Bathtime Bliss

I wake at 10am, bleary-eyed after a much-needed night's sleep. Yesterday's journey had exhausted me.

I'd had trouble staying awake at the opera last night. I went for several reasons, firstly to get a look at the fabulous interior of the National Opera House, all plaster and gilt, and secondly as there was little else to do in the city this evening. I wasn't in a fit state to go shaking my booty at the city nightclubs!

I took my 12Lat seat in the stalls amongst the great and the good of the city, who seemed to have come out in force. The place was packed to the rafters. I then sat through four acts of Pucini's La Boheme, which I can precis as follows:

Act I - an artist's garret in Rome. Four impecunious students struggle to pay the rent. Rudolfo, the writer amongst them, falls in love with Mimi, the girl downstairs, who strays into his lair looking for a light for her candle. She has a bit of a cough.

Act II - a cafe in the Latin Quarter. Rudolfo treats Mimi to a night on the town. Mimi still hasn't taken anything for that cough!

Act III - a square at night. Snow is falling. It transpires Mimi has left Rudolfo because he is always jealous of the way she looks at other fellas. Mimi comes back. Her cough has got worse.

Act IV - back in the garret. Mimi's cough finally takes its toll and she expires in her lover's arms.

No wonder the suicide rate is up!

This morning, I breakfast at a wee cafe.....one of a chain which seem to have sprung up like a rash across the city. But the coffee is good, and the sausage and scrambled eggs are cheap. The waitress places two large salt-cellers on the table, and what I initially assume to be the salt looks more like pepper. I swap them over, but the second one also looks like pepper. I conclude it must be paprika. It's only as I take my first mouthful that I realise I've peppered my eggs with cocoa and cinnamon meant for my cappucino!

For the next two nights I am sharing a room with a chum from Shrewsbury, who is coming over with my sister and her fella this evening. I drag my wheeled suitcase across the cobbled streets of the Old City, intending to put my baggage in storage, but the staff inform me that my room is ready.

The hotel is palatial compared to last night's accommodation, and I am delighted to find an ensuite bathroom, in custard-powder yellow! I haven't got a bath at home....indeed I haven't had a bath since Christmas, so I spend the next hour or so soaking in blissful contentment.

More photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/fourthflaw/sets/72157600070311161/

Suicide City

It says in my Berlitz Pocket Guide to Riga, that the Latvians come fifth in the European Suicide League Table. That's a surprisingly high position given how small the country is, and the guide book cites the eternal grey skies as a major contributory factor.

As I descend the steps of my Boeing 737, the gloom greets me, together with a chill wind from the east.

The girl at the Tourist Information Office in the central square speaks her English with a Canadian twang. She tells me she yearns for the streets of Montreal where she recalls people smiling as they passed. "Everyone is so glum here", she complains, glumly. And I have to say, she is right. As I wander the medieval cobbles, I am reminded of the grim features of the people of Huddersfield on a cold winters' afternoon.

Further evidence of the local's suicidal streak comes at every street corner, where people seem to suddenly lurch off the pavement into the oncoming traffic. The pedestrian traffic light system takes a bit of getting used to, but I soon find myself confidently following the locals lead, joining the shoals of lemmings diving in concert across the boulevards.

Worse, though, is the tram system. The No. 7 tram stop in Aspazijas Boulevard, for instance, is graced with a purpose-built shelter and platform serving the west-bound tram....those passengers wishing to board the east-bound service, however, have to congregate on the opposite pavement, rushing into the busy thoroughfare as the tram comes to a stop in the centre of the carriageway. Alighting passengers take their lives in their hands as they leap off the bottom step and into the traffic stream, which screeches dutifully to a halt as they do so.

I fear suicide is easy on the streets of Riga!

My hostel accommodation for the night might be described as basic, but this would be putting a positive gloss on things! It is housed on the first floor of a decrepit and crumbling 19th century building opposite the grey brick post office HQ. Ulrika signs me in and takes my money off me....I foolishly pay for the two nights in advance.....I am due back on Sunday night; in the interim staying at a hotel with some chums, who aren't due to arrive until tomorrow.

