Goa, on the road.

February - the last week.

The next day we were both feeling healthier than we had done in over a week. We had met a lovely couple, Miriam and Roolfe, a couple of days before, and they had recommended a great place to hire some motorbikes for a week. We had just that: one week before M arrived, and also our friend, Omar, was coming to meet us for his 30th birthday. So we decided to kill some time and explore the coastline of Goa.

We dropped our big packs at the house of the guy who was hiring us the bikes and inspected our steeds. Well, that is to say Marcus inspected his moped. I’d decided I was old enough and responsible enough to stop crashing bikes now so I had hired a Yamaha Enticer. However it hadn’t turned up as yet. In fact it took two hours for him to locate and bring the bike to me. It was worth the wait though. The Enticer is a wonderful machine. Ithas a small capacity - 250cc - for a bike its size but it is a 4 stroke engine and has a very low gear ratio. It is designed to cruise on, not to race. It has an electric starting motor, a drop seat and large moose-like handlebars. Basically, it looks like a Harley Davidson, and when you are riding around one of the most beautiful coastlines in Asia, that is what’s important.

We headed out of Anjuna and rode south. First down to Old Goa town where we could join the highway and cross the two estuary points of the Zuari. This meant joining the highway. Surprisingly on the highway in Goa you had to wear a helmet if you were riding a motorbike. Interestingly enough this rule didn’t apply to passengers. The traffic police were notorious for stopping and fining tourists and extracting bribes from them, however we had been tipped off and were well prepared. We had hired bikes with authenticate hire plates (red ones) we had the papers of ownership and we had helmets for the highway so we didn’t get stopped.

The ride down was interesting, to say the least. It had been over 12 years since I had ridden a geared motorcycle but, in much the same way as having sex on a trampoline: it comes back to you. After a couple of hours I was pretty comfortable with it. The highway was a little insane but we managed to traverse it without killing ourselves, although we did end up a little bit off course. Marcus heard from a friend he’d met travelling around South America. She was in Goa for a couple of days – in the south, in Palolem. We decided to take the bikes all the way down the coast in one day. It was about six hours all in all. We made it way before time. The last 40 kilometres were mountain roads and we spent the whole time dodging buses, trucks, and oncoming traffic whilst weaving through deep canyon passes at break-neck speeds. I loved every minute of it.

We arrived in Palolem and, after a bit of arsing around, found a fantastic room with A/C, hot showers, and a TV for a decent price. Palolem was a beachfront town curving around the bay so enclosed it was nearly a lagoon. With two natural breakers on either end that kept the tide to a minimum flow and ebb. It appeared a little touristier than Anjuna but that didn’t detract from its beauty. Also because it was the end of the season it wasn’t too busy.

We met up with Marcus’s friend, Nikki, who turned out to be excellent company. She had a wicked sense of humour and was a good party person. We went out for some food on the beach – in a nice little joint called New Orleans – and a chat. Nikki was a project manager for charity relief organisations and had been working in East India completing an analysis of the efficacy of the charity organisations set up to provide aid after the 2005/6 tsunami in the Indian Ocean. After dinner, several beers, and a Nargile, we stumbled off up the beach to some flashing lights to see if we could find a party. We managed to find a noiseless rave.

A noiseless rave, we found, works very much the same way as a normal one. People flock to the party, pay the entrance fee, listen to live DJs, dance, drink beer, and socialise. The only difference is in a noiseless rave there are no speakers. No music is played anywhere save from through the wireless headphones you hire when you pay your entrance fees. These amazing little bits of electrickery have a range of over 100 metres and two channels on you can select which music stream you want to dance to. If you get bored of one DJ or you spot someone bopping along to a different beat you think may be better, you just flip channel. The whole setup is a bit weird. It works fine whilst you have the headphones on but taking them off and watching a beachful of people dancing silently to the flashing strobe lights is more than a little surreal. Good fun though and the main point is no noise pollution.

The next day we took it very easy. We rode the bikes over the next beach, Patnem, which was even quieter and sunbathed, swam and read. In the evening we played pool and had dinner in the hotel where we were staying. I was still feeling pretty ill so I opted for an early night and left Marcus and Nikki to catch up.

The next morning we were still midway through our bike hire so we decided to work our way slowly back up the coast. Nikki wanted to check out Benolium beach. So she hitched a ride with us up the coast for the afternoon. We stopped off at a Hindu Temple and I got my first Bindi spot. We were invited to an annual procession in two days there but we were a bit dubious about making it back.

We got to Benolium and checked into a very quiet out the way place that took ages to find the road in to. But it was worth it in the end. We had a late lunch with Nikki then I dropped her at the bus stop in the nearby town and then Marcus and I chilled out and had a couple of beers. In the evening we went and watched some belly dancing.

The next day I ran along the beach at dawn and then we spent the day doing the same as we always did: reading and doing nothing. Marcus was interested in riding a geared motorbike so we found a quiet road and I gave him some basic lessons. He took to it really well and I left him ride around the backroads for the afternoon. We went out in the evening and I had to come home early – still feeling ill. Fat bastard himself had a huge Kingfish sizzler. I think it may not have been as fresh as he’d hoped as he was to find out over the next few days.

It was time to bring the bikes back the next day. We could have kept them longer but we wanted to get back to Anjuna. We also wanted to chill for a day or so as Merryl and Omar were due out on Saturday. We road back up along the coast. We stopped off at for lunch. It was like Benidorm for Indian people. We didn’t dally there for too long. We checked out the Portuguese fort at Fort Aguada and then headed back up to Anjuna pulling into town just in time for tea. By this time Marcus had been visited by the stomach faeries and took himself to bed. I decided to pop down to the flea market – that runs every Wednesday in the old town. I found the most amazing pair of trousers I had ever seen in my life. Joseph’s technicoloured dream coat would have paled into insignificance by comparison. I spent over twenty minutes haggling with the market stall owner and finally got them for a song. They were phantasmic. I was so excited by them that I had to go back to the hotel and jump around the bedroom in them for 10mins. It’s not often you procure such a pair of pants as this.

The next couple of days we did relatively nothing apart from hang out in Anjuna watching movies in the bars in the evening and making plans for the week-end when the others were to arrive. Marcus was too ill to even get out of bed for most of the time so I mooched around, breaking in my new pants, reading books, swimming, and chatting to people. Oh actually we did make it out one evening to catch a live trip-hop/reggae band. They were brilliant. A cross between Portishead and Peter Tosh. Everyone in the bar was so off their face it beggared belief. People were falling off stools and one guy was swinging his guitar around and knocking peoples drinks all over the place.. only in Goa.

Anjuna, Goa state, the first couple of days, and the Full Moon Party.

February 19th - to February the something or other

We flew into Goa airport on a hot and lazy afternoon. The flight had been brilliant. It left on time and the aircraft was brand spanking new. Well that is to say it had nice carpets and a fresh lick of paint and, as everyone knows, when you are travelling at 18,000m above sea-level, that’s what’s important.

