Jan 2009

Oh god it’s the end! Well no, not quite. I book myself a late flight up to Delhi. It’s the most expensive extra flight I have to pay for on the entire trip, but I do it last minute so it’s my own fault. I’m in denial about going home. It arrives in Delhi the evening before my BA flight leaves at 3.30am bound for London, Heathrow T5. I’m down to my last rupees. Once I’ve paid for the taxi to the Goan Airport I have no money unless I can pay for stuff on credit card. I finally get to Delhi, it’s dark and cold. Oh my god. I’m freezing? I land at the domestic terminal. So have to schlep get to the international one. Walking isn’t an option and I have no rupees… The taxi's don’t take credit cards. Fuck! I end up bribing a taxi official with $4 in notes I have. He gets me a taxi for the dollars! I love India. At the new terminal I’m annoyed to discover that I can’t actually check in till midnight. It’s 8pm, bollocks. I’m stuck sitting in a café across the way, but with no money to buy anything. They don’t accept cards. Four hours of insane boredom, freaking out about going home. I really miss company now, I can’t be bothered to speak with anyone I don’t know, I want a good mate to natter with. Instead I just sit there on my own, doing this whole thing on my own, I feel so alone. Eventually I can check in. I go though security and find a café that accepts credit cards. I then make myself comfortable on some uncomfortable chairs and wait. I watch a whole flight of Russians flying home to Moscow. What a sight. A queue, of what looks like hookers and pimps?! All in fur or shiny metallic puffa jackets, heals, belted jeans at the waist, polo necks and bottle blond hair with dark roots. Then at least two men in full knee length leather coats. They look like the Russian mafia. I’m bored waiting, there aren’t really any good shops and it feels like time has stopped. In some ways I wish time could stop, and I could rush back to Salt and Pepper and the beach and helmet-less motorbike riding. I’m missing Goa so much, I’m going to miss India so much. Shit I’m going home!

E will be waiting for me at Heathrow with Pet in his new blacked out Range Rover Vogue. I have lost all my capitalist, London bullshit – so it won’t impress me. Finally after what seems an eternity we can finally board. Ok flight with nothing exciting to add. I arrive in London on a crisp December morning. It’s still dark 7am, but not raining! As the sun rises I’m treated to a wonderful red and orange sky and Jack frost has visited, and outlined all the trees and objects into focus.

I’m quite nervous about seeing E when I step out of arrivals. I psyche myself up. My bag appears on the belt, I grab it and head through the nothing to declare channel. I step through the automatic doors and a sea of eyes is directed toward me. I follow them along the line as I push my trolley. Any moment I will see E. I have tears built up waiting to burst out. I don’t find him. I follow the entire long length of the arrivals walkway and no bloody E! By the time I reach the end of the line the tears have snuck back in. I’m completely deflated and all of a sudden feel totally lost. Then I spot a familiar gait, and a familiar crop of strawberry blond hair. Making a bee-line for the coffee stall. I head over, and am spotted. N is here too, and do I want a coffee?! It’s brilliant to see them both, I’m home! We head back to the car where there is an expectant Pet waiting. E opens the door and he jumps out, completely ignoring me. He’s all over N and E. I get a quick sniff. We pile in the Range Rover. It’s so luxi, and the plushest vehicle I’ve been in for a whole year. I sit in the front with Pet on my lap. Then all of a sudden Pet realises who I am! I get totally smothered in licking dog breath. Yes Pet it’s Godmotherfucker Esther back! She, who pulled a red rubber band out of your arse, outside Starbucks on the Fulham Road, in front of all the yummy mummies. I love that dog so much.

I fill E and N in on my latest news. We’re pretty much all up to date by the time we get to Heston services. How ridiculous? It doesn’t feel like I’ve been away at all. Well maybe a month or so, but not eleven months. It’s so strange. We’re all feeling it though.

I will be staying with S in Barnes for the next week, until I head home to Brussels for Christmas. I can’t wait to see her and her baby boy, whom will now be 16 months old. It’s too weird being back. But everything slips back into exactly how it was and it’s as if I’ve never been away. I think I'm glad to be back.