Ulrika guides me down the corridor, which smells of dirty mop, and ushers me into my room. I assume it was once a vestibule when the building was in its heyday.....now it is painted a grubby salmon pink, has two single wooden cots, a fraying navy blue office carpet, and no curtains.....oh, and a small stool, which I commandeer as my bedside table.

As I hunker down for the night, I realise I have discovered another contributory factor to the suicide rate....

More photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/fourthflaw/sets/72157600070311161/

Sunday In The Park

After a week staring out of the office window as Enfield seemed to be bathed in spring sunshine, and the temperatures outside began to emulate those of May rather than March, the bright sunshine lured me out for my first Sunday morning constitutional of the year.

I left the house in Upper Clapton Road and headed up the 'Murder Mile' to Springfield Park, glad I'd had the foresight to don my coat before setting off. A cold and blustering wind had me dodging swirling whirlpools of litter as I walked past the shops.

The park was busy, with lads playing football on the grass, and small knots of people zig-zagging against the wind, pushing buggies or walking dogs. The scudding clouds high above me meant only fleeting glimpses of sunshine.

I dived in to the Park Cafe, found myself a table and ordered the Big Breakfast. Spreading my newspaper on the table before me, I supped my latte, warm and snug as the wind rattled the glass in the ageing window frames.

The cafe was full; mums talking to eachother over the heads of their small children, courting couples making plans, friends fending off their hangovers with plates of fried eggs and beans.....

After brunch, I ambled round the park taking photos. The strength of the wind took my breath away, and the cold cut through my clothing and made my eyes water. I walked down towards the River Lee, taking in a little tennis on the way. The Park Rangers seem to have been busy cutting down some of the large trees that once stood alongside the river. I don't know whether they were felled by the storms in January, but quite afew of them have been cut down, large sections of tree trunk lying scattered on the grass. This has had the beneficial effect of opening up the view of the River Lee from all parts of the park. You can see the boats on the river, the towpath, and the marshlands that spread east towards Walthamstow.

As I had to take my hands out of my pockets to manipulate the camera, they were soon blue with the cold. They ached so much I decided to cut my losses and head for home, especially when the clouds above turned black and a thin sleet began to fall on me. Winter hasn't quite given way to Spring just yet!

More photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/fourthflaw/sets/72157600012131205/

Colombo Agogo

Arrived in Colombo in one piece at 3am on Sunday after a ten hour flight......hadn't managed to get much in the way of sleep (got hooked on the computerised game of Solitaire on the back of the seat in front.....hadn't managed to clear a deck of cards by the time we landed, so I was all for turning the plane round and heading back for Blighty). A chap was awaiting me at the Airport exit with my name on a piece of paper, and I was whisked off to the Galle Face Hotel.....a forty-five minute taxi ride to the south. It being dark, I couldn't get much of a feel for the place beyond the half-built edifices and shacks that lined the route, but I could already sense the poverty.....pot-holed roads, puddles of stagnant water, copious wandering dogs and the occassional knot of locals idling away the nightime.

I managed to get four hours kip before breakfast.......my room was in the north wing of what must have been a very grand colonial estblishment in years gone by. It was sizeable, but pretty basic, with ensuite bathroom. They had recently refurbished the south wing, which was regal in comparison!

My sleep was disturbed by the very loud air-conditioning unit.....it didn't appear to have any controls, so I couldn't turn it off. Added to which, it made the room very cold, and being armed only with my M&S pyjama set and a thin white sheet, I felt the chill!

Breakfast was on the Verandha overlooking the Arabian Sea, and I tucked into the creamy potato curry, with Mung beans on the side, and a fried egg served in a bowl made out of a thin, slightly sweet pancake mix......yummy!!! I had seconds....

