Patnem Beach, Goa

  Even just a couple years ago, Goa was known as party central. The authorities have cracked down on many of the illegal activities by now, trying to somewhat redeem or even reinvent Goa's image. We headed to the southern – calmer – part of Goa anyway, right after most of the NYE crowds left and the prices plunged down considerably.

  The bus dropped us off at 5 AM on a deserted street corner in Canacona, with a couple of stray dogs for company. We then headed to Palolem Beach, and waited at a 24 hour bar for daylight, with some slurring revelers who did not realize that the party ended hours ago. After a quick look, we decided that Palolem was still too much of a party scene, and headed to nearby Patnem, where retirees come for extended stays. How appropriate – we haven't truly partied since Kathmandu.

Dinner anyone?

Our daily visitor

Home for almost a week

  Patnem is a lovely little town, with a vast stretch of golden beach. Homesick at times, we were able to at least indulge in some Western comforts: still a hut but with a nice bathroom, great service, privacy, especially at the beach with no gawkers (a relief for me), and some really amazing food. Almost every day, we gorged on mouth-watering fish and seafood, Goan spicy specialties such as fish vindaloo and crab xec xec, and, believe it or not, some of the best Italian pasta this side of the ocean.

  When we took some time off from our busy schedule of sunbathing and gaining weight, we rented a scooter and spent 3 days driving up and down the coast. Some of the beach towns and cities are even lovelier than Patnem. Panji, Old Goa and Margao, for instance, have many Portuguese accents, something we expected out of Kochi but didn't really find. We visited Margao more than we wanted, though, when we had to come back twice more to secure train tickets for the next leg of the journey.

  At least I got to learn how to drive a scooter, with my brave bf behind me. 

  I did not feel confident enough, however, to enter the bigger roads, where only one thing matters: the size ;). So bicycles give way to motorized bikes, bikes to rickshaws, rickshaws to cars, cars to trucks, trucks to crazy buses. All stop for one thing and one thing only – the cows, which wander as they see fit. On top of it, everyone (except for the cows naturally) seems to be in a great hurry, so it gets a bit scary on a one lane highway, when (coming at you) you see a bus passing a car that's passing another car. Uff, even writing that got complicated. On top of that, you have to keep an eye out for the police. In India, rental companies don't bother with such small details like license or insurance. We got stopped five times, our white faces too much of an incentive. Once, we got a ticket for no helmets. At least the nice gentleman gave us a receipt for the fine, which helped us out on two other stops. Another time, the officer had an issue with Pawel's motorcycle license, even though other checks thought it complied with the rules. He started threatening us with a 950 rupee fine (only about $20, but exorbitant considering the local prices) and a court day. P nonchalantly mentioned that he'll check with the embassy on the rules, since they seem inconsistent, and all of a sudden there was no problem. Corrupt much?

  Mentally regenerated, we move on to Rajasthan to soak up some of the region's history, with a change of trains in noisy Mumbai. After two days of travel, tired and dirty, we step off the train, not sure what to expect. Surprisingly, it's quiet. It's clean. Udaipur – India's purported Venice.  

Hot Hampi

  People often say they experience seesawing highs and lows when traveling in India, even more so than in other countries. The low became true for me as we set off for Hampi. In search of a rickshaw, at six in the morning, on a dark, rough dirt road, I stumble and the weight of the backpack takes me to the ground. I get nicely scraped and banged up, narrowly avoiding a twisted ankle. The rickshaw driver we find ostentatiously rips us off, and we have no choice but to accept it if we want to make the 6.45 AM bus. At the bus station, the freaking bus station, I step into a fresh cow pattie. I gag on reflex, the smell is so disgusting. Having faced the Indian buses before, I take a motion sickness pill, a non-drowsy one mind you, only to spend the entire 10 hour ride doped out and sleeping, not to mention dehydrated, since toilets for women are rare enough on the road. When we finally find a hotel room in smelly Hampi Bazaar, I open my cosmetics case, only to face off with two huge, oxygen-starved cockroaches. At least P is there with his sandal. I give up and call it a night.