Goa has in contemporary history (i.e. mine) been hitherto known as a party place. In the 80’s and 90’s it was renowned for its marathon psychedelic parties pumping away for days on end, around the beaches of Anjuna, Palolem, and Benolium. At the end of the 90s however this became too much for the local inhabitants, not to mention the local tourism board. Although they welcomed the steady influx of tourism and money, they were becoming increasingly fed-up with the decadence, the vices, and the lack of respect for their culture and religion. The Goa that exists now still has a good party vibe and is still a fantastic place to visit, but it is much more chilled out and relaxed. There is a curfew on beach parties set to 10pm. There are, as always, exceptions but they are done on the sly - and every now and then there are full moon parties, or so we were led to believe. Funnily enough there was one due a couple of days after we arrived. What a coincidence!

We got a taxi from the airport past the city of Vasco da Gamato to Anjuna beach. Goa is divided into the northern and southern areas. The river of Zuari serves as a demarcation point between the two. The north is more famous for its parties, the south is more of a chill out area. Anjuna is about 25kms north of Goa town. We rocked up in the late afternoon. We’d gotten some suggestions for a hotel from two Russian guys we shared a cab with. We tried the popular place recommended in the Good Book but that was full. So we took a chilled out place down by the beach. We dumped our bags and I sauntered down to the shop to get some sundries. Marcus was still ill at this point. I got accosted by a guy from Moscow drinking shots at the shop. Yes the shop sold shooters. He was definitely not on the same planet as me and I was looking forward to joining him there later. Things were looking pretty good.

Marcus dragged himself out of bed, despite feeling manky, and we wandered along the beach. It was dotted with bars, shacks, cafes, and pool dens. It was also beautiful. We spent an enjoyable afternoon adjusting to our new surroundings. After some food and some beers we wandered up to the next beach to check out the paragliders Marcus had spotted. To our surprise we discovered an afternoon rave going on.

… We are sitting in the afternoon sunshine on Anjuna beach. The sun is warm and the sand is golden. The sea laps around the beach gently. Around us is a multitude of people partying in the sunshine. Techno music thumps out of a giant marquee to our left. Happy, happy, dancers bop away to the beat worshipping the music, and the sun. A miasma of smoke hangs in the air. Huge freezers sit by the dance floor selling soft drinks, beer, and spirits. You could be forgiven for thinking you are at a free rave in England on one of its southern beaches.
I am sitting taking in this human tapestry of wonders. This isn’t your normal raving crowd. The age ranges vary from 18 to 80. I have been watching a middle-age lady smoking a huge chillum and doing some very interesting moves on the dance floor. She looks like a librarian. She has nothing on the guy dancing on the sand though. He is in his late 40s, wearing a pair of Speedos and spinning around and leaping into the air in a shamanistic frenzy. Marcus and I peg him to be a primary school headmaster from Preston. He really has had one too many mushrooms. Back at the tent there is a guy with dredds down to his arse wearing a crop-top t-shirt. He has a huge belly hanging over his jeans. The list goes on. It’s amazing. Marcus is pretty ill and is going to have to go and lie down soon. But I am going to sit and watch this circus late into the night…

The next couple of days were spent in much the same fashion as usual - beach, food, beer, reading. There were a lot more cows walking around on the beach. As the bovine family is sacred to Hindus you will find them everywhere. They have carte blanche access to just about all public places including roads. Marcus continued to be a festering disease-ridden organism for most of the time. He also continued to extend the follicles on his face to obscene lengths. The next morning We were thrown out of our hotel as apparently someone had booked in advance. Nice of the owners to let us know. We checked into another quiet little beach front and stayed there for a couple of days.

When Marcus was feeling better we decided to hire some mopeds out and go exploring. Bikes are really cheap – about 200 rupees a day. After fecking around for an hour trying to find some half decent ones we finally headed off. We decided to head north to visit the beaches of Mandrem. It was a gorgeous day and zipping along the coastal roads was great fun. When you first encounter the roads in India, it is a pretty terrifying experience even if you are just riding in a 12 ton bus. In much the same way as the Middle East, chaos rules supreme. Bicycles zip in and out of cars. Horns beep continuously. People shout and scream. Nobody wears seatbelts and no cyclists wear helmets. Entire families pass you on motorcycles: A father driving with his two four year-olds riding pillion on the fuel tank, and his wife on the back riding side-saddle. Upon closer inspection however, you begin to see a method amidst the apparent madness. Because there are so many vulnerable people riding cycles motorists are hyper-aware of what’s going on around them. After a while it actually seems safer than the UK.

The beaches were almost deserted and glorious. The season was coming to an end here and we had our pick of the best beach chairs and nothing but peace and quiet. When we got to Mandrem we stopped and had lunch. I ordered a fish tikka masala and it tasted wrong. I now know it was wrong as I was ill for a week after eating it. We sat and watched some people learning to kite-surf. This type of surfing I had seen in Tel Aviv. The surfer rides a board and is also attached to a rectangular parachute – much like paragliding – they ride the waves at breathtaking speed in and out of the wind. Today’s surfer was just beginning though, and spent most of the time being dragged on their arse down the beach as the wind was pretty fearsome.

We dropped the bikes back and went walking through the village to the next beach that night. Someone gave us five chillums in a row. I laughed like a maniac as I skipped in and out of the surf all the way back to the hotel.

The next day I began to feel pretty disease-ridden myself. Today was also a full moon and rumour had it there was supposed to be a full moon party going on. We hunted up and down the beach but there were no raves going on anywhere; however we did hear the party was to take place inland at a place called the West End.

We had a couple of quiet drinks and then were heading home when we bumped into two lads from Sweden. They convinced us to share a taxi to the West End so we all headed over to the all night rave. It turned out to be a nightclub. Now any other night I would have been happy to party my arse off but that night it was all I could do to stop throwing up. I had to duck out early in the end and Marcus – being not overly impressed with the place - did so also.

Fort Cochin, Kerala

February 16th - February 19th.

Kerala is marketed at tourists as God’s Own Country. Catchy slogan. It is written everywhere. On posters by the side of the road; on buses; In hotel foyers, beside the potted plants; in shop windows; on the back of auto-rickshaws. Everywhere you look, you are informed that you are standing in the country chosen by God. What God was that I found myself wondering? Surely not the God of Judaism. He dwells in the chosen land. Allah perhaps? I don’t think it likely it would be for a Vedish deity. It seemed to have a Christian feel to it. The Portugese, among others, brought the Good Word to India. But before that, much before, Syrian Christians were in these parts. Along with Rabbis and, by and by, Muslims. India has a great history of racial tolerance. Prince Gautama Siddhartha aka Buddha actively encouraged all religions: The way to Nirvana can be reached through many paths. Islam initially had the same belief. Western Christianity never embraced this concept.

I took a train from Varkala to Fort Cochin. It was a pleasant enough journey once I’d fought my way through a throng of striking transport workers to get to the platform. I also had to push past a gauntlet of police deployed in response to the strike. One of them told me this was the warm-up for the proper demonstration in two days. The train ride took about 5 hours. It was through the day so I did not get to fully embrace the experience an Indian train journey. The sleeper train would have to wait for a little while. I met a nice couple from Scotland who were doing a whistle-stop tour of India. They’d originally planned to get just see the north. But like any good holiday it had warped itself into a fully-fledged trek around the west coast of the country. They got off at Alleppe bound for the back-waters. I got a bit hemmed in by an Indian family that invaded my booth for an hour or two. In hindsight I think I had probably stolen their seats.