I had been warned about the touts that frequent the area by the staff at the hotel, but had to pop over the road to get some Sri Lankan rupees out of the cash machine....I brushed off a couple of approaches from dodgy-looking tri-shaw drivers, but hadn't got more than 50 yards when Roland introduced himself, saying he was the gardener at the hotel.....that's what clinched it! I presumed he would be as well-versed in avoiding these practices as his comrades at work, so instantly put my trust in him.

A Sri Lankan called Roland.....come off it!!!! Anyhow, he led me a merry dance, insisting I come visit his temple before finding me a cash-point....he flagged down a friendly tri-shaw driver, who was presumably in on the scam, and off we went. The temple was interesting, and Roland was obviously doing his best to make sure I was going to get my money's worth, bless him! I was shown the temple elephant, and met the tsunami kids who were being schooled there.....then it was off to his pal's gemstone shop, where they wanted $88 for a small piece of opal....I turned on my heel at that point, but the tri-shaw driver wanted $20 to take me back to the hotel. Not knowing where the hell I was, I had no choice. Roland then took his cut.....he was very insistent about it!!!! Welcome to the Third World!!!! I had to take my hat off to them.....they'd earned a month's wages in less than twenty minutes.....I'd lost the price of admission to The Madjeski Stadium....

Whilst in the hotel grounds I was approached by Mike, a youthful looking 63-year old who came over to commiserate.....he'd been conned outside, too! I spent the rest of the day mooching about, trying to get into the book I'd brought....Joseph Heller's Catch 22. Had a snooze in the afternoon, and met Mike for dinner on the verandah in the evening. He turned out to have been in the property business, and was now trying to set up a charitable development in Galle, where the tsunami had caused a lot of damage.

Got to bed around 10pm......had to be up at 2am to get the taxi to the airport. I was getting a bit worried by 2.30am, but he showed up, and we sped airport-wards. Had three hours to kill before the Goa flight boarded, so sat in the coffee bar. Had given my last rupees to the security guard at the airport, who asked me for them, very politely!!! Had to pay for my coffe in sterling, but got change in dollars! Still, should be able to use them on my way back home. Landed safely in Goa at 7.30am and entered another world!

Another Planet

The hour's taxi ride from Dabolim airport north to Assagao at 8 o'clock in the morning had a surreal air. Baked, dusty red-brown earth, palm trees and jungle, primitive huts protected from the rising sun by lengths of blue plastic tarpaulin, people walking and limping along the poured tarmac roadways, scooters and motorbikes and bicycles swerving in and out of the four-wheeled traffic, the occassional elephant carrying a load across it's broad shoulders, crumbling, stained, concrete buildings, garish advertising hordings.....I stared out of my taxi-van window with a vague sense of disbelief.

Arrived, sweating gently, at 515 Bountavada where Tony, Ricky and James greeted me warmly. James is a convivial Mancunian, with a big smile and a bigger heart, who is in the process of traversing the globe on a motorbike. He and Tony have been here for some weeks now, and both appear bronzed and glowing with a healthy vitality. Ricky, on the other hand, is a fair-skinned Scot who has only been here two days, and by contrast has taken on a red and beetrooty hue. In him I perceive my own fate!

A cup of tea, then a quick guided tour of my accommodation of the next two weeks. It's a block and plaster apartment on one floor, with a narrow front garden leading from the little verandah. There are five rooms, four of which are given over as bedrooms, and a kitchen. My room has a double bed with sheet and pillow, a table (which turns out to be haunted), a metal construct on which to hang my clothes, and a ceiling fan.

The ablutions are basic, housing toilet and cold shower, plus wash-hand basin. I take note of the rather large black ants that appear to live round the toilet rim! I won't be taking a seat!!!

Tony assures me that a scooter has been ordered for me, but in the meantime I clamber onto the back of his, and we speed off to the nearest town, Mapusa. It's a small market town, the capital of northern Goa, and it's teeming with people and traffic. We park up in a street lined with parked scooters, and dodge the slow-moving, honking traffic. The market place is humming with traders pushing their wares at you.....I fall for a tee-shirt with the logo of the local brew emblazoned on the front. It's offered for 600 rupees.....Tony assures me it's not worth 150, but after much to-ing and fro-ing we settle at 200.