List:

My grand thoughts at the end of my trip:

Has it all been worth it?
Have I lost my want, want, want, capitalist tendencies?
Have I realised what’s important again?
Have I discovered where I might like to live in the world?
Have I found love?
Have I met life long friends?
Have I found peace with myself?
Can I now tackle anything thrown at me?

(Answer is YES to all the above, but still not entirely sure of what it all means, we’ll see, time will tell, I LOVE THE range rover, shit)

Why does it all feel like a dream?
But I can almost remember every single detail.

Loving being back in my flat with my laptop and just chilling. Have BIG decisions to make but they will come naturally. Going to keep up my Blog as a kind of diary, well not really sure how it will work?

Bye for now, but watch this spacebooth xxxx

I escape Bombay*. After another panic of going to the wrong terminal, what is it with terminals and me? I finally get to the right one, my bumblebee taxi doing all sorts of crazy u-turns (it’s his fault as I told him I needed the international terminal). Check in, faff about trying to find a shop which sells sim cards, no luck, go through security and then realise there is no money exchange this side, so have to go back out through security, find the exchange place, and then repeat the whole procedure. I’m so glad I’m such a relaxed person now. I really have lost that London impatience, which is so apparent in the big smoke (that also might have something to do with not working for eleven months?).

As you can imagine the thought of returning home is on my mind, and I’m scared, very scared. I can't believe the year has gone so fast? I can't believe it's nearly December, and Ill be home in just over three weeks! Part of me is obviously very excited to see family and friends. I’ve missed them so much. But to be back in cold grey London, in the middle of this recession, Yuk.

