dogster

The train trip was over – after an overnight trip from Goa I was suddenly in Bangalore, back at the Taj West End. This time I was famous.

The concierge came running, brandishing a sheaf of press clippings.

‘Look, Mr. Dogster, look! Your picture – here – here – here!’

I could tell there was an upgrade coming up. Now the illustrious Mr. Dogster found himself in a Club Suite of such magnificence that I was sorry to have to leave. Inexplicably [that Pouilly Fume again] I had booked myself on a flight the following day – back to Goa.

I fell into the massage room and Bongo, the portly masseur, pounded my train trip away. I was suddenly on my own and, no question about it, a little sad. When these things are over – they’re OVER.

But you know, I would NEVER have travelled to Karnatika, to all those amazing places on my own, I would never have bothered with Kabini, Belur, Harebidu, Shravanabelogola, Hampi, Badami, Aihole... I’d never heard of them, let alone want to go there. I’d never have met that extraordinary group of crazy Indian journo’s, that mob of photographers, had those conversations, those many drinks in the bar: never have been part of that unique first voyage – and certainly never have featured quite as much as I did in the newspapers. Only false modesty [and the wish to preserve a modicum of anonymity] prevents me giving you the links to all that press coverage. I had a great time, one that will never happen again.

I recommend this trip – remember, if you go it’ll be totally different. The train will be full of well-behaved tourists, not 80 crazy Indian media, it’ll have sorted out the occasional glitch – who knows, they may even have re-arranged the schedule so that you get to spend more time ON the train and a little less being bused around to see every square inch of Karnataka. At the moment the schedule seems a little like it was designed by a committee, so proud of their state that they want you not to miss a second of it – forgetting, of course, their next greatest tourist attraction: the Golden Chariot train.

That’ll sort itself out. Yes, it is expensive – but, given the outrageous prices of 5 star hotels in India, the cost of a guide, a driver and car, quality food, taxes and the like - let alone the relentless hassle of traveling to and from these far-flung sites - the lack of quality accommodation, the risk of lousy food – maybe it’s not quite such an extreme price to pay. I don’t regret it for a moment and I’m a dedicated solo traveler by preference, design and circumstance.

Anyway, it was done: time to change channels. I had a couple of days in Panjim coming up and then my next epic voyage – two weeks on the M.S. Ocean Odyssey: Goa to Mangalore to the Lakdashweep Islands to Cochin, Colombo and Trivandrum before coming back to Goa.

I’ll deal with Panjim later for reasons that will become clear. Let’s jump to the next adventure.

Gpanda

This is brilliant. Your sense of humor shines through in every word. Did you reallt spend three months in India?

I note that this was done two weeks afterwards. hence, no penalty.

dogster

Hi Gpanda - thanks for the compliment - and phew, no penalty.

It was a three month trip - but not every minute in India - 9 weeks in that country this time. I was there late last year for a month or so: Kolkata, Darjeeling and 2 weeks in Sikkim. Then another fortnight in Kathmandu. I never did get around to that report - that's still stashed in the memory banks, waiting to be unplugged.

As well as India on this trip there was my traditional 3-4 day Bangkok stopover on the way there and back - one of the fringe benefits of living in Oz - I'm trying out every known boutique hotel in BKK, one by one.

I haven't bothered with this in the report - there's quite enough about BKK on these boards to satiate anybody interested...

On this trip India was followed by another strangely extended stay in Kathmandu - the reasons for this [well, some of them] I'll eventually get to - if you guys haven't run, screaming with boredom by then.

dogster

P.S. Gpanda: I've just realized that last trip to India was immediately before my [in]famous trip to Bhutan. The sheer awfulness of my time in Bhutan completely eclipsed my memory of Darjeeling, Sikkim etc.

And as every grisly detail of Bhutan was certainly covered in this Forum [see 'Dogster? Bhutan']no late penalty applies. O.K.?

Hanuman

Dogster,

How much were the wines, champagne and other alcoholic drinks on the Golden Chariot?

Hanuman

Forgot to mention - great report!