The fish market stinks, and we watch in vague horror as squads of wide-eyed children behead fresh sardines in the humid heat of the afternoon.

Tony ushers us into a small, squalid looking cafe....we find seats upstairs, and order brunch of bread pancakes and spiced chutney, washed down with masala chai. The food is simple and tasty, and the staff are friendly and helpful......I begin to feel at ease.

The Kids are Alright

I was introduced to my scooter today....I've never ridden one before, but after afew halting manouevres, I take to it like a duck to water. Helmetless, and with little thought for the finer points of the highway code, I join the busy, meandering by-ways that, mostly, lead to the beach.

The other road users appear to have even less road sense than I do, but somehow it all flows along. The roundabouts in Mapusa are the scariest.....it's literally every man for himself. If you are too polite with the opposition you risk coming a cropper.

The road infrastructure is pretty poor, and the lanes that lead to the beaches are largely narrow and pot-holed. It's OK as long as it's other bikes that are heading in the opposite direction, but every now and then you have to make way for a very wide and speeding bus, or worse still, a lorry with tyres as tall as yourself!

My scooter soon develops starting problems. The electric starter motor has become very temperamental, and I am instructed in the art of kick starting it. As the week progresses however, even that becomes hit and miss.....the starting mechanism seems to behave differently every day. On one occassion I arrived back at the apartment at midnight and turned the ignition off, but the engine kept running. It woke the neighbours up, who ventured out to assist, but to no avail. Eventually we had to syphon off the petrol!

I took it back the next day, but of course, it behaved perfectly in the presence of the hire staff, so I reluctantly agreed to persevere for a couple more days until Ricky was due to leave for Blighty, and I could take his keys. The evening I'd planned to take my bike back, it wouldn't start at all......I got a lift to the hire place and handed them the key, drawing them a map of how to get to our place.

The following day I take Ricky's bike over, and it starts first time.....I head out east into the hinterland; within half-an-hour my horn has stopped working! I don't think I was born to be a Mod!!

A Gentle Mugging

I'm getting the impression the locals see me coming. Tony takes us to the Shore Bar on Anjuna beach, which has become his Rover's Return, so to speak, over the course of the last 6 weeks or so. It's basically a number of deck chairs and tables set out on the sands, protected from the sun by a tented canopy of bamboo and matting. There are chilled sounds on the sound system, and a perfect view of the Arabian Sea, fruit juices and beers, and simple food.

On passing through the bar, you descend onto the beach itself via a series of stone steps, where we nab a couple of sun loungers. Unbeknownst to me, we are only a matter of feet from some tented shops, selling shirts and sarongs etc. I haven't been there ten seconds when the beguiling Gita introduces herself, asking my name with fluttering eyelashes, and taking hold of my hand (so I can't escape). She says I look like a ghost......which I suppose I do. She is a dark and burnished brown, her white teeth flashing when she smiles....I am smitten.

She takes my sunglasses from my nose, and puts them on (so I can't escape!), and before I know it I have been dragged through the burning sand and into her little shop. I soon find myself cornered, not just by Gita, but by half-a-dozen women, who all turn out to have a shop nearby. Each in turn implores me to come see their wares.....I'm having enough trouble with Gita, frankly! Ricky passes by the opening to the shop, and I beg his assistance in plaintive tones.....he grins a Glaswegian grin and hurries past.

I eventually succumb to Gita's hard sell, and agree to purchase a cheese-cloth shirt and a sarong to sit on the sand with. Gita's neighbouring shop owner grasps the said sarong, and disappears next door, on the assumption I'll follow her into her shop. But Gita hasn't quite got the money off me, and I still owe her 100 rupees.....I walk calmly back to my sun-lounger, saying that she will get her final instalment when she's rescued my sarong from her comrade-in-arms. After a fifteen minute stalemate, she eventually comes up with the goods, and I run, traumatised, for the cover of the Shore Bar.....and don't set foot on that stretch of beach for the rest of the holiday!