  Thankfully, the next morning brings on a more optimistic perspective and better options. We move across the river to a quieter, nicer and infinitely cheaper part of Hampi. Another hut, although with better facilities, at Blue Eye. Laid-back and relaxed, it's a perfect base for exploring the ruins.

Temple elephant, for 10 rupees you can get a blessing :)

Lotus Mahal

Old elephant stables

  In the 16^th century, Hampi was the site of a capital city of one of the largest existing Hindi empires of the time. Despite (or maybe because of) its thriving prosperity, Hampi was razed to the ground by a confederacy of sultanates in 1565. Its many buildings, from a palace complex to numerous temples, made of durable granite, persist to this day, often restored to great detail. The ruins are further located in an improbably breath-taking setting: great copper boulders, formed by ages of volcanic activity (far as the eye can see), electric green palms, rice fields and banana plantations (some of the sweetest bananas I've ever tasted!), all set against an azure sky.

Globalization?

  We rented a motorcycle, and spent two days exploring the beautiful countryside, free to move as we wish. The heat of Hampi during early afternoon hours usually drove us into a shade, as temperatures usually exceeded 100 F.

  One day, we drove to a man-made reservoir lake. P took a refreshing dip while I relaxed in the shade, dressed, all too aware of the constant attention of the local male gawkers, come to stare at women in bikinis. Man, does this get frustrating. Especially when they try taking pictures, although by then someone responds and they quickly flee.

A man is an island?

  Finally planning our transport days in advance,we booked a bunk on an AC sleeper bus (such luxury!). Reluctant to leave this place of quiet, we are once again on the road, this time to the south of Goa, via Canacona to Palolem Beach. Yes, another beach, but this time our last in India.

Drifting.. - still in India, this time in Gokarna

  It takes us almost 24 hours to reach Gokarna. We have a six hour stop in Mangalore, and stock up on some quality coffee and an array of alcohol. In the evening, we reach Om Beach at last, only to find out that all places are booked. Determined not to sleep on the beach (considering cows and stray dogs and all), we hike with our torches to Half Moon Beach, 20 minutes on a dark cliff trail. With no electricity, Half Moon turns out to be a rustic paradise. We set up our mosquito net in a thatched hut, and spend the evening having some beers with some reeaaally chilled out people (wink wink), listening to the sound of rolling waves. Peaceful.

Accommodation at Half Moon

  Nevertheless, the next morning we go searching for a place at Om Beach, looking for a more festive atmosphere for NYE. No luck. Resigned, we eat our breakfast at Om Santi, when serendipity steps in. I hear that someone is leaving and jump at the opportunity. We get a hut and we can stay for the next week, provided we change huts the next day. With that sorted, we start to relax. Om Santi has a laid back, almost hippie, atmosphere, with hammocks and mats and a sand floor. Our thatched hut is similar, with a raised platform for a mattress and a mosquito net. Little else. There's a shared toilet and an area for a bucket shower with no roof (we got used to those!). Simple, clean, it's our oasis for the next six days. The people are welcoming, both staff and fellow travelers. Some have been here for almost a month. We spend the days at the beach or in our communal area, catching up on reading, tanning and drinking :) We take a hike to Paradise Beach, a literal hippie paradise. People sleep on hammocks, or in make-shift tents from large cloths. They play music, sing and smoke (again, wink wink). But it's not a paradise for long, as we hear police raids the beach, cuts down the trees, and displaces them from their self-imposed solitude. Cruel but also understandable, since squatters are seldom welcome.

Paradise Beach

Laundry day - the small things we learn to appreciate

Om Santi

All the luxuries you need

Om Beach

Indian male hobby - watching Western women

And then there were cows

Om Santi

  On a roll, the police also check restaurants in Om Beach and confiscate all alcohol (individual stashes are untouched). Much of alcohol in India is sold under the table (literally!). It has to do with Hinduism, but after a month here, I'm not surprised, seeing how some Indian men react to it. Our NYE thus begins on a sedate note, with a delicious communal dinner by candlelight. 