I arrived in Fort Cochin in the late afternoon. I caught a rickshaw to the Hotel Marcus had already headed for. Rickshaw’s are funny vehicles. They are pretty much lawn-mowers with three wheels and handle-bars on. They then have telephone booths laid on top of them with a divider in the middle to effect a front and back seat. You get in the back – usually – with your luggage – usually. I say usually because I have seen, with my very own eyes, 7 people in one of these things. 4 in the back, although 2 were actually hanging out either side, and 3 in the front, 2 sitting behind the driver. I have also seen (and had) luggage on the roof. Zippo’s Circus could learn a lot from Auto-Rickshaw drivers.

After getting stung for the fare – but being too tired to care – I arrived at the hotel in Fort Cochin. It was a pleasant enough place. The area was geared up for tourists and there were plenty about. There were a couple of roads teeming with cafes and restaurants. I dropped my bags in and checked in and met up with Marcus. We went across the road to a restaurant and grabbed an early dinner. We then sat and proceeded to get spectacularly drunk. Fort Cochin was a step up on the nudge-nudge wink-wink tea malarkey. Here you get served “special” tea in teapots with china mugs. It’s still good old Kingfisher lager of course.

There was no particular reason for this afternoon’s session apart from we could. I love impromptu accidental boozy afternoons. Good company, good conversation, and cold beer. The afternoon gave way to evening and then to night. The helicopter peddlers strolled past launching there cobalt blue copters into the evening sky. The moon was waxing in a clear and starry sky. People lazily strolled by us smiling affably and sometimes stopping to eat or drink in this roadside café, Marcus and I ended up having a very interesting debate regarding the nature of free will, and if, if one assumes thus, it does exist in the first place. There have been a number of great thinkers who postulated that we may not have free will. The universe may be, by its very existence, deterministic. We may believe we have the freedom to choose our thoughts; to make decisions; to act; to change our minds, however this may all be an illusion created by a reality that has already been decided for us. The interesting question would be how to prove – or disprove – the hypothesis. Despite our drunken state we did come up with a couple of ideas that stuck in my mind. If the universe is deterministic – who is determining it? It could be that the natural order of things in the universe is functionally deterministic. Moreover it could just happen to be a reality that has predetermined everything along a time line and we all have the rules of how to act and think encoded in the fibre of our being. It could also be that a deity has a hand in this design; a divine nob-twiddler as Mr Dawkins puts it. This line of thinking also begged another thought: If the universe is deterministic and something is controlling it, then believing that you don’t believe in the entity that is determining the illusion of free will you are under the impression you have, is a pretty good cosmic joke.

Lying in bed after chatting I came up with another idea that if something is pre-determining the thoughts and actions of everything we do – wouldn’t it be cool to sabotage the whole thing. By this I am expanding on a scenario here. If we were to use Arthur C Clarke's third law that Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Now imagine if we were all part of some scientific experiment for a young entity’s science-project (this is, of course, making massive assumptions: That there is such a civilisation, that they have procreation and linear growth, that they have schools, that they have science-projects, that the young entity is actually working and not out scrumping for space-apples in the local cosmic orchard (yes, what a stereotypical cosmological pastiche but you get the picture)). Imagine that our reality is part of a supremely advanced software simulation (yes – imagine they have Microsoft). Wouldn’t it really scupper things if everyone in the world decided to top themselves at the same time. Of course you (the human race) would never know for sure but imagine the look (assuming it had one) on the young entity’s face (and yes assuming it had one of those too). “Mummy, Mummy, my science project world has just committed mass suicide!”

“That’s a shame dear, did you leave it too close to the radiator?” (assuming of course they feel cold, have sibling bonding, use language… etc)

It would be priceless (assuming they had a economic society) unless of course the entity intended us all to do this in the first place. Of course we’d all be dead and never know. But it would be a grand cosmic joke.

Anyway I woke up the next morning with a hangover and thought that was all a bit silly.

The next day was a very quiet one. We headed down the river to see the Jewish Synagogue. No offence to Jewish people but this one was crap. We walked along the estuary of the river and watched the fishermen trying to net a catch of fish en masse with a very large net that resembled an upside down clothes-line and took about 30 men to operate. There weren’t too many fish at the end of it either. Fort Cochin was beginning to get on my nerves.

We decided to quit Kerala and head north, missing out the state of Karnataka, to Goa. We also decided to make use of the internal domestic flight system. Domestic flights in India are very, very, cheap. It cost us 35 quid each to fly from Cochin to Goa. We booked the flight for the day after tomorrow. Marcus had fallen ill again. Badly. So he spent the next 36 hours in bed. I chilled out and read. We did make it out for a quet walk that evening to see the national elephant parade. All over India elephants were marching in full regalia up to the temples of Ganesh. It was pretty impressive seeing these graceful and ancient looking beasts standing so elegantly amid the noise, drums, and music. We had planned to get a taxi to the airport early on Wednesday morning. However the strike was planned that morning. We didn’t realise but it affected all forms of transport except for aeroplanes. That meant we had to travel to the airport the night before and stay over in an overpriced hotel.

Still we were at the airport bright and early the next day and ready to fly to India's famous party state.

Varkala – Allepe – backwater canals.

February 14th – 15th

Happy Birthday Alli!!! Where's my dinner?

With great self-discipline we finally wrenched ourselves free of the bosom of somewhat utopian Varkala.

It was time to move on. Kind of.

We decided to book ourselves onto a cruise around the myriad of backwaters that make up the canals between Varkala and cochine. The Good Book had told us it is an experience not to be missed.

We left Varkala at 6am. Our rickshaw was late. Whilst we sat around waiting for it two 12 year newspaper boys tried to sell us Marijuana. The taller one informed us his dad was one the best dealers in Varkala. It seems he was going into the family business.

We took a train from Varkala Station to Aleppe. There was a strike to be held over the the next couple of day for all public transport. We arrived in Allepe and took a rickshaw to the canal boat. It was somewhat smaller than I was expecting and we had to share a room. We spent the rest of the day cruising around these beautiful canal waters. I must say, we could have done the whole thing in an afternoon and not stayed over for a fraction of the cost. It was nice enough though. The food was in abundance and was very good. After the sun went down that evening we sat and drank beer and played cards amidst a cloud of insects that descended on the boat. It wasn’t the most romantic Valentine’s day I have ever had. Marcus’s beard was now reaching epic proportions and try as I might, he just wasn’t my type. My type was over 2,000 miles away in Oxford. We turned in pretty early.

I woke up the next morning to find something had climbed into my bed and bitten my arse so much it had swelled up like a football. Well a pair of footballs to be exact. Over 40 times I could count. I couldn’t sit down, and I couldn’t stop scratching. We did get to see a beautiful sunrise on the canal that morning, although I was more concerned with the contents of my pants for most of it.

