateway to India, the Taj Mahal hotel, the Alps beerhouse or Leonard’s restaurant. I then proceeded to do the rounds of these locations for the next 2 hours in ever-diminishing hope to find him or Ian as we had absolutely no other back-up plan to meet up. Great fun.

8:30pm
Finally found Ian back at his hotel and we met up with Pat just in time to make the 9:00pm screening of King Kong which I had brought tickets to earlier in the day. At last, 3 hours of bliss. Brilliant.

Our mate Ian.

12:30am
Get back to our hotel to pick up our bags and catch a taxi to the airport, a journey of well over an hour even in light traffic and one with which I had exactly the right amount of rupees left to my name. A quick repack of my bag to somehow fit the damn knives in my bag and then we dashed out to placate our beeping taxi waiting outside.

2:00am
Despite more than a few wrong turns, several changed drivers, and an even greater number of near death experiences, we made Mumbai International alive and in one piece. At last I could relax, find some floor space, read a book, chill with the other guys until my flight at noon. But I still had a nagging feeling in the back of my head, as if, I don’t know, maybe I had forgotten something? A quick check confirmed that in my haste to rearrange my pack for those bloody knives that those bloody Indian postal workers wouldn’t let me bloody well post, I had taken out my camera and neglected to put it back in when the taxi was nagging us….

I figured that it was about this time that, had my day been a proper episode of Fawlty Towers, the music would have started playing with the credits rolling as I head to an ATM to get money purely for a taxi and then commence a 2&1/2 hour round journey to the hotel and back again….

Happy ending however, my flight was arguably the most enjoyable one I have yet taken, a full bay of seats to myself close to the self-proclaimed self-service galley, but better still, it was taking me towards that paradise of all things efficient. Ah yes, Switzerland beckons…

Goodbye India...

Goan, Goan, Gone.

Goan Goan Gone

I'm digging back in the memory banks now to write up about our time in fabulous Goa, but I am sure to have no problems in doing so, as the place is unforgettable. Anyways, it was with great regret that we dragged ourselves away from Delhi, a city that had endeared itself to us with its charming blend of rubbish, touts, smog and general chaos, and boarded the long train running all the way to the Goan coast with a stop in Mumbai along the way. After our tumultuous journey through Rajasthan the thought of a chilled beach setting where we didn't have to jump on a train or god forbid another bus the very next day was very appealing and Goa was everything we had hoped for and more.

I had initially thought that Goa was a lone stretch of beach maybe a few kms long so I was quite surprised to discover that it is actually a huge coastline of over 50km with many different beaches of unique and individual character. For starters you have the famous northern beaches of Anjuna and Calangute, where Israelis rave well into wee hours of the next afternoon with the assistance of various illegal substances; down south you have the bounty ad beaches such as Palolem and Patnem with long stretches of white sand and overhanging palm trees, and in the middle you have the very relaxed and comparitively underdeveloped beaches of Colva and Benaulim which happened to be our first port of call after arriving in Goa.

Some of the more exotic coastline around Goa

Quickly settled in some comfortable although perhaps structurally unsound palm leaf huts with fairly lax security, and just as quickly it seems, Pat settled in on his pursuit of some fetching British ladies who just happened to be staying in the same place. With Pat missing in/getting action, it was down to Tim and me basically to find ways to entertain ourselves, which considering our surroundings, proved to be particularly easy. A daily routine might have involved waking up at a decidedly leisurely hour, wolfing down an incredibly cheap breakfast consisting of several pieces of nutella toast, scrambled eggs, muesli with fruit and yogurt, some pancakes perhaps and could I get a few pieces of french toast and bugger it, while you're at I might try your chocolate pancake as well....(as you can probably tell, I may in fact be the only person to travel through India and actually put on weight).

Following breakfast, one might roll down to the water lest one be confused for pregnant beached whale, splash about til it gets a little too toasty, head back up for some lunch (similar story to breakfast), have a few beers priced at around $1.50 for 650ml!!, maybe chill with a good book before heading back down to the beach for another swim and perhaps a futile attempt at doing some exercise to withhold the onslaught that I was deluging my body with each day. Yep yep, tough life indeed, all for less than $20 a day.

One of my favourite of the fruit ladies, Lachsmi.

Even sitting around on the beach with the hordes of British tourists who seem to spend their entire holiday sunning themselves, was an exciting pastime as their was always something going on around you. Impromptu games of beach cricket, soccer and volleyball sprung up every few metres, the very charming fruit girls would try (and succeed in my case) to sell some of their eclectic selection of tropical fruits and whilst they were at it, anything else they could remotely think of to sell, be it silver jewellery, sarongs, hennah paintings, you name it. The sunbathing obviously wasn't having much effect on me as I proved to be quite a hit with those ladies due to several of them commenting that I was the "whitest" man they had ever seen. Conversely when I get burnt a little, I believe the phrase they described me as was "pink like a pig". Charming.