Gpanda

The penalty provisions have not been waived, but you make me laugh so hard with your prose that I can't be troubled to calculate them. Sort of like a verdict for the plaintiff with damagages of $1. Consider it a Pyrrhic loss.

dogster

Hanuman: I really haven't the faintest idea. I was too busy guzzling them to notice.

Too much, probably - but certainly no more than you'd pay at say, the Oberoi's or Taj's. I have a dim memory that the soft drinks and local beer were included in the tariff.

My bar bill at the end was no shock to the system - that much I remember.

And thanks for the compliment. Here's the next instalment.

dogster

M.S. Ocean Odyssey

The heavens opened just before I arrived at the transit hotel in South Goa, ready to be transferred to the ship for my glamorous, luxury cruise. Unseasonal storms were rolling in from the West drowning out the Holi celebrations. Limp banners hung from the houses, brightly coloured revellers dripped pink and green - and purple - and blue - and orange on the veranda floors as I drove by.

I was happy just the same, excited, enthusiastic – nothing could stop my stately progress: I wasn’t stumbling, I was STRIDING across India - on a roll, my canine spirits high.

This was a real punt, this cruise, a last-minute Pouilly-fuelled decision based entirely on the extraordinarily cheap rate I found on the internet. I’d researched it, as much as I could – but there was a strange, almost mysterious lack of information about the trip. Not a review, not a comment on the net.

I took the chance, just for fun - and swiftly learnt that the immortal phrase ‘If you pay peanuts - you get monkeys.’ applies to cruises as well.

The taxi slithered to a halt in front of the main entrance, a sloping roof covering the steps into the lobby. The deluge beat down on the roof and tumbled in a perfect waterfall between me and safety. The taxi-driver wasn’t getting out of his car – he was no fool. The staff from the cruise ship huddled inside. They weren’t going to help. The hotel staff couldn’t give a damn - I wasn’t one of their guests.

With a weary sigh, I paid my fare and got out of the cab, hauled my suitcase out of the trunk and walked slowly through the waterfall, lugging my bags. Soaked, I stumbled into the foyer. The two men from the ship were sitting on a couch, playing with their mobile phones. They didn’t look up. I just sat and dripped, surrounded by my luggage.

The foyer was full of elderly British couples, nodding off in their chairs. As I later realized, they had just flown in overnight from the U.K. The poor sods had been sitting there for seven hours. Not one of them had thought to get a day room at the hotel – they just sat meekly, exhausted, doing what they were told, enduring with that stupid stiff upper lip.

The bus was late, of course. Conversations were had, watches checked. Tourists bonded, as they do in these circumstances. No one was going to tell us what was going on. Eventually, with maximum confusion, the men were prized from the mobiles and we were herded to our transfer. Half an hour later we arrived at Murmagao, the Goa dock. What little conversation there was on the bus was silenced as we all stared grimly at the ship. She was not a pretty sight.

Later, much too late, I found out her history – this next paragraph is from Google search.

MS Ocean Odyssey started life in 1965, as a passenger car ferry named MS Eros cruising the Greek Islands. However, she was sold to Sun Lines just twelve months later and rebuilt to become the luxury cruise ship MS Jason and was placed under the management of the popular Epirotiki Cruise Line, although she later returned to her Sun Line colours. In 2004 Epirotiki and Sun Lines merged to become the doomed Royal Olympia Cruise Line and whilst most other of the other older ships were sent to the breakers, MS Jason was sold in 2005 to the Derwent Ocean Ltd. S.A. of Panama and was renamed Ocean Odyssey. She received an extensive refit in 2006.

Alas, this refit was not extensive enough.

The transfer man stood up in front of the bus.

‘As we have arrived at the vessel my services are finished,’ he said, angling for a tip. ‘If you wish you can compliment me now.’

‘It was a great bus ride,’ I piped up. ‘You were fabulous – will that do?’