I have a list from G about where to go to in Goa. It’s already occurred to me that his advice may not be exactly what I’m looking for (it includes boutique hotels and expensive clubs and bars). I’m a backpacker again after a few weeks of ‘flash packing’. I’ve already checked out all the other passengers on my IndiGo flight. It’s a quick 30min flight, instead of the 14-hour train ride, and there is a woman who is colourfully hippyish with nose stud and dreddy hair in a neat mess on the top of her head sitting just up from me. I pluck up courage to ask her advice on Goa. Thank GOD I do. She’s very sweet and invites me to join her in her pre-pay cab towards Arambol, which is where she says I should definitely start my Goan tour. We head off and she tells me of her love affair with Goa for the last six years. She’s Israeli and has been coming back to Goa every year for months on time. She speaks from the heart and while she does, I already know that I’m feeling the same way about India. The cab drops her off at her very own Portuguese villa (want one), we say goodbyes and then I head off to Arambol. I decide to follow the advice of a blog I read in Mumbai on the net, and as we enter Arambol I see a signpost for Gods Gift Guest house. I get shown a simple but comfortable room and decide to stay. It’s minutes from the beach and has a lovely restaurant over looking a palm tree forest. I chill out and then head down for some food. Sweet lassi and Goan fish curry with rice. So good, and so cheap! I’m quite tired after all this activity, so head to bed for a snooze before I go and explore. When I wake it’s dark. I realise that Gods Gift is lovely but also quite far from Arambol centre. Not great to be wandering around on a pitch-black beach on my own? Humm? I head to the nearest bar with fairy lights twinkling and meet two guys who are smoking a gigantic reefer, and looking through photographs on a camera. I’m slightly peckish and order a grilled cheese sandwich and a beer. We spend a hilarious night together, a Brit, an American and a Norwegian. When it’s time for me to go home, the Norwegian offers to escort me. There is a lot of stumbling around in the dark. It is so dark that we both nearly walk straight into a boat pulled up on to the sand. I wish I’d brought my trusty head torch. Gods Gift is too far away so I resolve to move into central Arambol the next day. I pack up in the morning. I check out, the sun is already baking (its only 10am), and head fully backpacked down the beach. I’m halfway when I realise I've left my mobile charging in the bathroom of my room. Back I go, huffing and puffing. Goa is damn hot! I move to Delwin's Ark, which I find accidentally just off the beach behind Relax Inn. It’s right in the hub, but hidden and quiet. I have my very bamboo beach hut with en-suite. Cold water, but I don’t care. Breakfast at Relax Inn, beach, maybe a spot of lunch? a lassi or fresh juice, the sunset, dinner, drinks, a smoke, bed. This is my life for the next three weeks! It’s so perfect. I meet a wonderful lady from Blighty who works the markets in Goa. One evening after far too many drinks, two on the house, a beach dog bites my hand (over zealous petting), and then I get walked home to my hut. But get to the door and have lost the key. So have to call C and she comes to the rescue. I stay at hers. She also has an apartment in Vagator that is a few beaches further south. I resolve to help C with her stall at Saturday’s Night market. Quite interestingly we’re selling Primark Underwear? I head off to the market around 4pm, wanting to hire a moped but chickening out and getting driven. I’ve been to the doctors in the morning with my dog bite, which isn’t bad. But my hand is in a bandage. The Saturday night market is brilliant fun, and goes on till nearly 2am. Marigetty a Greek woman has her kebab stall, so delicious chicken and feta kebabs for tea. There is so much cool stuff to buy at the market. I wish I didn’t have a budget. I do get myself a brown leather pair of Roman style sandals and a funny toilet bag. There is live music, great food, cool stuff to buy; it’s a really good night. I’ve been in Arambol for a week now so decide to move further south. For my next few weeks I move to Vagator (to be near to C too), into a mini house in the garden of Salt and Pepper guesthouse. All is fine until I make the mistake of eating a calamari curry on Baga beach. I get so ill I have to call the doctor to my room. I’m as sick as a dog; in fact I’m as sick as I was possibly in Colombia (at least I don’t have to trek for five hours). I get antibiotics and an avuredic meal plan, plain boiled rice and yogurt. This is my only sickness in India, pretty good going I think? Possibly due to my new found vegetarianism. There are so many power cuts in Goa; sometimes the power can be off for half a day. The restaurants obviously have freezers; these defrost, and then freeze again. That meat curry doesn’t sound so good now does it? Salt and Pepper are great and look after me like I’m part of the family. Vagator beach is very nice. Generally I’m to be found on the sun beds outside Shiva’s Place. After the calamari experience I opt for Shiva’s tuna, bean, tomato and red onion salad. Really good. Quite liking salt lassi’s now too. I do try half a bang lassi which I later regret somewhat. Thank god I only do half. There are plenty of crazies in Goa, but generally I have to say that is quite tame. Gone are the days of all night raves in Disco Valley. There are curfews in force, which mean all beach bars shut at 10pm. I do venture into 9bar, which stays open much later. But the psychedelic trance music means I don’t stay late. I manage a quick pizza and two beers but then am forced to head off (because I’m not off my head). I don’t fancy Baga much after the calamari curry experience. Plus I lack cash and heels. Going out just isn’t me in Goa. I like being tucked up in bed before 11pm every night. Did I mention that I officially smell like curry now too? I finished favourite deodorant (Pink Amplex), way back in South America somewhere. So have since been searching for a replacement that works as well. Difficult in so many different countries. Nivea ones seem to pop up everywhere in various guises. Crap, all of them. Then tried Rexona in Australia, which has been the best substitute so far. But that ran out in Saigon. Replaced with another Rexona. But different one, and crap again. So for a while now I’ve sort of gone sans deodorant?! Yuk? Or well don’t know really; just don’t seem to need one. Obviously I’m showering everyday and being on the beach so this negates the need of any body products apart from sun block. But I have noticed that I now have a distinct (but subtle) BO. This could be attributed to Indian food I fear? I quite like my smell. Is that wrong? It works especially well with my putain des palaces perfume. I meet a fake sunglasses salesman at one Saturday night market and kind of fall in love at first sight with him. He is so beautiful. He drives me around on his motorbike. I love being driven on Goan roads by bike. The wind on my face, my hair blowing free, the world going by in a whiz of colour, and the sun beating down on the dusty roads. I’m taken into Panjim to see Bollywood movies; we visit Old Goa and sneak in on a Catholic festival. I queue to see Saint Francis Xavier, and his non-decaying body. I’m almost not allowed in because I have a sleeveless vest on. It’s on view in an austere Catholic colonial church. I love the minimal interior. It’s very beautiful and somehow I understand this better than the opulence on show in so many church interiors. We sneak out as a large outdoor sermon has just started and squeeze through a gate to the safety of a market. Here there are sellers with trays of wax limbs; arms, legs and heads you can buy as donations to Saint Francis! We go to grab something to nibble, an onion and potato bhaji in a roll with tomatoes and a delicious sauce. Followed by Indian sweets, coloured bright orange and tasting of condensed milk and pistachio nuts. Then home as the sun goes down and we race under the burnt orange and pink sky with black palm tree jungle silhouetted against it, and the stars starting to twinkle in the midnight blue sky. We see a fluke night sky as the moon is full and Venus and Jupiter sit just above it either side. There is s smiley face in the sky looking down at us. I’m sad I don’t have my camera. So this is my life in the last few days of Esther’s Adventure. What and adventure I’ve had. Goa is the perfect place to end my adventure and I don’t really want to leave. In fact I come up with all sorts of hair brained schemes to stay. I’ve met such nice people. I wish I could stay. Shit this can’t be the end? This has been so much fun. It hasn’t been a very well updated blog. Sometimes two months out of date? But I’ve really loved doing it. I’ve much regretted not having my trusty Power book with me. So many crappy Internet cafes, so many dirty keyboards, so many slow connections. But the most annoying thing being, that I couldn’t type when I wanted. I’ve filled two notebooks, irreplaceable. I confer with them to check on content. Anyway I’d really like to know who reads my crap… please?? I seem to get a few hits on the page and have tried to set that Google thing which can apparently tell me who hits my page (i.e. its not just you mum, is it?) Can anyone tell me how to do it? I may continue to do a blog, not really sure how relevant to travel it will be? Although not entirely sure, that this blog was particularly travel concerned anyway? Travel has been the common thread in my blog… but I fear I’ve digressed somewhat on occasion.

