Dear reader, perhaps an apology is in order. Here I am having the trek of a lifetime around the magnificence of India and it seems like all I’ve done is whine about cracked pavements and carbohydrates. Cheerfulness will be resumed shortly.
In the meantime, I’m still in Ooty, the hill station in Tamil Nadu that the British used to retreat to for its cooler climate. As well as the rolling hillsides themselves, there are tea plantations and botanical gardens to visit. Despite the natural beauty, I’m still in “whinge mode”. It’s the height of the local tourist season and finding a trekking guide is impossible. I approach the local tourist office only to be waved away with a hand.
That leaves me with those rural roads to walk that I have complained about before. I walk down one and round a blind corner to see that it is lined with short metal poles, each one pointing a different direction, having been bent over by collision with a vehicle. I assume that 20 poles pointing 20 different ways means 20 accidents and vow never to walk down a rural road again. I’m also getting tired of the apparent insistence of every cook in Tamil Nadu to put three types of carbohydrate on my plate at every meal (sorry, there’s that whinging again). A waiter in all seriousness asked me if I wanted steamed rice to go with the fried rice.
Madgaon aka Margao in Goa.
So I hop on a train to southern Goa and decide to spend the rest of my time in India walking up and down the beach. I transit an old town called Madgaon or Margao, which reminds me a little of Macau’s faded charms before the casino boom hit. I spend too long in a restaurant called Longhuini’s – I discover that it hasn’t really been mental strength that has kept me away from alcohol but just the difficulty of getting hold of it. It is easy to find in Goa. The amount of time I spent in that lovely restaurant should have been a red flag.
Mischa Moselle on Palolem Beach, India. Photo: Mischa Moselle
On the beach at Palolem I check into fleapit bungalows that house other Brits, Danes, Israelis, some French and some locals. The household also includes dogs and a pet pig. Actually I’m not sure if it’s a pet or destined for the sausage factory. Who needs an alarm clock when a murder of crows will happily wake you up at 6am for free?