My favourite was however the random dudes, who under the guise of pretending to point out a blob of sunscreen on your face, would walk up to you and wham, stick a bloody steel rod in your ear. When you reeled around in shock and disgust, they then present to you some ungodly clump of crap of unknown origin claiming that your ears were in great need of a clean, which they (due to their qualifications which they promptly pulled out to show, literally a "bachelor of ear-cleaning" supposedly) could perform for a very reasonable fee of only about $5. Nice try boys.

A stunning sunset complete with old, random bald hippie dude.

The evenings were even more enjoyable. Each afternoon after enjoying the rarified experience of watching a stunning sunset over the water (western coast of India), we would generally tuck into some of the aforementioned super-cheap beers before heading to a local beachfront restaurant to sample some fresh fish from the day's catch. The seafood there was SO good, they would bring out a tray with the catch, you point at the one you want and in about 30 minutes you a wolfing down the best damn fish you've ever tasted in your life, usually for about $5-6 for a whole red snapper for example.

We were fortunate also, as we had been throughout our whole trip, to be sharing our accommodation with some fine folk who made our time there all the more enjoyable. Particularly for Pat of course, but Tim and I did enjoy merely speaking to the other guests at least. We did at some points also find great mirth in listening to some of Pat's slightly exaggerated tales of adventure and danger, obviously brought up during the courting stage, which brought about fits of schoolgirl giggles between me and Tim (whilst Pat was talking), and conversely, fits of rage from Pat later on, understandably. Ah yes, the worst wingmen ever. But that Pat's a professional, water off a duck's back etc. Yes the evenings were fun affairs and what's that? Get the guitar out? Oh no I couldn't possibly, please put it away, put it away....ok maybe just a few tunes....
(I can assure you it did a me a fat lot of good. Ah Master Pat, I have much to learn....)

C'mon guys....I mean, I'm just a man....with a guitar....singing his heart out....
Good times with the crew in Benaulim.

From the chilled settings of Colva and Benaulim, we headed north to Anjuna where we expected to run into some 24 hour parties, huge outdoor markets, beautiful women and of course, Israelis. Started off great, in our initial scope of Anjuna beach there was a full blown party raging on the sand at around 5pm, in broad daylight with some of the most beautiful and scantily clad women I've seen in my life. Adding to our (or my at least) excitement was the advertisement for an all you can eat seafood buffet for around $6!! Heaven!! After a few obligatory warmup beers, we headed to the restaurant and the sight that presented itself to me will remain a treasured memory for a long time. A huge table filled with just the most delicactable assortment of seafood I've ever seen (for $6 at least). Red snapper, sole, kingfish, barricuda, shark, calamari, prawns, flake, to name but a few.... all as much as you wanted!! My only regret was that I ate so damn fast so that I could make sure that I could get back for seconds (and thirds) before that snotty little kid who didn't eat fish took all the frickin calamari. And then after the meal of course, it was on to the huge party filled with beautiful women!! Rave on!! Suffice to say, my timing was, as ever when ladies are involved, poor to the say the least as the party shut down pretty much as soon we walked over at the pathetically early hour of 10pm. I tell you, kids these days are getting soft. Admittedly they had been going for the previous 24 hours, but 10pm, honestly!?!?

A huge 300m + oil tanker that ran aground about 5 years ago is easier to just be left as is rather than expensively dragged back out. Anyway, it's beautiful isn't it?

Anjuna is also famous for its huge Wednesday markets, a sprawling affair when tourists and locals alike come from all over the region to pick up anything from silver jewellery, fake clothes, carvings, linen, hammocks, leather goods, bollywood DVDs, some strange fluoro coloured powder, you name it. A must-do if you ever get to Goa and are keen to pick up some useless trinkets which will just make your pack even more damn heavy.

Anjuna markets.

Highlight of our time in Anjuna however was undoubtedly our time on the little Honda activa scooters. I was a little bit wary to begin with, but after speaking with the kind gentlemen who we dealt with to hire them, I was positively terrified. He just threw us the keys and said to bring them back by sunset. No vehicle license (let alone a bike license) required, no passport, not even a name for crying out load, and no helmets. We just handed over our $4 for the day and soon we were hooning about in the crazy Indian traffic like little lambs to the slaughter. Absolutely terrifying but totally exhillarating at the same time, was unbelievable how much fun it seemed to be dodging and weaving along the highway at 70km+ per hour (top speed for the activa, but let me assure you it might as well be 170 when you're driving sans helmet). One thing you quickly learn when driving these things is there is only one road rule you need to follow; Give way to EVERYTHING. I was cut off too many times to remember by incoming vehicles onto the highway, and several times I actually had to squeal the brakes whilst IN a roundabout to let vehicles to my left enter at ridiculous speeds with no intention of slowing down.