OK I’ve dragged it out to one more instalment…

• In more ways than one, I’m super lucky to have missed the dreadful terrorist attack.

Hair Report: bushy on top from motorbike riding/racing.

Bollywoood movies.
Panjim.
Old Goa – The un-decayed body of Saint Francis Xavier at the Basilica of Bom Jesus.
All the pilgrims and Catholic girls.
The Delhi belly that renders me bed bound for two days.
Esther usually to be found at Shiva’s Place.
Bicep – Indian brother?
Connect-4 night.
Elephant on then bed means you don’t have bad dreams.
Motorbike crash in front of us. Luckily no one is hurt.
Riding out of Anjuna after the flea market on Wednesday evening.
The Enfield. Justin’s Enfield.
Esta bien/ Justin time.
Justin who reminds me of Nick with a four-month beard.
Shark and chips.
Caroline’s crystals.
Horse Power – Indian Red Bull.
Anklets without fasteners.
Esther in her Ali Baba trousers, anklets, chapels (flip flops), stripy fake Lacoste t-shirts. Esther SO happy it would make you sick.
The hot water bucket.
The Goan kiss I get on my leg – motorbike exhaust burn.
Listening to a Scottish woman sitting next to me on the beach and it taking me about half and hour to realise she’s Scottish. I actually couldn't understand her?!
Goa is an enchanted place.
The slippery water.
The gigantic ant infestation (they are ants, but 125% enlarged) One night they make off with half a Dairy Milk with almonds??
The well polished cockroach patrolling my bathroom shelf a night.
You cannot love without intuition – Graham Greene.