We got back to Allepe and we parted ways for a couple of days. Marcus headed to Fort Cochin and I took a bus back to Varkala. I still needed to obtain a crime report for my bag. The bus trip was pretty uneventful. Apart from the fact I couldn’t sit down, the driver was insane, and so many people got on they were sitting on top of each other. The bus didn’t go as far as Varkala. We alighted about 30miles away. I hooked up with a French lass, her son, and her mum, and together we shared a rickshaw then taxi back to Varkala. I managed to get the necessary documentation for my insurance and also laid my hands on some much needed anti-histamine. I wisely avoided the chill-out bar and took myself to bed early.

Varkarla Extracts - the next seven days - Kerala, India

Thursday 7th February - Wednesday 13th February.

… I am sitting in the Chill-Out Bar. Surprise Surprise. Tonight there is a live music evening with sitar players. The place is packed. We have grabbed a table right at the front. It is so busy we have to share with a couple. They turn out to be an aging Italian Casanova with a grey pony-tail and a pretty young American girl with dredds. We engage in polite conversation. It seems they have just met. The girl is very chatty. The guy gets a right mood-on. I think he has one plan in mind for this evening. He really starts to sulk when we all have a smoke. I shrug at the girl and she pulls a sorry face. Polite conversation ends round about there. The sitar players are pretty good. One is Indian, the other Scandinavian. We all sit and enjoy the music. Later on, Bradley, the American guy, who is a regular here, will have his guitar out and we’ll be bombarding him with requests. Anyone who chances in on the place will be dragged into the warm group of lovable hedonists. There is Steve, from Essex, who is constantly stoned of his nut. His voice is a mix between Michael Caine and Johnny Depp (doing Cap’n Jack Sparrow) He’s got a fantastic sense of humour and keeps everyone in stitches. Then there is Veronica the Swedish girl, Manesh the owner of a nearby hotel. Also we have the two Spanish girls and the Spanish guy who is partner to one of the girls. All constantly stoned. There is the French girl, who has just started seeing Bradley. She has become his singing muse. There are the several guys who work here; one of them has fallen asleep. And then there is Marcus and I, who pop in every night for a quick beer, and never leave. The sitar evening has finished and the usual suspects – us – are gathered around a table laughing and drinking and running out of beer. Steve grabs a load of newcomers that have made the mistake of stopping for in for a drink. Our number increases to over twenty. Bradley is cajoled into singing for us all. I check my watch and realise it has gone 3am. There is an ancient looking guy at the top of the table. He looks like Keith Richards older brother. He is dressed like an Indian holy man but he looks like he is from Germany. He lights up a chillum. A big one. He hands it slowly around the table. Everyone takes a turn on it. “Would you like some?” The girl next to me asks.

“Mmm…no thanks” I say.

“Don’t insult the Father.” She admonishes. I am not sure if she is talking about the huge phallic thing in her hand or the scarecrow at the top of the table…

… I am chatting to one of the two German guys staying next door to us. They have coming here fifteen years in a row. They are huge stoners. He tells us that they smuggle their own hash into India. This is news to me [Marijuana grows here on the side of the road. Everyone here is stoned. The café owners are all stoned off their faces. All day. That’s why food takes so long to arrive. Even the cooks are stoned. In the evenings the police stop by and do random raids on the cafes to check for the illegal selling of alcohol. They don’t care a toss that all the staff and punters are skinning up and smoking. They usually then turn a blind eye to the selling of alcohol to tourists. Personally, from what I can observe, they mainly pop in for a smoke. Alcohol is served surreptitiously under the table. You then drink it from huge tea mugs. It’s all good weird fun] The German guys are real connoisseurs of the ‘erb. They have brought in three different types: “One to get you really high. One to bring you down again, and one to help you sleep,” Karl explains to us. I note he must have smoked too much of the third type as he fell asleep on the beach and now his head is bright red. He keeps it shaved and usually wears a hat. He must have forgotten today. There are huge blisters bubbling up on his crown…

…It is late in the night and I am swimming on Varkarla beach. Marcus and I are skinny-dipping. We have been out for the evening and got back to the room and were bored and pretty merry. We took some baileys and vodka down to the beach. Well I did. There is something fundamentally liberating about getting down to your nuts and bolts and going swimming. We are making like Jeff Bridges and Robin Williams in the Fisher King: Letting it all hang out. Except instead of parading around central park in the moonlight we are going swimming [There are lots of hypotheses as to how we have come to evolve in the way we have. Our relatively hairless bodies; the reason why we walk on two legs; our predilection to omega-acids in the food from fish; our love of water. Bruce Chatwin wrote a wonderful book called the Song Lines. (he actually wrote several wonderful books, and would have continued to write many more had he not died at an early age). It explores with great eclectic insight some of the origins of these aspects of our condition and behaviour.] Regardless. Skinny dipping is great fun. It’s much better fun with several members of the opposite sex. But as long as you observe the code of man and don’t get anywhere near, nor look at, naked male friends. It’s acceptable behaviour. There is relatively no light on the beach save from the moon. Tonight there is no moon. The swells are the size of bungalows. The waves are crashing onto the shore with ferocity. We are ignorant of the fact at this time, but in the near future we will learn that the current at Varkarla beach is deadly. It has been known to pull swimmers out to sea and drown them. For now though, we are both blissfully unaware of this. Marcus is so far away he is a white dot in a mountain of swells and dips. He keeps disappearing far out to sea. I suddenly realise that the algae in the water is bioluminescent. Everywhere I move my arms and legs I leave a trail of glowing clouds. The water is alive with microscopic stars, swirling amid the turbulence of the waves. I try to shout out to Marcus but he is busy being hurled upside-down by a massive breaker he has rode into shore. He is going to have a sore head in the morning…

…I am at an all-night party someway along Varkarla beach. It is around 2am and it hasn’t started going yet. I have a feeling it is not going to either. The venue is a tiered area of grass back from the beach. Lights hang from coconut trees and music thumps from a pretty powerful sound system. However, it is coming to the end of the season and most of the party people have either headed home or headed to Goa. The barman is from Norway. He is quite a cool old codger. He is working the bars here. He is nearly ready to go home himself. I have got chatting a young couple, the girl knows the organisers. She is explaining why it is so quiet. The number at the bar increases as people congregate around the sole place of conversation. A Icelandic aircrew turn up. They have just come off duty and start getting very, very drunk, very quickly. I make a mental note to try not to fly with Icelandair…

…Chill out night in the chill out bar again. What night? Who knows. I’ve lost track of what date it is. Steve has managed to acquire three joints at the same time. He is a happy camper…

… I am preparing my craft for its maiden voyage. I bought it from one of the many helicopter sellers that peddle their wares along the cliff-top. You can see them every evening. They have these ingenious little plastic helicopters they fire high into the night-sky. They have tiny little magenta LEDs under the blades that light the craft up beautifully as it arcs into the night sky. I had to buy one. I dubbed it fuckwit 1. Marcus has annoyingly – and quite rightly - pointed out that the one isn’t apropos until the second craft is launched. The LED has already fallen off but I have taped it back on. We do a T-10s countdown to launch. I put back the elastic band and fire it high into the evening air. The light doesn’t come on and the blades don’t release. It hits the ground somewhere with a dull thud…