They didn’t get the joke - nor, strangely enough, did they get their tip.

dogster

I was first off the bus and up the gangway to the rust-bucket they called a ship. I stumbled into the foyer. There, standing in a line, neatly dressed and coiffed, were twenty sullen Ukrainian housekeepers.

‘Well, good afternoon ladies!’ I said, ‘you all look very splendid.’

One of them squeezed out a tiny smile. The rest stared at me as if I’d shat in their hand.

I was dragged off to the front desk as the rest of the passengers wheezed their way up the gangway behind me. Formalities. Documents. My passport was whisked away, my credit cards swiped. I was issued an unsmiling Ukrainian brunette to escort me to my ‘deluxe’ top deck cabin and swiftly left alone to ponder my fate. Two thin single beds, a porthole and a bedside table. Neat. Clean. Antiseptic.

It all reminded me rather of a prison cell – still, it was friendlier than the staff.

I went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Brown smelly water gushed out. I turned on the shower. More brown smelly water. I won’t even tell you what it reminded me of - there was no way I was washing in that. Not once. Not ever.

That’s when I first noticed a very strange thing. The cabin vibrated. The ship vibrated. I vibrated. I felt as if I was sitting on my washing machine on full spin cycle. It wasn’t, despite all you might hear, a pleasant sensation.

‘What have I done,’ I said to myself, ‘what have I done... ‘

I had to get out of the vibrator, so went exploring. Empty corridors led to empty rooms, the occasional Ukrainian stewardess passed by with towels and a snarl. I found one antique passenger standing stock-still on the stairs. She was lost and dishevelled. All were other passengers had vanished, doubtless locked in their vibrating cabins, weeping.

I directed the confused old lady to her cabin, as fate would have it, right next to mine, then squelched upstairs to the upper deck, a flat expanse of horror upholstered in plastic grass matting, still soaked from the torrential downpour. Huge puddles dotted the deck. A pile of plastic chairs stood off to one side, a row of plastic sun-lounges on the other. Somehow I didn’t think they were going to get much use.

The swimming pool and hot-tub stood empty, two yawning aquamarine excavations staring glumly at the sky. I huddled in between the puddles under a grubby plastic awning, trying to dry my shoes. I was surrounded by plastic – everywhere plastic.

Outside the docks were deserted, empty cranes swinging uselessly against the sky. A boat chugged lazily by, the crew daubed in bright colours. Everybody was having fun at Holi – except for me.

In the lounge the passengers slowly gathered for afternoon tea. The chief-steward met me at the door. He was Indian, middle-aged, friendly and pleasant enough, the first man I’d seen on board.

‘Are you on your own?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘We’ll have to find you a lady,’ he leered, as he escorted me to my tragic singles chair, ‘someone to keep you company...’

Frankly, that was the last thing I needed. Now, having been cast in the role of lecherous roue, I faced fourteen days of the crew thinking I wanted to jump the Ukrainian chamber-maids. Without wishing to labour the point, this was very definitely not on my agenda. Quite the reverse.

My lip curled. He thought I was smiling. Actually, I was contemplating murder, there and then. I scanned the buffet for a knife, a fork – anything sharp. No such luck. He smiled brightly back and winked slowly, then ran off to find me a serving of stewardess.

A kindly Lancashire couple invited me to join them. We made the predictable small talk as we stuffed stale sandwiches into our mouths. Crumbs flew, weak tea was served and we settled back in our seats, bonding as best we could. I had a strong need for gin. Just as I raised my hand to order it our little threesome was interrupted by Jane, the cruise director. She made a beeline for our table and plonked her tight British arse down beside me.

She didn’t stop talking for the next twenty minutes. After introductions were made she launched into a lengthy description of every passenger that had ever been on the ship – it wasn’t complimentary. Somehow I knew that, next trip, I would be added to her monologue.

She was bright, breezy, bitchy and banal. I listened, amazed, as she dished the dirt. This is not, generally, considered good form. She launched into a series of well-practiced anecdotes of seasickness, rough seas, horror voyages, hideous passengers and gruesome shipboard romances that she had witnessed, all the time imagining that we found her prattle fascinating. She was common as muck and about as much fun.