xxxxxx

So I’m in Bombay, and I end up staying rather longer than expected. In the week I arrive I have Diwali to contend with, therefore the all night gambling dens. There is an Expat evening playing music scores from Footloose, Dirty Dancing and Grease, where is Peter Kay? Unfortunately I’m nowhere near drunk enough to dance badly (although there are a few who do, whether they’re drunk or not is another question?). Just when we think it can’t get any worse (Jive Bunny!), the music stops and there is a raffle! Business cards are supposed to have been deposited in a vase at door (I don’t have one). Anyway some lucky woman wins, lots of whooping and clapping and a lovely magnum of non-descript champagne. Then we’re all made to stand in a circle and introduce ourselves on a microphone. At this point D and I can’t bear it any more, and fall over our feet trying to escape. P is already outside smoking a cheeky cigarette.
I have booked myself onto a train to Goa, leaving Saturday morning (6.30am), from the Victoria Terminus. It takes me two goes to book the ticket, the first visit, once I find the correct window at the station (round the back and upstairs). I queue for about fifteen minutes only to be told that I need my passport to book the ticket, bollocks. So I have to return the following day. After a monstrous week of partying, we finally reach Friday, which is also Halloween! As per usual, P has a good night in store. We have a concert first. The “Rock On” concert which is based on the Bollywood movie of the same name. I scour the area for ‘the walk of shame’ director I mentioned in my previous extract, but he’s no where to be seen. P has secured us some VIP passes which means we’re standing right at the front, in full view of the stage. We spy lots of Bollywood stars. Saif Ali Khan, Pritti someone… It’s rocking! Then it’s back to the car, which is waiting for us with driver right outside. Now this is the way to do concerts. Off we whiz, to another very cool penthouse in Colaba. The plan is we should be there till the early hours, so I will be delivered straight to the train station. Where I imagine I will collapse into a coma, and therefore sleep though any spectacular scenery I'd hoped to see along the way. At 2am though P and D feel like they need to head home. I'm left in the capable hands of a good friend of P’s called G. “G please look after Esther, and get her to her train on time”, “Yes of course P, it will be my pleasure!”. So then minutes later I’m perched on a stool at the bar (yes I’m in an apartment still, but there is a proper bar), downing tequila shots with new friend G. Then twenty minutes later we’re in the master bedroom en-suite. It is decorated in the most beautiful chocolate marble I’ve ever seen (wish list worthy). Two industrial lines are racked up, more tequila, more excess = I completely miss my train. G promises that he will fly me to Goa, but before he does he would like me to escort him to lots more parties, he invites me to stay another week in Bombay. Who am I to say no?! We have so much fun. He’s invincible. He has an infectious laugh and knows just about everybody in Bombay it would seem. The blond in tow of the Indian always goes down a treat. We’re like the new Liz and Arun. Well we’re not actually, but that’s another story. His flat is beautiful. A penthouse that overlooks the Arabian Sea looking west. It’s in a small hamlet called Banganga, which is a tiny village perched on the rocks down past Malabar Hill and Breach Candy. It’s a holy site. It’s believed to be part of the sacred Ganges. The village fills the area between the road (which the apartment stands on), and the rocks which then turn into the sea. In the mornings, when the tide is out you see the men of the village in their lungis going to defecate in the rock pools left by the tide. I sit cocooned in air con with marble floors and 46inch plasma TV, being waited on hand and foot. What the fuck is going on?!! These are the extremes that Bombay offers you, wide sceen. The sunsets from G’s apartment make me want to cry they’re so beautiful. I’m taken to chill out at ‘the club’, which is called Breach Candy and is up the road from G’s. It’s an old Raj British club, with a seen better days washed out blue salt water outdoor pool (but kind of in keeping with the ambience), indoor pool, sports club, restaurant and bar. Its lawns are manicured in stripes and the deckchairs are stripy too. We order Bloody Mary’s, served by waiters who look like they’ve been doing their jobs since about 1925. I feel like I am in Torquay, but I’m definitely in Bombay… I’ll be having a Mutter Paneer and Aloo Gobi with that G’n’T please… (Bombay Sapphire of course!)