  Before midnight, some 20 of us venture out to the beach, each with a bottle in hand, and sit around a candlelight fire (bonfires were not permitted this night), to the accompaniment of guitar and drums. The countdown starts early some three times, since no one is certain of the time. Finally, the fireworks go off. And they're small, individually - spaced, but still spectacular in this particular setting. Soon after all the midnight well-wishing, we go back to the hut, as a wall of rain hits the beach and soaks everything in sight. At least we wake up the next day with no hangover regrets :)

  On the 2^nd of the new 2013, we decide we've been lazy for long enough, and set off for Hampi, the city of ruins.  

Christmas in Kochi

  After some of the unpleasantness in Munnar, we were ready to move on to Kochi. We took a local bus to Ernakulam, the business district of Kochi, and then a red city bus to Fort Kochi. Now that one was an experience. With our big backpacks, we crammed into the seats directly by the driver. I felt like I was sitting on the hood of the bus, with a prime view of the driver's skills (a young dude with Top Gun aviators) of weaving in and out of traffic. The only thing that kept my heart from palpitating was knowledge that I've been in similar situations before, and Indian drivers more than proved their abilities. Until we hit another bus. On the side where I was sitting. Thankfully, the old metal boxes were so sturdy that I doubt more than a scratch remained. Only our driver's pride was bruised, as he left in a hurry amid curses from the other guy. This entire ride was to the accompaniment of an eclectic mixed tape, including Lil Wayne, some Spanish crooner and Backstreet Boys, played so loud you thought your eardrums would pop. Pawel sang to the latter. I pretended not to know him, even though he was the only other foreigner on the bus.

  After some looking around, we found a decent hotel, but right by the main road. The redeeming quality was its free WiFi, important to us since we wanted to get in touch with our families at Christmas time.

  Fort Kochi is an old Portugese port, enticing traders for the last 600 years. The promise of its sleepy charm was dimmed by the masses of tourists, in town for the holidays. The white-washed buildings weren't so white anymore. The beach was polluted by mounds of trash. The famous Chinese fishing nets were impressive, although their redundancy in comparison to modern fishing techniques became apparent when an hour of intensive labor brought in one flimsy fish (which was promptly snatched by a crow). On top of it, the air was so humid and sticky it attracted swarms of mosquitoes. The food was mostly mediocre, although seaside fish stalls sold some fresh seafood, which you could then take to any restaurant and have it cooked your way. The trick was finding the right restaurant.

Polluted beach at Fort Kochi

Chinese fishnets

  But it was Christmas, and we were determined to celebrate, Polish-style. We made a dinner reservation for Christmas Eve at a hotel with some great ambiance (ha, turns out better ambiance than food). After dinner, we attended a midnight mass, half in English and half in the local Malayalam, at the magnificent Santa Cruz Basilica. There was room at the front, and we sat, cross-legged, shoes off, staring wide-eyed at the elegant church and its beautiful decorations. It was a Catholic mass, but, as is true in most of India, all religions were welcome. I try to attend midnight mass every year, but I have to say this one was one of the most moving. The only surprise came when the bishop unveiled the newborn Jesus edify, all the lights went out (no surprise there given the constant power outages in India), and loud popping fireworks went off outside. It took a second to figure out they were only fireworks. Heart attack averted.  We walked back to the hotel among a celebrating crowd, and made some well-wishing Skype calls back home.

Christmas Eve dinner

Our reservation - we felt special

Santa Cruz Basilica

Too bad the decorations were turned off

  Now it was time to figure out how to travel on, hard considering it was high season. But my smart bf already unraveled the complicated Indian rail system. For a fee (200 rupees or about $4), through a system called Taktal, P went to the train station before 10AM to buy tickets, which the rail holds back from the original sales and releases only the day before the departure. He got tickets for trains that have been overbooked for months. Happy with our cleverness, we leave on the 27^th (I think? we lose track of time now) for Gokarna, our NYE destination.

In case you missed our faces :)