Jane XX wasn’t her real name, of course, it was her stage name. She was, as she was quick to explain, really an entertainer. I could see her already, stuffed inside a green lurex frock, belting out of tune Shirley Bassey hits to drunks in Working-Men’s clubs in the North of England, telling off-colour jokes and introducing the dwarf-throwing as the next act.

Now I needed a bucket of gin.

All the other passengers had arrived in the lounge. They sat in isolated clumps on plastic leather chairs, being fed savouries. I’d met a few in the hotel – they were nice enough, good, honest people who’d paid hard earned money for what they hoped would be a good, honest holiday. They were probably all on the same cut-price off-season rates as I was; mostly elderly British and a couple of Germans who spoke little English looking about with staring, terrified eyes. I just knew it wouldn’t be long before somebody mentioned the War. Luckily there were three bright Americans whose company I already enjoyed. The ship was barely one third full.

Jane launched from our table to the dance floor, a sheaf of papers in her hand, grabbed a microphone and stood, glaring at the passengers. They fell obediently silent. For one terrible moment I thought she was going to sing – I could feel a ‘Go-o-o-ldfingah-h-h...’ coming up but, to my great relief, instead she made the welcoming speech.

I lasted a minute or so, then excused myself and ran to the bar, desperate for gin, beer, metholated spirits – anything to block out the pain.

I hovered up the back, half-listening, half trying to blank out the gush and gibber as our Jane ran through the rules, the schedule, the so-called entertainment, mostly starring her – all the wild excitement that was to be ours for the next two weeks. If it was possible, my spirits sank even lower. There were altogether too many references to rough seas, seasickness and bad weather. That unseasonal storm was turning nasty.

The handsome Indian masseurs were paraded, amidst a series of lurid jokes for the ladies, then eventually the microphone was passed over to the substitute excursion director, a youthful Indian lad who fumbled through his notes in a desperate attempt to pre-sell the ludicrously overpriced tours. The poor child was stricken with stage fright, his hands trembled, the notes shook as he ran relentlessly through the list of the horrors on shore. There were long, excruciating pauses, gulps and shudders before he finally sat down to a kindly smattering of applause. Gee, I felt in safe hands.

The gin arrived. I skulled it then ordered another. Reeling, I retired to my deluxe cabin. It was still vibrating. I lay down, hoping the mattress would absorb some of the movement - fat chance of that. I watched as the curtains shuddered, as the door to the bathroom slowly swung open, as the liquid pooh dripped steadily from the shower.

It was intolerable. I was being shuddered to death. Every atom in my body was being shaken apart. The gin in my stomach lurched. I felt sick.

After half an hour I pottered down to the front desk. With a deadly smile on my face I asked the obvious question.

‘This vibration is really dreadful... when is it going to stop?’

The concierge, a glacial British lass of tender years, had heard this complaint before. Many, many times. She looked deep into my eyes with an expression of utter contempt.

‘Get used to it,’ she said steadily, then returned to her computer.

I’d been on the boat for two hours. Only another fourteen days to go.

dogster

The next adventure was the Captain’s Welcoming Cocktail Party. All over the ship glad-rags were being slipped on, crumpled coats dragged out of cheap suitcases, false teeth dunked in Steradent. Alas, as I hadn’t listened properly to the welcoming speech, nor read my schedule, I had no idea the fiesta was happening, so, like a fool, turned up at dinner promptly at seven o’clock.

A gimlet-faced Eastern European Maitre ’D stared glumly at me as I approached. No flicker of a smile, no attempt at a pleasantry. There, in a distant corner of the empty dining room, was a table for six, already occupied by three similarly punctual passengers who had wisely chosen nourishment over a social life. Staring straight in front of them, desperate not to catch my eye, was a young British couple we’ll call Ben and Betty and, on the other side, a very elderly single lady. This was my next door neighbour, the woman I’d seen lost on the stairs. Her name was Ethel.