Born to be wild...no, that ain't the Hell's angels, but none other than me, Pat and Tim on our beasts in amazing old Goa.

Took the scooters out to Old Goa, the former capital of the region when Goa was a Portugese colony. I had read that Old Goa used to rival Lisbon in magnificense and opulence and by the looks of the few remaining buildings of the era, it would not surprise me in the least. It felt like we were driving into a subtropical Rome, overgrown with palm trees and thick rainforest. The old chapels and cathedrals are enormous and beautiful constructions (which are still used by the largely Catholic population of Goa), and spring up out of the jungle like giant monoliths that you would never expect to see in such a location.

Some of the chapels were incredibly beautiful and ornate inside, hardly what we were expecting to find in lazy Goa.

Most impressive was the display in the main chapel of the supposedly incorruptible body of Saint Francis Xavier, who still lies in state to this day, albeit in an airtight glass coffin, some 500 YEARS after his death!! Sure, he's looking a bit grey and sunken in the cheeks, but bugger me I reckon he's doing pretty well for his age!!

"Old" mate Francis Xavier.

The chapels of Goa rising from the jungle below.

Thankfully we somehow escaped largely unscathed from our day on the scooters, I say largely because Pat, the most experienced rider among us, thought he could be a little too tricky and his attempted burnout in the dirt turned out a little painfully, although from my vantage point in behind, it proved immensely humorous. Also, despite our best intentions to obey Indian road rules, we were pulled over by some cops who graciously were willing to accept fines on the spot and were strangely enough located on a tourist only road well away from the town. Tim unfortunately had neglected to bring his Australian driver's license (highly irresponsible Tim), and the policemen assured us that there was a huge fine involved, in the order of 2000 rupees. (Pat and I, despite our lack of a motorbike license, vehicle registration and helmets, were apparently tip top, not even a warning). "You don't have 2000 rupees on you, you say? Well just pay us what you have....". After much histrionics and frantic arm waving to try and intimidate us, the "cops" eventually decided that our demands to at least be taken down to the police station and Tim's paltry 200 rupees were hardly worth the effort and waved us away.

Beautiful Palolem.

Next up it was down to the picture perfect beach of Palolem. To help you get a picture of it, if any of you have seen the movie The Bourne Supremacy, the opening scene with him running down the beach is actually filmed on Palolem beach right where we stayed. We watched the movie whilst we were there and that scene inspired me to get off my rapidly expanding arse and go for at least two whole runs during our time there. Palolem was a lot quieter than the other beaches it seemed, despite a full moon, most evenings were nearly always chilled out affairs for most people, primarily the hordes of British people who generally burnt themselves to a crisp each day and then sat around in the pubs watching Premier League at night.

Thankfully we met up with our good mate Ian, a Canadian from London, Ontario, whom Pat and I had met whilst rafting in Nepal. As the nightlife seemed a little stagnant round Palolem we soon got into a habit of making our own entertainment which basically revolved around sampling every one of the ridiculously cheap cocktails (i.e. $1) on offer at our favourite happy hour dive. This would then be followed by a delicious seafood meal (as always) and perhaps a stagger down the main street where we would help ourselves to some guitars and bongos from the local music store and set up an impromptu jam. I must stress this was for our own entertainment, as it was clear early on that no-one else was being remotely entertained by our antics.

Otherwise our days were filled with either total relaxation or preferably on our addictive scooters which we hired for another two days in Palolem. This time with helmets thankfully although as usual, my "extra large" was so small that it either seriously compressed my skull or popped off whilst driving and flayed behind my head like a fibreglass parachute. Pretty much managed to check out the entire coastline on those things and one of my fondest memories of the trip was finding empty stretches of long winding turns where you could just cock your wrist full throttle and hammer the scooter to its limits.

Had to put at least one picture of a cobra from our time in India. This is one in an animal refuge we visited in Goa.

Alas the good times had to come to an end eventually and it was with heavy hearts that Pat and I returned to Mumbai to make our flights out of India, a country of which our opinion was greatly enhanced by our two magnificent weeks in the sun down in Goa. We had only two days to kill in Mumbai and then it was off to Europe. Only two days, what could go wrong?