On the final weekend before I leave. We have a lovely Friday where we meet for lunch at Britannia. A very old school restaurant, in the Old Fort area above Colaba. We meet up with a collection of lovely new friends whom I’ve met during my week with G. The restaurant is all peeling paint and creaking ceiling fans. The food is legendary, sublime in fact, Parsi. Lots of fruits and nuts added. My mouth is watering thinking about it. Afterwards a friend of G’s called R, takes us to the US club, which has a very quaint Afghan (Catholic) church in it. It feels like I’m in an English Village, except for the palms, oh and the 30 degree heat. Bit ‘a’ culture though innit?!...Then that evening, a typical G one. We have drinks and dinner first at friends house in Worli Beach. Then another drinks at Indigo. Then a party in Alibaug, which we have to get a ferry to, from outside the Taj Hotel and the Gateway of India. It’s basically an island off the coast of Bombay. A whole gathering wobble onto the boat and about 40mins later we all wobble off to dis-embarque. We’re standing in the dark when three jeeps appear out of the darkness and we pile in to them. There are 8 people in ours?! I cab hardly breath but the journey is only short. We head up a long drive way, either side of us are fountains and statues lit up like Christmas trees. Where on earth are we going? We arrive at what amounts to an Indian Beckingham Palace. We fall out of the jeep and are ushered into a marble lobby from which double sweeping staircases fall and drop down to an expansive lower ground floor where there is a indoor pool, disco, bar, sports rooms which all open up to the garden. It’s amazing and ridiculous. What on earth am I doing here??! It’s so surreal. Hilarious evening and I meet two great English girls who are singers. Eventually and rather to quickly the sun arrives and sheds light on vast landscaped gardens with tacky Venus de Milo statues and Greek columns. It’s way past our bed time, and we need to catch to boat back. We get ourselves together (a bit of a mission). G has been swimming so has lost his bag. The house and grounds are so vast, god only knows where it could be? We jump into another jeep and head back to the pier we arrived last night. G’s bag appears in the back of the jeep, brilliant. Then there is a Bollywood movie being shot on the pier, so we have to saunter past Rambo (?) and his entourage. We fall into the boat and are whisked back to Bombay, before you can say ‘hair looks like it’s been dragged through a bush backwards’. What a crazy night. Sunday is spent under wraps.

Monday morning I finally have a flight to Goa! I make it, well by the skin of my teeth, wrong terminal again… Goa here I come!

Hair Report – (just for Louise) Indian Jennifer Aniston but blond (in fact very blond) and mini fringe has finally grown out.

G’s house boy Shadoo, sleeps on the floor of the back room.
Pickled ginger in lime juice and sugar.
Cristal the dog – she eats my lonely planet (entire index), my memory card (entire Vietnam photos not backed up), bitch.
Indigo dinner – first steak since Argentina? Amazing Oysters.
R's menu: tbc

I am flavour of the month.
The pasta bar: you go to the bar and decide what shape pasta you want and with what sauce, then it’s cooked for you in front of your eyes (this is someone’s private dinner party).
Sleeping in the sauna for an hour to hide from crazies (it was dark and off).
The Dhobi Ghats.
My lunch at veggie restaurant in Bandra. Dosa yum!
The Bollywood movie I act in, end up with the casting agent till rather late.
The very very drunk man at the party who tells us: ‘its grotesquely inappropriate, and a scandalous travesty of justice that we’re not in bikinis!’. He should have been a character in the Fast Show.
The rudest girls I’ve ever met, who I kick out of G’s apartment.
The Bollywood Eastender, Dalip Tahil who keep flirting with me because he thinks I’ll recognise him, I don’t. Only find out after who he was.
Chor Bazaar – too much cool stuff. But I visit at dusk and get quite scared being on my own. What is that I’m walking on in flip flopped feet in the dark?
80’s ski suite fest. OMG – fancy dress heaven, it has to be seen to be believed.
Crawford Market – buy spices and given a pocketful of cashews.
Give pocketful of cashews to taxi driver, he’s so grateful we stop off en route to give some to his mate.
Gateway to India – I end up in lots of different peoples holiday snaps.
The milk and rice scam – I’m taken by a barefoot Indian woman to buy her some baby milk and rice, she says she can’t get in the shop with no shoes. So we walk for about 15 mins. To a store on a corner. I buy her milk and rice for 400 rupees. It only occurs to me later that she didn’t actually need to go in the shop, so the bare foot thing was a lie. And then I realise it will have been her friends shop and she probably wont buy milk and rice, or if she does not at that price. Truly had, truly BLOND see above hair report.
Terrible fashion disasters – where are the Indian fashion police when you need them?
WWKMD? – what would Kate Moss do? Girls take this to heart please.
The White Tiger – interesting insight into the darkness of India.
The text message: Abyss in the liver – should have read abscess!
BOMBAY SUNSET – Cafe del Mar eat your shorts.

Oh dear I truly LOVE Bombay with all my heart.

Home will be here soon, how did that happen? Afraid, very afraid.

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