…A wedding is taking place on the beach. The couple are European. English, to be precise. I am sitting above the beach, upstairs in a café having lunch. Marcus has gone down to film it. The bride and groom are making their way along the shore atop of two elephants. The elephants are adorned with gold and very bright coloured material. Ahead of them are 4 young lads, naked from the waist up, hammering out a beat on large drums strapped to their torsos…

…I am sitting outside of the police station. I have had my bag stolen earlier on today. I have been to the police station three times today. All I want to do is get a police report number, or acknowledgement of some sort that the crime took place. This is not proving easy to do. I have been told to wait for the Police Commissioner. He is busy out on his rounds. I have been waiting this time for two hours. It is nearly 10pm. Suddenly all the lights start going off. Everyone is going home. I try to ask the desk sergeant what is going on. He says they are closing. Come back tomorrow. I am leaving Varkarla at 6am the next morning…

…Marcus and I are doing a cooking course. We have chosen five meals from the menu and we are learning how each is cooked. We have hot and sour soup. Fish Tikka Masala. Vegetarian Curry. Vegetarian Bhryiani. And paratha bread. The two chefs are a right pair of Casanovas. By the sounds of it, they are boffing most of the female customers they have on the course. They spend most of the evening sms’ing their many girlfriends. One of them is so focused on his txt’ng he nearly cuts his finger off. The food tastes great though…

Varkarla - the next seven days - Kerela, India

Thursday 7th February - Thursday 14th February.

... Marcus and I have become beach bums. We have embraced the concept with open arms and spirit. Gone are the fleeces, jumpers, thermals, socks, hiking boots, and pashmina scarves. They have been banished to the bottom of our rucksacks along with our long sleeved tops. The shorts are out. I have been shopping and I am now sporting a sleeveless red singlet with the Om Shanti symbol in the middle of it. It is the tackiest thing I’ve bought in ages and I love it. Marcus has decided to grow a beard and is also sporting a bandana. He is beginning to look like an extra from Pirates of the Caribbean.

Life is good.

Life, in fact, is better than good. Life is fantastic.

Varkarla is paradise. A series of cliff top huts, shacks, cafes, bars, restaurants, and shops, nestled in between coconut trees, beautifully coloured flowers, and shady jungle plants with the sounds of the Arabian sea crashing on the beach below. The town itself goes far back from the beach. A couple of kilometres is the proper Varkarla. But as a visitor to this place the cliff front is all you really ever see. It’s all you need.

We are strolling along the winding path that follows the cliffs. We are trying to decide where to eat lunch. There is no shortage of choice. Every other building is a bar-café-restaurant. The food is superb, especially the fish, which is caught fresh every day. The main occupation of people living locally to Varkarla is fishing. Fishing villages run up and down the coast. Varkarla used to be just a small collection of huts twenty years ago. Until the back-packing route descended upon it and it began to thrive under the eager pitter patter of western travellers, looking for a piece of paradise. Now as you stroll along the cliff top you find yourself amidst a hotchpotch of used book-stores, two-storey bamboo restaurants, serving every cuisine you can imagine – from Mexican to Italian (and serving it well), clothes stores, material shops, tailors, Yoga centres, barbers, massage clinics, and internet cafes – amidst this menagerie is where you find us.

We decide to head up to one of the many cafes just down from where we are staying. We walk along in the baking sunshine, following the stream of human consciousness: most of it immersed in a warm glow of THC - Italians, Danish, Russians, Canadians, French, Spanish, Israelis - people from every walk of life amble and mill around us. They are at various stages of civil deconstruction. Some, you can tell have just arrived: Lobster coloured, wearing tourist clothes and looking pretty confused by the bombardment of music, and pseudo-culture that Varkarla projects. Then you have the seasoned travellers. Tattooed, deeply sun-tanned, with easy smiles, loose cotton clothing, adorned with beads, bracelets, dredds, and beards. Along this spectrum we fall somewhat closer to the lobster look. Then of course you have the people that came here 20 years ago and never left. They are amazing to behold. It’s like Dicky Attenborough has just created them from DNA strains he has found wedged in between the teeth of a retired Mancunian Football fan, that bit the ear of a hippy at Woodstock in the sixties. They are the real deal [When I was in Turkey in Istanbul I met a fantastic guy from Oz called Troy. He had just come back from an amazing trip through Kazikstan, down into Pakistan, and over the border in Iran, before heading through Georgia and Armenia into Turkey. I was most impressed. Of one of the many stories he had to tell was of meeting a guy, sitting under a tree in the mountains, who had following the hippy circuit in the 60s – Afghanistan, Pakistan, China, and never left. The guy, who was European, spent his life since just wandering the mountains and living off food and water he could scrounge off of people. I imagine he’d also got through a fair bit of hash]. We step out of the hubble-bubble into the shade of a café. Beer and fish masala curry. And roti. Coming right up! Well at Indian speed that is. We settle in for a long wait…

A week has gone past in Varkarla. It seems like the blink of an eye. Time is most definitely relative. It still passes at the same speed. Your brain just records it differently. We have been busy doing things. Things fall into several categories: 1) Getting up. This is completely dependent on 2) getting hammered. This happens pretty much every day, all day and all night at the 3) going to the chill out bar. The chill out bar is about 25 metres from our room. It is frequented by a number of stoned, and drunk, very happy people. The owners included. Most nights don’t finish until 5am (see 1 and 2). Most nights we have no idea of what we have spent on drinks. That’s ok though because neither do the owners. We usually work out some happy medium. 4) Eating. This takes place at various times every day. Breakfast is usually around 1pm. Followed by a beer. Then lunch takes place around 4pm with a beer. Then we have a couple of beers before going out for dinner. Fresh fish is the order of the day: Marlin, grouper, red snapper, tuna, and lobster. All cooked in steamed coconut leaves, or in a gorgeous tikka masala sauce. The restaurants purvey there goods in chilled refrigerators out front. The eyes of the fish are clear and they smell fresh. We usually have a meal with a 5) Beer. See everything. 6) Exercise. Amazingly enough we manage to fit in regular runs on the beach and swimming everyday, usually before breakfast at lunchtime. 7) Reading books. There are so many fantastic bookshops here and most places run an exchange service 8) shopping. 9) Sleeping. This occurs every day at random intervals. Rather like Garlfield trying to cross a sunbeam in Jim Davis’ comic strip. Snoozing can occur anytime, especially in hammocks. Zzzzzzzzzz.

Thiruvananthapuram airport and Varkarla, India, Kerala,

Wednesday 6th - Thursday 7th February.