Ethel was still lost and dishevelled – abandoned in a conversation only she could understand. She was in full flight. Ben and Betty appeared trapped, like two bunnies in Ethel’s headlights, silent and desperately polite in that limp British manner, pecking at the bread and sipping their water. Betty was making an attempt to be nice - and she was genuinely a sweet young thing - her husband, on the other hand, had abandoned all pretence. He sat mutely staring at Ethel as she raved on.

All of them had just arrived in India after that overnight flight. Ethel was rambling, her two pink eyes rolling vacantly from side to side, lost under eyelids of such extravagant complexity that they threatened to snap shut at any moment. This was a face of such great antiquity that her skin had forgotten where to go. It hung in folds, compelled by years of gravity further and further towards the floor, desperate to escape its owner’s prattle, dangling around her neck, wobbling there like turkey gobble as she went on - and on - and on.

Of course, this was to be my table for the next one hundred years. Betty’s eyes brightened briefly as I sat down and introduced myself, hoping somehow for rescue. Ben nodded bleakly and returned to his bread. He knew there would be none. Ethel waited impatiently for the niceties to end then resumed her story.

‘I’ve been in every chorus at Covent Garden for the last fifty-two years,’ she announced grandly.

‘They must be missing you,’ I said. My irony escaped her. One ancient eyebrow attempted a manoeuvre but was held in place by the tumbling folds of skin.

‘How lucky you are.’ I whittered on, ‘you must have seen all the great stars, all the great conductors... ‘

She appeared suddenly confused. The poor darling had completely forgotten what she was talking about. I turned to the couple beside me.

‘So, you’re unusually young to be on a cruise. What brought you here?’

Betty began to blurt out their story; she was a teacher with relatives in India, a penchant for the sea, school holidays, blah, blah, blah... I feigned fascination. She didn’t get very far before Ethel was off again.

‘I hate computers,’ she said, out of the blue. ‘All those brainless people sitting there, staring at their screen for hours on end - loathsome, stupid addicts. What can’t they just write a letter? All they really need is a pen and some paper. When I was a girl we didn’t have computers...’

It occurred to me that when she was a girl they probably didn’t even have electricity. She continued on her Luddite agenda for quite some considerable time. I attempted a few comments about the glories of the internet, the advantages of E-mail but she wasn’t remotely interested in anything anybody else had to say. I gave up and turned to the waiter.

‘Bring me one hundred large Kingfisher beers, line them up on the table and I’ll drink them all.’

My humour was lost on the staff.

The Ethelogue was interrupted briefly as she ordered dinner. I turned to Ben.

‘So Ben, what is it that you do?’

He didn’t answer.

I repeated my question.

Again, nothing - he remained fixed on his breadstick, eyes firmly locked on his plate.

‘Ben,’ I hissed, ‘I know you don’t want to talk but try and squeeze out a sentence or two, O.K.? This is difficult enough as it is. Help me out here, pal.’

He looked bleakly at me.

‘Computers,’ he said finally. ‘I sit, loathsome and stupid in front of a screen all day.’

At that deathly moment, as if by fate, we were joined by another elderly British couple. I’d seen them earlier in the day, dozing in the lounge back at the hotel. They were of a breed: in their early 70’s, paragons of limp British politeness, stoic compliance, with all the social grace of a wet dish-cloth. They introduced themselves with the minimum of fuss then sat, silent and disapproving, as Ethel resumed her oration.

Mrs. Brit. ordered some water then, once it was poured from the bottle, sent it back.

‘I want to see this opened in front of me,’ she said grandly, ‘I want to see you break the seal. Take this away.’

The waiter did, rolling his eyes. She was off to a great start with the staff. They’ll be gobbing in her food by the end of the trip, I thought.

I turned again to the waiter on his return. I looked him dead in the eye.

‘Please. Bring... me... one... big... beer.’

This time the Kingfisher arrived, but not before my feeble attempt to usher the new arrivals into the conversation.

‘Well,’ I said brightly, ‘you look like a well-travelled couple.’

There was a shocked pause.

‘How dare you say that,’ she blurted.

