Thursday 5th - Goan Slowly

The auto arrives on time and one of the Gopi management team even gets up to check that we get away alright. The drive through the darkness to Hospet station is mainly uneventful apart from the odd unlit bullock cart that wants to cut corners on the wrong side of the road. It is chilly enough to require fleeces. At the station there is a throng gathering,even at this early hour, mainly waiting to catch the train down to Goa. We are travelling Sleeper Class for the journey of around seven and a half hours, our first long trip in this more basic accommodation.

Train 18047 has travelled for around 36 hours since leaving Kolkata so it is no great surprise when it pulls in 30 minutes late. We are in Coach S5, seats 63 and 64. This is a pair of side berths, quite close to the door, so they should be quite easy to find. Most of the shutters are down and it is pretty dark inside the coach. Not so dark that we don't see the four people snuggled into our seats, which have been folded down to make a sleeping berth. There is also a man occupying the upper berth, part of our territory which we intend to use for storing our luggage.

The two (very) large ladies and two small boys on the lower level bestir themslves, allowing D to restore the seat backs and the two of us to get out of the way of the crowd behind who have seats further up the coach. The man upstairs folds himself up to make space for our bags. By now we are underway. The evicted bodies find perches elsewhere in the coach which is clearly carrying more people than the 72 who hold tickets. The six person bay opposite us contains 10 people. The TTE appears but apart from one lady who hands over some cash no action occurs. She does not get a receipt which seems highly irregular to D.

About two hours into the trip we stop at Hubli which has a very smart new station. Our coach stops opposite a catering stand so we have samosas for breakfast and buy a small bunch of bananas for later. We notice that most of the people around us on the train are eating curd out of clay pots. It looks good but we can't spot the source and don't want to risk the train setting off while searching. As it happens there was bags of time. We leave Hubli well over an hour late. All turns out well as the next vendor along the train was selling said clay pots so we had one to share. 'Twas delicious.  The parade of vendors was unceasing - water, sodas, toothbrushes and paste, various breakfast items, peeled cucumbers, peanuts in shells, key rings and most tempting of all - bhel puri. R is convinced that the consumption of this will lead to instant death but it does smell good.

This is our first trip to India that has not included Kolkata. Never mind.  This time Kolkata has come to us. Nearly everybody in the coach seems to be a Bengali heading to Goa for a holiday, mainly in extended family groups. There is a constant game of musical chairs as people move from bay to bay to chat. One teenage girl comes to practice her excellent English with us. She is travelling with her parents, young brother, two aunts plus a husband and a couple of other families. She is concerned about the poor condition of the coach. We were pleasantly surprised by how good it was given that the service had already done two overnights when we boarded. We have seen loos in worse condition in AC on much shorter trips.

R has now christened the man in our upper berth Andy Capp. He never lifts a finger and the rest of his party (about nine in all) attend to his every whim, fetching food, drinks and paan ingredients for him. We spend a lot of time static at wayside stations waiting to cross eastbound trains. Almost everybody except R gets down to stand on the track at these stops. Nobody seems concerned about the increasing delay.




We are now at least two hours late. Eventually we start to wind our way through the Western Ghats, the scenic section of the ride. There is a series of short tunnels which provoke screams from the holidaymakers. The train travels suitably slowly as it passes below the Dudhsagar Falls. There isn't a lot of water flowing at this time of year but it must be spectacular in and just after the monsoon. As it is, the view compensates for the hours we have spent on the sunny side of the train. Too late those on the shady side realise that they are missing out.

We dawdle down the gradients towards Goa. Andy Capp descends to lower berth level to thank us for letting him doss on our pitch. Or maybe he was thanking us for making his wife, kids and sister in law move somewhere else. Hard to tell. During this conversation he did produce his ticket which listed six people with a boarding status of around Wait List 120. These were counter tickets rather than online tickets and seem to allow the holders to travel even if there is no reserved space on the train. D decides that he will never really understand Indian Railways booking system.

As we enter Goa one of the vendors asks D if he would like a beer. This seems like the first step on a slippery slope and is declined.  The said vendor does not reappear so perhaps this was a scam anyway. About 10 miles short of our destination the train stops again to allow several eastbound trains to pass. At the next stop Andy Capp and family get off. He carries his sponge bag while the women carry enomormous suitcases. We finally pull in to Madgaon station three and a half hours late. D has done his research and we get to the prepaid taxi queue before the herd. We are soon on the road for the 50 minute drive to the Afonso Guest House in Panjim, the old Portuguese colonial capital.

We are met by Clifton, the owner's son, and shown to our charming room. After today's experience even D, notoriously tight with a shilling, opted to shell out the extra for AC. A quick shower then out for a beer and pakoras. We are too exhausted to eat any more.