I landed in Trivandrum airport at around 4am, Indian time. India is 5 1/2 hours ahead of the UK and 2 1/2 hours ahead of the Middle East. I had a brief sojourn in Sharjar for 3 hours. Given that I didn't have any Qatarian money, or dollars, or even Jordanian Dinars I was unable to purchase food on either flight. I managed to stop at the duty free shop and buy a load of chocolate, which was nice, so I was riding on a rollercoaster of caffeine and sugar. I was up all night. I managed to finish the Rubik's cube though. The air hostess was most impressed. I also got chatting to a guy sitting next to me. He was from Trivandrum. He worked in petroleum and commuted to Qatar on a regular basis. English is the second language in India, Hindi being the first. Most Indian people also speak the local dialect of the state they are born in. In this case, Kerela. On top of this, it is quite normal to speak the language of a neighbouring state such as Karnataka. So, on average, many Indians speak four languages, however the inflexions make the spoken English language sound much different and at first I had trouble understanding what the guy was telling me. I was also over-tired and wired on caffeine. I desperately needed some sleep. But sleep was not forthcoming. I had read so much of Robert Fisk I had lost my faith in humanity a couple of days beforehand. I had left the Middle East in the midst of a spate of the coldest winter it had seen in over five years. In short, I wasn't in the best of moods.

That was all to change in Trivandrum. Completely. Radically.

Stepping from the plane was like stepping into a hair-dryer. At first I thought it was from the engines, slowly whirring, as they cooled down from there supercharged efforts. As we walked away from under the wings to arrivals though, I realised it was the air itself. My fleece was now lolling like a dead limb in my arms. I was also wearing jeans and a jumper.

Thiruvananthapuram International Airport was teeming. Thiruvananthapuram is the full name of what most people call Trivenderum, and is located in the state of Kerala, on the south western coast of India, on the shore of the Arabian Sea. I wasn't planning to spend much time in the city itself. Marcus had already landed here several days ahead of me and checked the place out. He had decided to head 45 kilometres north to the small village of Varkarla – a reputed idyllic beach resort and a haven for peace and quiet - and I was to meet him there.

The entry process to the country was pretty straightforward. I was required to fill in the usual forms - enquiring into the duration of my stay. My purpose for being in India, and the places I intended to visit. I made most of it up. Having had obtained my visa from the Embassy in Damascus. I got my passport stamped and I was through immigration in under an hour. I stepped out, sweating in my winter gear, into my first Indian night and a melee of eager taxi drivers.

... I am sitting in the front passenger seat of a pre-paid taxi. My driver is a happy bunny. He has seen the amount of cash I have drawn out of the ATM and he knows I have no change. He also knows I know he is going to try and screw me for a tip. The thing most people don't realise about travelling is that maintaining a budget, for a traveller, is like trying to account for the weight of the universe. Every experience you chance across causes your carefully planned expenditure to be slightly askew. Everyone expects some kudos, usually in a pernicious format. It may sound a little parsimonious to wax lyrical like this, given most people you meet provide a very good service, and depend on you to some extent for their livelihood. The truth of the matter is that, although each minutiae experience costs a mere fraction of your budget, the net result, one projected over a long period of time, is one of a huge unseen force that sucks out vast quantities of your meagre savings, kind of like dark matter. Taxi drivers, bell-hops, toilet attendants, waiters, guides, shoe-shiners, brain transplant surgeons, teeth-pickers, bellybutton-fluff-removers, the list just doesn't end - especially when I start making stuff up.

I turn my attention out to look out of the taxi window. The vehicle is ancient. It looks like the car Morgan Freeman drove in when he took Miss Daisy into town. The driver has told me it will take an hour to get to Varkarla. I thought the LP had got the distance wrong but I now realise that this car goes 45kmh max. I am not worried though. Ever since I arrived in this country I have been mesmerised and at peace. All the fatigue from the last 24 hours has just fallen away from me. I have my head out the window and the wind is warm on my face. I can smell jasmine and sandalwood, floral scents that I can't begin to place. The unique and aromatic musk of marijuana is everywhere. It has just gone 5am and the streets are filled with people. Night is the coolest part of the day. Kids are playing cricket in the street. Men are walking around with skirts on. Women in brightly coloured saris and beautiful jewellery are walking together in the streets. Some are covered in henna. The ambience is incredible. It feels so welcoming and so right. There is such a strong feeling of warmth pervading from this place. It is evident in the faces of so many people...

The taxi drive to Varkala was my first experience in the pace of Indian life. It was slow and languid. From the Porgy and Bess song M loves so much. Summertime – “and the living is easy…” That is how the speed of this place moved. We stopped along the way twice. Once was for a level crossing. We sat amid a queue of people waiting to cross the tracks, some on foot, others bicycles, and also on motorbikes. There was one guy with a donkey and cart laden with fruit.

The second stop was to get me some food. I was, by this point, gnawing on the car window pane. I’d asked the driver to stop somewhere as we left the airport. He managed to do so forty minutes later. We both took breakfast in a small eatery off a main street in one of the towns we passed through. It consisted of a chai tea, lots of roti bread, and a curry with a boiled egg in. I passed on the egg.

I got to Varkarla just after 6am. Marcus had told me I’d be dropped off at the helipad. I was half expecting helipad to be some surreal description for a carpark. But no, there was a great big helicopter landing pad at the end of the road. Marcus had mentioned something about staying in Mother’s place. I strolled down the beautiful beach cliffside in the pre-dawn air. Waves crashed along the beach and the smell of sand, salt, and coconut was in the air. I was finding it hard to take it all in.
Luckily someone was up in Mother’s Place. They had no record of any English people on the guest list though. Hmmmm... I should have printed out the email. I went for a wander outside and, in that strange seemingly synchronic way of things that you experience when you are younger; I bumped into a very sun-tanned Marcus just coming out of the room he’d rented a little further back. It had a hammock outside.

I dropped my stuff in and we headed down to the beach for a swim before breakfast. The waves were huge and the current was extremely powerful. They were breaking on very shallow ground though, so there was no surf. This didn’t sit well with Marcus as he liked to get out on a board when he had the opportunity.


We went straight in for a swim. The sea was fresh, salty, and the waves were fantastic and huge. They crashed down on you, picked you up, spun you around, and then dumped you on your head. Afterwards we sat on our towels, chatting and catching up whilst we watched a multitude of people slowly began to arrive on the beach and do yoga, swim, or jog. Mostly yoga.


… Marcus and I idly conversing about our experiences over the last couple of weeks. We are sitting on the gorgeous beach below the cliffside town of Varkala. The sun is just about to rise above the cliffs behind us. I note with some anticipation that it will set over the sea. Along the beach people are doing yoga. Celebrating themselves, the sunrise, and giving thanks for the sublime joy of simply being alive, and well. The sun’s first rays start to lazily fall onto the beach. It is going to be a beautiful day…

The Middle East. Epilogue

Well… That’s it.

That’s the end of my journey through the ancient lands of David, Solomon, Christ, and Mohammed. From Istanbul, through to Damascus. From the Euphrates through the desert. From the Mediterranean to the Red Sea. From the Nabataen Jewel known as Petra, to the unparalleled Aya Sofia. From the desert wonders of Palmyra and Apamea, to the Natural beauty of hiking in Qadisha, and further into the quiet beauty of the Lycian way. I have made some fantastic friends. I’ve wandered through some of the oldest cities in the world, and wondered in some of the most sacred shrines known to man. I’ve – as much as I have tried not to - ridden camels. I have scaled mountains, and walked with Bedouins. I have leapt tall buildings, and I have conquered castles. I have cooked. I have sailed the high seas. I have smoked far too many Nargile, and fallen in love with sharwarmas. And Juices. And by God I've been ill.

