Saturday 7th - What's Goan On?

There is a thin covering of hazy cloud this morning and it feels distinctly more humid. Our plan this morning is to visit Old Goa, the original capital of Portuguese Goa, about half an hour away by bus. We consider ourselves reasonably experienced travellers,  well versed in the complexities and genteel decorum of Indian train travel. This has not prepared us for the pandemonium that is Panjim bus station. It is utter chaos, a mass of dilapidated machines belching diesel fumes and men yelling unintelligible repetitive crys. Eventually we work out that each bus has a small board in the front window displaying its route. We fail to spot one saying Old Goa but a man at a stall points us in the right direction.  The shouty man's slogan for our bus sounds like "Ogre, ogre, ogre!" D is reminded of the men who chanted strange cries while selling the Yorkshire Evening Post. "Boycott three day hundred!" was one of the memorable ones.

We board and get seats but not together. The bus fills up with standees and then we are off in some kind of race for the bus station exit. Once that hurdle is cleared we have a fairly uneventful trip to Old Goa, mainly following the Mandovi river as we head east. Old Goa had a population of over half a million around 400 years ago, bigger than either London or Lisbon at the time. During the 1600s there were epidemics of cholera and malaria and the city was abandoned. The surviving remains are mainly religious edifices, built by the Portuguese. There is a Basilica, a Cathedral, a couple of monasteries,  several churches and a few chapels. The whole site is now classified as a World Heritage site and the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) run most of it.

We walk round some of the main sites. One vast church would be impressive but several within a couple of hundred yards gets to be overkill. It is hot and sweaty work. Quiet contemplation is not on the cards as the coach parties and school groups are marched in and out in quick order. We take a break for a massala black tea at a handy restaurant before tackling the Archaeological Museum. This has a very high tech body and bag scanner at the entrance which makes a wide range of alarm type noises. All of these are utterly ignored by the man at the door. It

is a pretty dull museum and D contemplates asking for a refund. After all they did promise a portrait of Salazar, the Portuguese dictator, which is nowhere to be seen. The remaining attraction listed for Old Goa, the bus stand, beckons.

The bus is full so we have to stand behind the driver, a youthful type in lead overboots. He has a terrible deformity which means that his hand is permanently attached to the side of his head.  No wait.  He is permanently on his mobile phone as he hurls several tons of rusty metal and about 50 passengers around the road with a single hand on the wheel. We walk silently back to the Afonso contemplating the mysteries of existence.  Just before we get there we spot the Horseshoe Restaurant and Bar. This is too good to miss and we pop in for a beer and check out the menu. The place is spotless with friendly staff and utterly devoid of customers. We book a table for tonight.

After a siesta we set out to find a food and music festival that is taking place this weekend on the west side of town. The direct route takes us up the hill behind the Afonso on a zig zag road. From the top we get good views of the Mandovi and also the Mahalaxmi Hindu temple, a bit of a rarity in this part of the world. We descend and walk for ages looking for the festival.  The cloud has disappeared and it is very hot. There are uniformed school parties everywhere but not much that looks like a festival. Eventually we arrive at a field full of defence equipment.  It is too hot to go much further so we retreat towards the bars. The festival will have to manage without us. 

We get sluiced down and smartened up before heading out for supper. The Horseshoe is a bit busier although not full. The food is great. Clams in Coconut and Goan spices with Goan Sausage and beans in red chilli sauce. With bread. D just has room for a Goan pud called bebinca. V good. On the way home we stop off at our local supermarket, The Little Presidency.  This manages somehow to be hotter inside than the air outside and the cashier pretends to have no change and hands out sweets rather than rupee coins. D objects to the strawberry flavoured ones and is given something worse for his cheek.