Day 158 - Waiting Game

It's a hot and drowsy afternoon. Everything in Goa, even the train station seems more laid-back than in the rest of India. Like the stations in the rest of the country, Goa's has its share of stray dogs. Only here though can they afford to snooze in line.

We however are having a less restful day. We went to buy our tickets to Kerala, and were told that there was a good chance that we would get bunks, but that there was a four-person waitlist. I went ahead and bought the wait-list tickets - we had good luck with them last time - and crossed my fingers.

Being wait-listed freaks Cz out. After a good while of fretting, we decided to calm down by catching up on the blog and e-mails. Good for the moms and other readers, less good for playing tourist in Goa.

Goa was one of the (possibly the longest) Portuguese-held colonies in India. As a result, Old Goa has some astounding Portuguese architecture. Not that we would know - we never made it as far as Old Goa. We did finish blogging and internetting with enough time before re-checking our tickets to visit The Church of the Holy Spirit. We had heard that the interior was richly decorated, but unfortunately it was closed when we arrived. It was still quite pretty Portuguese-looking from the outside.

From there, we took a tuk-tuk out to Rachol Seminary. Lonely Planet notes that this is not a tourist destination and to ask before wandering around. There were a group of caretakers outside when we arrived, so I approached the one that looked most in charge. Not only did he grant us permission to explore the seminary, but he gave us guided tour of the building and grounds.

The Seminary was orginally built in 1604 by Portuguese missionaries. Over the years, it has been headed by the Dutch, The English, and now, finally, Indians. The best thing about the building was the fact that it wasn't a tourist attraction - nothing had been 'prettied up' or set out as a display. We stopped first at the organ loft over the chapel. There, partially under a dust-cover was a 400 year old pump organ. The back panels were loose, so our guide even showed us how the bellows worked (one person pumps with theur feet at one end of the organ, another plays the keys on the other). We then went down a hall lined with black-and white photos of Seminarians from the past centuy, a skeleton, Portuguese coins, and assorted dusty artifacts. A few steps down, and a low doorway led us to a tiny balcony nestled in the ornate woodcarving that covered the front of the church. I don't knoiw the dates on all of it, but the parts around the alter were 17th century.

Many old homes in Goa have mother of pearl instead of glass in the windows. The seminary was no exception. Each of the large upper windows comprised hundreds of shell panels, filtering and diffusing the light.

Up in the attic proper, we found what was probably a classroom - an old chalkboard stood on a stand in the corner. The real draw though was the views. Window lined three walls of the room, and from that height it was possible to see over much of the state, and out over the bay.

Back down again, we passed playing courts where we could hear what sounded like a rowdy game. Even seminarians are allowed to some fun! In another courtyard, our guide pointed to what looked like a tennis court, and said that a canal ran underneath it from one end to another. We were perplexed until he took us outside and down some dark stone stairs. A cavernous cystern filled the space under the courts. Cz shone his headlamp around the space - the beam barely penetrated the dark, but it was enough to wake a few of the ats who lived there.

We spent at least an hour going up and down and around all the nooks and crannies of the seminary. Our guide never asked for anything, but we slipped him a couple hundred rupees 'for the church'.

By then it was time to head back to the train station.

Where we discovered that our bunks had been confirmed. With that stress over with, we ate an easy dinner in the railway cafe, found our platform, and were soon on our way south.

Day 157 - Beach Bums

We were on the beach before 8AM. We spent the entire morning wandering, collecting shells, and frolicking in the waves.

V took us to a terrific restaurant for lunch, which again had its own fishing trawler. Where we again feasted on Goan sausages (like extra-spicy chorizo, a holdover from Portuguese colonial days), and local seafood.

After lunch, we stocked up on liquor, and returned to the apartment.

We spent the rest of the afternoon (by then it was nearly 5PM) alternating between lounging by the pool and lounging on the balcony of the apartment.

V and I opted to wander down to the beach for sunset (which we just missed, but the dusk beach was still lovely). We took a shortcut home through the grounds of the Radisson, concocting an elaborate story of how V was a non-resident Indian, and that I was his trophy wife from the US. We even invented a room number and business in India in case a security guard stopped us. None did, so our fabulous tale went to waste.

Back at the apartment, we drank a few rum-and-cokes, and called it a night.

Goa is the holiday state, both for Indians and Europeans, and it certainly lives up to its reputation.

Day 156 - Just Beachy

We arrived at the station at 6:30 AM - not just on time, but half and hour early. This never happens. We waited around until 7, when our train was supposed to have arrived, because there was a chance that M and V (his college friend who is Indian and whose family owns a house in Goa) were going to meet us there. They didn't, so we gambled that the apartment was in North Goa, and caught a cab up the coast.


After a lovely breakfast at a beach resort, it was a reasonable enough hour to dial V's cell. Turns out the house was in South Goa, so we hopped in a cab, and headed back the way we had come.

The beach where the house is located is a lesser known beach. We drove down to Palolem, the main tourist beach of the south, and were directed back north AGAIN to Colva beach, which is still in South Goa, but only just so.

Meanwhile, V sent the cab driver a text message that we should get off at the Radisson Hotel and walk south along the beach, and they would wait for us there. We did so, and followed the path towards the water.

The path dead-ended at a swampy inlet with no bridge.

We hacked our way through the scrub until we burst out on a different path which spilled directly onto the beach. The sunbathers gave us some weird looks. I don't know why - surely sweaty, fully-clothed, backpack-toting foreigners crash out of the woods all the time...

We trekked our way down the beach, and sure enough, V and M were heading down to meet us. They wore nothing but swim trunks, and I was very jealous.

Carmona Beach, where we will be spending the weekend, is an unbroken, largely uninhabited stretch of palm-fringed white sand on the Arabian Sea. It's pretty much paradise.

We spent the afternoon doing not much of anything. Dinner was an event, at a restaurant with its own fishing trawler. We feasted on a smorgasboard of fresh local seafood - crab, fish, curries, and Goan Sausage.

With a local (V) to guide us, a brilliant apartment, and a swimming pool for the turns of tide when the sea currents are to strong, it promises to be a terrific few days!