I can’t really do this part of my trip justice in how I have recorded it. I know I have tried, but it has been a meager effort. I embarked on this journey planning to explore the silk trade routes. Instead I became, embroiled, and enchanted by the beauty, and cultural elegance of this area of the world. I don’t really want to leave. But I am going to have to. I am freezing, and my thermals are just a bit to hugging in the crotch to wear any more.

I don’t really think I’ve done much to represent this place properly in my blog. Mostly I have just waffled on and bored you half to death. But I hope you can glean what an amazing adventure it has been for me.

I originally had planned to head through Georgia and Armenia, into Iran. It’s just not the season to do this now, though. Like any good plan, it’s usually not that good. Instead I am going to take a flight to south west India. Where the sun is shining. Where the living is easy. It’s time to get break out my ray-bans, and stretch-out my speeedos.

Ma’as Salaama.

Jerusalem, Israel. Amman, Jordan.

Tuesday, 5^th February

The Americans got back around 7:30am. Oh yes. They had all the fun. Mainly in my dorm. I made a decision today to leave Israel - and not beacuse of the Americans. Well not totally. I really wanted to stay. I desperately wanted to see the West Bank. I also wanted to go north to Galilea and visit the town of Megido. The place where John, of the apostles John, believed the last battle between good and evil would be fought. I wanted to explore much more of Israel. I really loved this place. I know I have made no qualms about how I feel of the way Israel has treated Palestine and its people. This doesn't mean I still have not really enjoyed the country. I still have warmed to its people. Well some of them. Yes Israelis can be very arrogant and annoying. But then so can the British, the Americans, the French, the [insert any country here]ians. Israeli people just need to get over things. They also need to admit that how they are treating Palestinians is wrong. But I very much doubt they’d listen to this. The grievances now between the people have gone long passed who is wrong and who is right. What needs to happen now is for it to stop. And I have a feeling that may take a while before people are ready to listen. Memes can also include blood. Pain can be replicated. So can loss. Forgiving is the hardest thing in the world to do. Second only to being honest. Really forgiving that is. You don’t think so? Try forgiving yourself.

So. I left Israel. I took a sheroot to the Allenby Bridge: that is the name of the King Hussein Bridge on this side. It turned out the exit procedure was simple. It just cost $20. I was back in Jordan. An Hour later I was back in Amman.

I spent my last night in the Middle East in Amman. I was pretty engrossed with The Great War For Civilization at this point. So I had a couple of beers and read in my room.

Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Israel

Monday 4^th, February

Happy Birthday, Mum!

By the way, I don’t have a camera with me at present. So sorry for the lack of pictures.

I got up this morning and headed off to Bethlehem. This is the birthplace of Jesus Christ. It is also part of the West Bank. The current policy on maintaining peace between Palestine and Israel involves big walls. And checkpoints. And soldiers. I took a sheroot to the border. The wall was a mountain. A concrete glacier ripping through the landscape. It was an eyesore aesthetically. I couldn’t begin to imagine how it must make the local people feel. I went to enter the West Bank – this is the annexed West Bank from Jordan - then I found, to my fury, I had lost the piece of paper with my entry stamp on. Nothing I could say would convince the soldiers on duty to let me through. I had to return to Jerusalem, gutted.

I decided to spend the rest of the day positively. Jerusalem was a big city and there was still much to see. I visited Zion gate and the tomb of David. I saw the room where the last supper was supposed to have taken place. I walked down to the ancient City of David along the old city wall. On the way I bumped into one of the Dutch girls I was chatting to the night before. She is doing voluntary work with Palestinians in the West Bank. She told me of an alternate route that I could take to get into the West Bank. There was still hope for tomorrow.

I visited the City of David. Far, far, below modern Jerusalem. I took a underground tour of what was once the pride of Judeah. It is amazing to see how much has been heaped upon the original settlement. The old waterway, dug from the Tower of David down to here still exists. I wanted to explore the tunnel running under the city but I didn’t have my swimming gear with me. It was a nice hour spent though.

I finished my day with a walk up to the Mount of Olives. I got to the Garden of Gethsemane with plenty of sunlight to spare. This was the place where Jesus was supposed to have been betrayed. It was amazing. I was actually walking in the places where Christianity’s history was written. The Mount of Olives has a very special significance to Jewish people. Everyone that is buried here is supposed to be resurrected on the Day of Judgement. There are over 150,000 graves here. And yes there are a number of notable Jews buried here. The Romans had a legion posted here. In modern day times, during the Arab-Israeli war a number of graves were defaced. Indeed the tombstones were used as latrines. L

I walked up past a number of churches and stopped off at one. I finally reached the summit, where Jesus was believed to give his sermons, and watched the sun go down over, what I believe, is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It’s a shame a bunch of French tourists turned up with a film crew and ruined the end of it. Still, the sunset was gorgeous.

I got back to the hostel and then went out and Skyped my mum to wish her a happy birthday.

I was in two minds about staying in Israel now. I was more than worried about my exit visa given I had lost my stamp on my piece of paper – my flight to India was booked for two days time in Amman.

I met an American guy, who invited me watch the Superbowl final in a pub. It was at 6am the next morning. I politely explained that, even if I was ten years younger and it was the world cup final of 1966, I would not stay up until 6am to watch a sport’s program. I chilled out, read my book and went to sleep.

Back in Jerusalem

Sunday 3^rd February.

Time to head back to Jerusalem. I did like Tel Aviv. I just think the bad weather was putting me off of it. Besides I wanted to use Jerusalem as a base to visit Bethlehem and Jericho. Both in the West Bank.

I took a Sherut back to the big J. I decided to book into a back-packer’s hostel this time round. It turned out to be great fun. I had to take a dorm though. Which, as in turned out, was a big mistake.

... I am walking from the bus-station down to Damascus gate. As I cross the street I hear someone shout to me and tap my shoulder. A young guy appears next to me and holds out something in his outstretched hand. "Nice tattoo," he says, "I thought you should have this." I am not sure what the King James Bible, The New Testament, has to do with Gaelic zoomorphic imagery, but I accept it with a smile...

I dumped my bags and decided to do a walking tour of the ramparts. The hostel was situated right next to the old city – Damascus gate, to be exact. The Old city, as I have mentioned before, is completely surrounded by fortified walls. These walls have ramparts along most of them. For a reasonable fee you can take a tour around them. I really enjoyed a peaceful afternoon being anonymous and taking in Jerusalem from above. Many of the ramparts pass directly over the gates – Jaffa – Damascus – Herod’s. I don’t really have much more to report on that. I was mainly lost with my thoughts. Oh some kids tried to throw a snowball at me, it must have been snowing the night before. He was a terrible shot though.

