Day 63-82 Karnataka & Goa — IndefinitelyOOO

*"I'm not sure we even saw a policeman"*

After two weeks of doing very little it’s fair to say we were mentally and physically primed to begin the beach-bum portion of our journey! Three tireless weeks wending our way up the West Coast of India with only the sea as our vista and sand underfoot (and often everywhere else as well).

First up Kannur, and a homestay on the Malabar coast. We arrived in time for a slap up lunch with the other guests who’d all been there for quite soon time in seemed – one practising yoga with an 80 year old teacher, one en route to a tattoo convention in Goa and an Italian couple in search of the perfect shot with the biggest camera lenses I have ever seen. Post lunch we were asked if we’d like to be present at a ‘ritual’ the locals were performing the next morning. Intrigued at the prospect of something Temple of Doom like we said yes of course and were told to be ready for a 3am pick-up. 3am you say…? A rude awakening by the alarm and an hour later, after travelling in very close proximity to our new friends in the back of a tuk-tuk, we arrived in the middle of a forest clearing to the most astonishing sight. All the villagers gathered around the shrine and tens of men dressed in incredible, ceremonial garb. Having read a little in advance and after witnessing the theatre of the next three hours, the performance is made up of a number of phases of dance and recitations to heavy drum music. The worship is delivered by village elders chosen to take on the form of various deities – a tradition (often described as a living cult) which goes back several thousand years. The performers of Theyyam take it extremely seriously and one of the guides told us that the honour is passed through generations and the children will learn the rituals and dances and recitations rather than go to traditional schools. And my goodness you would need to practice! The performers dance with fire and swords, spinning furiously with coconut oil constantly poured over the aflame torches attached to their grass skirts to keep the spectacle illuminated. Not for the faint hearted or fire phobic…

Words don’t really do it justice though so here are a few videos and photos:

Next up was a beach front cottage with an entirely yellow interior and my first and as it turned out last experience of Ayurvedic – but at least I can say it was in its birthplace.

It wasn’t for me; and this from a person with a fully paid up membership to the I Like a Rub Club… It would also be unjust to assume I didn’t give it a good go, trying three different treatments (also - thank god for Google otherwise I would have been subject to the pouring of oil into places well… places.) But it just wasn’t enjoyable or indeed comfortable –prostate as I was on a teak table with grooves carved into it for your limbs. At one stage oil in a bowl was dripped onto my forehead from a height – for about twenty minutes. Is this what Chinese water torture feels like I repeatedly asked myself as I tried to imagine what good this could possibly be doing me…

So after giving it my best shot that form of medicinal relaxation was abandoned for an even more pure sort – long walks along empty beaches and a day trip to Kerala District’s wine shop capital (we honestly didn’t know this prior to setting off to Mahe); returning to our yellow hut with a cake from India’s oldest bakery and a £10 bottle of Gordon’s. Cheaper than the oil too.

Gorkana was our next stop which we’d read about as the inexplicably overlooked crown in India’s coast. What we hadn’t read about until the train ride to it was the numerous instances of police brutality and suspect ‘stop and search’ practices with foreign visitors. By the end of the three hour train ride Jacko had plugged the number of the British Consulate into my phone and we’d rehearsed various us versus the police scenarios to ensure we weren’t the latest victims of any money extraction…As it turns out the threat of roadside random stops never materialised – I’m not even sure we saw a policeman.

Gorkana’s promise of empty, glistening beaches however was delivered on and our three days there was spent dolphin spotting over breakfast, trekking to uncover yet another beach to be crowned the most beautiful / barren of tourists and perhaps most significantly discovering the ‘Sizzler’ – a hotplate seafood serving spectacle which came to sustain us through a number of beach luncheons to come.

Tiny Cola beach followed – worth the dirt track, bump ridden journey and precarious descent down a hundred steps laden with back pack … and then back up fifty steps to our jungle hill perched hut which was circled by bats on a nightly basis.

And finally Benaulim, a recommendation from our German friend from Varanasi, Stefan and the winner of the coveted best sand prize. (It sounded like the noise fresh, deep powdery snow makes when you walk on it for the first time).

If there’s a better way to spend the start of any year I can’t think what it is.

We can cover the next fortnight pretty swiftly, although we ourselves were not moving very fast. Working our way up the coast, from Kerala, through Karnataka to Goa, we slipped into an easy rhythm of arriving early at some impossibly beautiful stretch of beach, checking into a tiny one-room hut built right onto the sand, cup of chai, do some laundry in a bucket, apply sunscreen and walk a few paces to the sea to spend the day reading, swimming, enjoying cold drinks (it’s important to keep taking on fluids in the heat) and generally loafing about. This pattern repeated itself in half a dozen villages and small towns, our resting places becoming busier, noisier and increasingly lairy as we move north.

In Gorkana, we hike for hours through jungle and over rocky escarpments, discovering beaches empty even of footprints. White sand, golden sand, black sand. Sand that crunches underfoot like snow or is so fine you wade through, sunk to the shins. We prevail on a passing boatman to take us back at the end of the day. He’s paid in an assortment of pound coins, euros and rupees scavenged from pockets and the bottom of bags.

It’s a far cry from Goa’s Panjim, where we finish our tour. Where premiership football plays on every tv and chips come with everything. It’s fun to be somewhere lively after a couple of weeks of solitude and we let our hair down in tacky bars blasting hit parade reggaeton, drinking happy hour cocktails and watching the fire breathers on the beach.

It hasn’t all been sunburn and long drinks, though. We do take a little time to explore. In Karnataka, we head deep into the jungle at 3.00am to witness a local harvest ceremony; villagers in intricate dress dancing and telling ancient stories of gods and men, their huge costumes set aflame and burning as they whirl to the beat of drums in front of the temple. It’s extraordinary and quite private - there are few tourists here - and they’ve been at it for two days. It’s explained to me that this is a well-loved ritual because all the castes are represented in the storytelling and play a part on an equal footing, the actors playing the same roles as their fathers, grandfathers and ancestors.

And, because Karnataka is a pretty conservative state with alcohol quite restricted, we take some locals’ advice and travel over the state border back into Tamil Nadu to Mahe, part of Pondicherry’s jurisdiction. It’s where Karnataka goes to have a good time we’re told. That’s as may be but none of Pondy’s charm has reached here. The streets are lined with off licences and we weave around drunk men on the shabby pavements. Signs and notices from the superintendent of police indicate they have an alcohol problem here. People leave their families to drink cheap whisky and never return, as illustrated by the grisly photos of the last year’s alcohol fatalities. It’s grim and we don’t hang around.

We travel no further north than Panjim, avoiding the party beaches of Calangute and Baga and talking to fellow travellers confirms the suspicion that we’re too old for that flavour of holiday so we wrap up here and head inland for the next phase of our journey.