‘Well, if you’re going to say something like that, you’d better justify yourself,’ he hurrumphed.

‘Outrageous,’ she sniffed.

Gee, this was going well.

‘I’m just trying to work out just which part of ‘you look like a well-travelled couple’ could possibly be offensive,’ I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

Of course, I should have used the word ‘seem’.

‘But, as I can’t,’ I continued gaily, ‘I’ll just continue on as if nothing has happened. Obviously I’ve gone mad.’

Ben chuckled. A brief shudder of amusement flickered across his face. Poor Betty schoolteacher didn’t really know which way to turn. She dived desperately into her lamb biryani, pulled a face, then suddenly announced to the table that this was unlike any biryani she had ever tasted before in her life.

‘It’s very dry – very bland, very tasteless.’

Mr Brit. looked up.

‘Perhaps this is how it’s meant to be in India. Maybe we have it wrong in the U.K.’

‘Maybe it’s just crap biryani,’ I blurted.

‘I wish you wouldn’t say that word,’ snorted Mrs. Brit.

‘What? Biryani?’

‘I hate those dreadful words!’ Ethel exclaimed suddenly, then proceeded to spell them all very loudly. ‘I never want to hear S.H.*.T. and F.U. *.K... and especially that awful C word... ’

My new American friends looked up startled from the next table.

‘He-e-e-elp!’ I mouthed.

dogster

I’d already sent back my first course, a limp green salad that had languished in the cold store for a very long time. The main course, Chicken A La Something was dry, tough and inedible. I pushed that plate away too, leant over to the waiter and asked for more bread and some cheese. This was the first meal of many, many more. If they couldn’t get this right I knew I was in trouble.

‘I was in the movie where Doris Day first sang ‘Que Sera Sera,’ announced Ethel, quite apropos of nothing. ‘We were in the chorus at the climactic scene!’ It was an Alfred Hitchcock movie made in 1954, starring Jimmy Stewart, details that eluded her at the time.

‘Ahh,’ I said, trying to change the subject, ‘my mother used to sing that to me as a child...’

‘I can’t think what that has to do with anything,’ Ethel said blankly.

‘It was just a desperate attempt at conversation, Ethel,’ I found myself saying. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bother again.’

I turned to Ben. He was ploughing through his main course with great concentration.

‘I can see why you’ve gone quiet,’ I said as an aside. ‘This is the most bizarre dinner I’ve ever had.’

‘Horrific,’ he whispered and rolled his eyes...

Silence fell around the table. Even Ethel had run out of things to say. Knives and forks clanked against our empty plates, a glass shuddered on the vibrating table. Around us the staff stood serene, uncaring, staring at the battlefield in front of them.

‘Do you think we look battered?’ said Mrs. Brit. suddenly. She was still mulling over my ‘well-travelled’ comment. ‘Do you think we look old? Is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘Bring me a crate of anything alcoholic,’ I hissed at the waiter.

‘Well,’ sniffed Mr. Brit, ‘you’re stuck with us.’

There are those moments in life where further conversation is futile, where less is infinitely preferable to more. I’ve travelled enough to spot them fast and act quickly. The thought of fourteen more days, fourteen more dreadful dinners flashed through my mind. The vibrating cabin, my vibrating stomach, the awful food, the surly service, the unsmiling Ukrainian maids – all combined in a moment of pure perception.

I’d gone into another zone: that fatal place where, all of a sudden, regardless, you just don’t care.

I turned slowly to the new arrivals, unexpectedly composed, deadly.

‘I have no intention of sitting at this table ever again.’ I said calmly. The words tumbled out of my mouth unaided by rational thought. ‘Life’s way too short.’

Four British mouths popped open. Eight British eyebrows flew up. Ethel was stuffing dessert into her gob. She had no idea what was happening.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ I said with icy politeness, ‘I just have to go upstairs to my cabin and kill myself.’

And with those fine words hanging over the table I was gone, leaving I know not what in my wake. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the waiter, doubled over with laughter.

My first stop was the front desk. Nothing would stop me now.