Got back to the hostel and went for a run around Jerusalem. It was a cold, crisp night, and the stars were out. I was beginning to really like this place.

I also discovered the price of a bed included a meal. The hostel was a really cool kind of backpackers place. Full of all sorts of shapes, sizes, and ages. Dinner was served in the main dining area. This was a large hall with bench like seats down each side. Everyone queued up and was served a whopping great portion. If you were lucky you got seconds. I got chatting to a fair few people that night. It was a good communal atmosphere. They also had a freestyle rapping session. Two guys got on the microphone against each other and proceeded to insult each other’s dress, parentage, sisters, life-style, and religion. It was pretty good fun. A mad guy who worked there – whom I am sure was on crack – ran up and down and jumped on people’s heads and farted. Some people told me they’d been here over a month. [There is a syndrome called Jerusalem syndrome. I believe there is also one associated to Rome also. It affects over 200 people, who visit this city, every year. The syndrome convinces the sufferer that they are the next Messiah. They end up running around the streets of the old city ranting and raving at anyone who'll listen - and often people that really don't want to. This has become such a problem a clinic has been opened up to deal with this problem. Afflicted souls are dumped here until the symptons of the problem fade away. It usually takes about three months. After this time they go completely (raised eyebrow) back to normal. Well. I have two days left. Fingers crossed] I Crashed out about 1am. A Chinese guy came in and shook his towel every half an hour until 3am.

I hope it helped. I really do.

Haifa, Acre, Tel Aviv

Saturday, 2nd February.

By sheer good fortune I woke up today feeling even worse.

I believe this is a leap year. That means twenty nine days in this month. That also means a woman can traditionally propose to a man. God help us. I’d better stay away from email that day, eh M! ;-) And don’t think time zones are going to allow you to get away with asking me sneaky questions. To be honest though, I don’t think I have anything to worry about there. I am a jobless, and rapidly aging, bum. With what, appear to be these days, the immune system of a pygmy shrew.

Today I was planning on mostly using the reliable transport of my two feet. I first started by walking up to the gardens of the Baha’i. The world is a fascinating place isn’t it? I had never heard of this religion until this week. They are a very young faith. Created in the 19^th Century in Persia – now Iran. A gentleman called Ali-Muhammad declared himself the Bab, the gate, and proclaimed himself the forerunner of a new religion. Given the predominately Muslim society he lived in and bearing in mind the Islamic tawhid – the is no god but God, and Mohammed is his messenger. – this didn’t go down too well in Persia at the time. In fact they locked him up. Then they executed him.

Next came the person the Bab was waiting for - Bahá'u'lláh. One of his early followers who was incarcerated with him. Instead of being executed he was exiled from Persia and sent to the town of Akkah, part of the Ottoman Empire. Now part of Israel. From here he began to teach his dogma. The Baha’i faith slowly grew and flourished here. Today it has over 5 million followers worldwide. You should read about it. I did enjoy a lovely morning walking in the immaculate and beautiful gardens of the Baha’i. Although I could not get on an arranged tour - as I’d slept in that morning and forgotten to book – I still got to appreciate their lands. Mum you would love it here.

I was pretty exhausted by midday. But I pressed on and jumped in a sherut (yes it was still Shabbat but it was driven by a Muslim guy, or a Baha’i, or maybe an atheist) to visit the medieval town of Acre. The one and same resting place of Bahá'u'lláh. It is also supposed to have a great crusader castle.

It did.

It also had a great Medina and a lovely little fishing port with restaurants and bars and secret tunnels and generally all sorts to explore. I spent the rest of the afternoon here and I even did the audio-tour! Get in. That’s the first one I’ve done since I left the UK. And yes. Two girls did laugh at me.

… I am listening to the audio tour and exploring the Crusader castle at Acre. I have followed the numbered posts on various walls and got thoroughly lost. (This is why I hate doing these bloody things. I am sure the poor fecker that is employed to do these is a bitter and twisted post-graduate history drop-out that deliberately hides numbers 14 through to 16. Well mister smart-arse. Let me tell you I am not laughing. And nor are the two old women I just walked in when I opened the door to the ladies toilets.) I have ended up in the old castle dinery. Which is now a empty stone room with a low ceiling and three pillars running down its centre. There is a crowd of school kids slowly congregating in the hall. They have been criss-crossing paths with me throughout my tour, and laughing at my audio-headset for sometime. I am thinking about school trips to France when I was there age. Our's were mainly covers for excursions to buy flick-knives, cheap cigarettes, and alcohol. I am wondering what this bunch of reprobates are secretly up to. All of a sudden they all begin to sing in Hebrew. There teacher must have suggested it outside. The entire hall fills up with a mesmerizing acepella. I have no idea what the words mean, but the resonating amalgamation of voices in harmony is simply amazing…

I found a great place that did hummous and sharwamas and ate before heading back to Haifa.

I made a snap decision to grab a late bus back to Tel Aviv that night. I checked back in to my favourite hostel – hey it was cheap – and went out for a few beers.

Haifa, Nazareth, Israel.

Friday 1^st February.

Chris – the New Yorker – left today heading for Amman. Although I was feeling fluey I dragged myself out of bed and headed off to Nazareth. I spent a lovely afternoon wondering around the city where Mary received the Annunciation and where Jesus was brought up. The Nazareth of 2000 years ago was nothing more than a collection of mud huts – these days it is a sprawling metropolis. Before leaving Lebanon, Nat had presented me with her copy of the LP for the Middle East. This included a section on Israel. She had given me permission to rip out the pages as she had no plans to revisit Israel in the near future. She had been there before. So I kind of had a guide with me. The pages were not stapled, however and were constantly getting messed up.

... Marcus and I are standing in Nat's kitchen with her copy of the LP for the Middle East. We are deciding how best to cut out the section on Israel without breaking the spine. We have tried cutting them out with a knife. Also cutting them out with scissors. We've also tried ripping them out. Although that was enjoyable it didn't help the book. We are standing, arms crosses, looking at the book as if it is a petulant child. The book is sulking. Back to the drawing board...

Nazareth was a great place to mooch around and I did the LP walking tour. Most of the places to view are churches. I jumped on the last bus back to Haifa as Shabbat was beginning this evening. [Ok. Shabbat. It’s an interesting one. It spans sundown Friday to the first three stars to appear in the sky on Saturday evening. And yes it is a time of rest. The part that really interests me here though is the prohibition of melachah. Melachah translates as work. During the Shabbat no work can be done by any Jewish person – unless it is to help save the life of another person. Now this law was set down a long time ago so there are quite a few, emmm, categories. 39 of them in fact. You can read about them on wikipedia here. Some of them sound like a lot of fun – winnowing for instance. The main problem for the practical application of this law today is adhering to such prohibitions as – making fire. This, it follows, includes electricity, computers, and mechanical engines. That’s just about everything then. There are a number of ingenious ways to get around the problem of this. Many include preset timers. However it would appear that many Jewish people these days accept that the law needs to be interpreted with some flexibility. It’s is still a very quiet period though]

I got back in the evening and watched TV for the evening. I HATE BEING BLOODY ILL.