‘Hello,’ I said, smiling to the poker-faced receptionist, ‘I just need your help for a moment.’

She levered her gaze away from the computer screen, staring at me with a face of utter disinterest.

‘Yeeees,’ she said lazily, ‘how can I help you?’

‘I’m getting off the boat.’ I said sweetly. ‘Now.’

I certainly had her attention by then. I’d been on board for six hours. We hadn’t even left port. Now I was getting off. Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish gasping for air. She was trying to frame a question but I gave her no time.

‘Could you get my bill together and arrange a car? I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.’

I hadn’t unpacked, so there was no re-packing to do.

Her question finally emerged out of the confusion.

‘Wha.. wha.. why?’

‘I don’t think I have to explain that to you.’ I said evenly. ‘Just do your paperwork and get me off.’

As I turned away and walked upstairs to the vibrating cell I was aware of a flurry of phone calls behind my back. I didn’t care what was going on.

When I returned, bags in hand, the Captain was there. He was tall, strong and Russian. Strangely, at that moment, I felt much taller and stronger than him.

We shook hands in a manly fashion.

‘Can I ask your reasons for getting off?’ he enquired, just a hint of Slavic concern on his face.

‘No.’ I replied bluntly, staring him full in the face.

He wasn’t expecting that reply.

‘Now boss,’ I said firmly, ‘may I get off?’

‘Oh, you’re the boss... ’ he replied, trying to suck up to me.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘I am.’

‘Is there anything we can do to change your mind?’

‘No.’

‘Is there any complaint you would like to make?’

I hesitated briefly, just enough for me to read my mind. I glanced slowly round the ship and took a breath. He was waiting for the litany of abuse.

‘No,’ I said steadily, ‘if you don’t know what’s wrong with this boat by now – there’s no point in me telling you.’

I held the pause - and his gaze - for a long time. He knew not to push that particular issue.

‘Is my car here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it’s time for me to go.’

And so I did. We shook hands in that same manly fashion, my passport was returned, my credit card slid gratefully back in the wallet. No complaint. No refund. No explanation. I just got off the boat, walked down the gangplank and got into the waiting car with not a glance behind me. We drove away.

It was 10 p.m. - I hadn’t an idea where I was going, nor what I would do for the remaining fourteen days – but, you know, it was the smartest thing I ever did.

Hanuman

Dogster you should consider yourself lucky as I used to have to put a couple of coins in a machine to make my bed vibrate!

Any pictures from your trip you care to share?

thursdaysd

Oh, dogster - too funny! But at least you're very good at cutting your losses!

I hope Goa got better for you - Calangute sounds just awful too. Maybe it was the time (early Dec. '01) or the beach (Vagator) but I had a much more peaceful experience.

dogster

Millions Hanuman.

What would you like? A picture of the biggest willie in the world? The Guide From Hell? How about Ethel? [heh - now there's a dame to conjure with... ]

Actually, I don't know how to do that [share pictures, I mean] so, just now, I think I'll stick with the words. Later with the happy snaps, eh? I have a bit more writing to do.

dogster

Hi thursday.. didn't see you there.

It's the relentless march of time, the arrival of gut-bucket airlines, a million more package tourists - AND that particular beach.

But Goa ain't just Calangute Beach - as you well know. It's about thirty different places, up and down the coast - or, as I found out, inland. Choose the beach - and you've chosen your scene. Laid-back or party-time. It's all a question of which is the stimulant [or sedative] of your choice.

Goa gets better [in a most unexpected way] - you'll see.

And thank you so much for your comments - I'm glad you're enjoying this - just as I've enjoyed your trip reports. I hope, one day we bump into each other on the road. I think we'd get on.

dogster

From the press:

THIRUVANANTHAPURAM: Inclement weather and rough sea prevented foreign tourists aboard M.S. Ocean Odyssey, a luxury cruise liner which reached at Vizhinjam, near here, on Tuesday from disembarking to visit the beach resort and tourist attractions of the capital.

The four-star vessel carrying 36 tourists, as against its capacity of 290 passengers, and a crew of 110, arrived off Vizhinjam harbour around 1 p.m. The rough sea delayed the arrival from Colombo by six hours and got anchored over five nautical miles off Vizhinjam.

A three-member team led by Chief Engineer Joseph, a native of Tuticorn in Tamil Nadu, Harby and Jimmy came in an inflated boat ‘Zodiac’ to take the customs, immigration and port authorities to the vessel for the mandatory clearance.

The customs authorities who accompanied Harby and Jimmy in the inflated boat to inspect the vessel returned back soon as the rough sea prevented them from reaching the vessel.

Incidentally, a vessel belonging to the police carrying presspersons was able to proceed near the vessel braving the rough sea. After the port authorities held discussions with Captain Jimmy Press, it was decided to abandon the mandatory inspection by the customs and emigration personnel. The passengers onboard the vessel were also not interested in disembarking. Finally, the team led by Mr. Joseph returned to the vessel around 1.50 p.m.

The 105.6-metre-long vessel boasts of standard and deluxe cabins, a swimming pool, two Jacuzzis, a dance floor, a spa and a beauty salon, a bar, a library with 200 books and a fitness centre.
Ravi Nair of J.M. Baxi and Company, agents of M.S. Ocean Odyssey, said the ship cancelled its trip to Cheriam islands in Lakshwadeeep and is voyaging back to Goa due to the inclement weather. The vessel will visit Vizhinjam on Tuesday every fortnight.

Meanwhile, the arrival of the cruise liner put the port, customs and immigration authorities on tenterhooks for over six hours. Chairman of Kerala Tourism Development Corporation (KTDC) Cherian Philip came to the harbour representing the government to welcome the tourists.

The locals, who assembled in large numbers to welcome the ship were also disappointed as the tourists could not disembark.

twotravel

I have a vision in my head of you Dogster at the table with the Brits and Ethel....wonderful! Now pass the bottle you can't have it all,
Pauline.

Kristina

Oh. My. God.
I can't even begin to tell you how much I enjoyed your story about the ship.
The entire time I was reading it I was thinking, "how can he possibly get through 14 days of that?" and I was praying you would get off the boat. What a nightmare.
I'm just surprised you didn't spark a mass exodus of people leaving with you (at least maybe the Americans).
I hope you didn't lose too much money. OTOH, I don't think any amount of money could have kept me on that boat!

dogster

Thanks so much, both of you.

Lol Pauline: I do sound like a bit of a soak, don't I? My personal habits did calm down considerably after all that stress - I was in Goa, after all - the old hippy in me crept out of hiding and I became a lot more.. how shall we say.. laid back.

Kristina: yup, I guess it was an expensive six hours. But sometimes, regardless, when you gotta go - you gotta go.

I left discretely in this instance, didn't talk to a soul. The other passengers, in the brief moments they weren't throwing up, probably wondered just what had happened to that strange fellow they thought they saw on the first day...

The real issue here was that the boat was leaving port the next morning, headed out to sea. I knew if I didn't get off THEN, I was trapped. So a decision had to made, in my estimation, there and then.

The three Americans weren't stupid, limp and passive - they were actually a lotta fun in the brief time I knew them - BUT it takes a brave man to jump ship before it has sailed, blow the dough and have to re-invent one's trip on the spot - in India, of all places.

MUCH much easier if you're a single traveler - and much easier if you've learnt to cut your losses - fast. See 'Dogster? Bhutan' for a totally different [yet kinda similar] situation.

Not everybody has the luxury of travelling as much as I can. Not everybody is prepared to admit quite so rapidly to themselves that they've made a DUMB decision - and, to cut to the chase, not everybody has the luxury, financially, to walk away.

Whereas I already KNOW I'm capable of great stupidity - extensive travel [and life itself] has taught me that. Like I say, at the top of this report 'if there’s an idiot thing to do, a wrong way to turn, a mistake to be made, the dog will do it.'

The more I travel, the less I realise I know. Dammit.