Barking and Dogenham

The usual bedtime seems to have settled around 10.30pm......after an exhausting day lying on the sun loungers, listening to the lapping of the Arabian Sea, there's not much left in the tank, frankly.

I turn on my ceiling fan, which has four speeds.....setting number two suffices at this time of year. I put on my pyjamas, more for protection against mosquitoes than for any other reason, and draw the white sheet over my gently sweating form.....it looks like a scene from Waking The Dead.

I turn off the light and close my eyes....there's a kerfuffle on the tiled roof above my head as the jackdaws begin to roost for the night. Their cawing is stark and loud, and they seem to be vying with eachother to see who can make the most noise. They are joined by a strange whooping sound....at first I assume it's a monkey, it sounds so bizarre.....but there are no monkeys here. It must be some kind of bird. I imagine it having a beak like a series of fluted trumpets, and a huge puffed up breast that it exercises in letting out it's disturbing shriek.

As I turn over, I hear James in the adjacent bedroom....he has the beginnings of a chest infection, and his cough is deep and gutteral. Scratchy, the neighbour's friendly mongrel, begins to bark in seeming reply. His barking soon transmits itself to the dogs next door, and before long there are dozens of them locked in an unholy chorale. In the far distance of the night I swear I can hear a wolf orchestrating the proceedings.

I stuff a pair of ear plugs into the sides of my head, and try to nod off. Just as sleep seems about to envelop me, I hear the distinctive whine of a dive-bombing mosquito. It seems to have honed in ignorantly on one of my ear plugs. I swat at it blindly in the darkness, turn on the bedside lamp, and grope in my baggage for my supply of insect-reppellant. I smear the stinking stuff over my exposed areas of flesh, and hunker down once more under my shroud.

By 2am, the canine chorus has begun to run out of ideas, and I begin to drift into deep sleep. It is then that I hear a scratching sound, a creaking that comes in short sharp bursts, so fast it puts me in mind of the rattle of a rattle-snake. It comes in three second waves, four or five at a time, then a period of silence. I involuntarily curl my feet towards my buttocks and adopt a foetal position, bracing myself for the poisonous strike. After half-an-hour I pluck up the courage to turn on the light and get out of bed. It seems to be coming from the little window....so at first I assume it's something outside trying to scratch it's way in. But I can see nothing through the mosquito gauze. My suitcase lies atop a small two-drawer table nearby....has something crawled it's way into my luggage? I stare in that direction for a long time, but there's no sign of movement. Eventually, I put it down to the expansion of the wooden rafters in the heat.

I push my ear plugs in a bit futher, and eventually nod off.

I am woken by the crowing of the neighbour's rooster, vowing to wring it's neck should our paths ever cross.....soon the jackdaws have woken up too, cawing at eachother like demented babies.

Over a mug of tea the following morning, I explain to my housemates that I was kept awake by (among other things), a sinister scratching noise during the night....."Ahhh, the haunted table", comes the knowing reply. Apparently, the previous occupant of my room was so disturbed by the mysterious scratching that she dismantled the table in a vain attempt to solve the mystery. And so the story of the Haunted Table passes into legend....perhaps I could sell the idea to IKEA!?

In Stitches

Am now back at work in Enfield, having endured a twenty-four hour journey from Assagao in Goa. A journey not without it's discomforts....

Friday was my final day in the sun, and I was due to leave the apartment in Assagao in a taxi at 6am Saturday morning. I decided to take a scooter ride up to the Chapora Fort on Friday afternoon, and was wending my way through the winding village streets on my Honda when disaster struck. I overtook a stationary bus, and as I passed it I glanced over my left shoulder. Somehow, this managed to unbalance the scooter, and before I knew it my right shoulder crashed into the tarmac, closely followed by my forehead. I sat in the middle of the road in disbelief.....I'd been due to take the bike back to the hire company in three hours or so!

I realised I was bleeding quite heavily from a head wound, and a small crowd of locals had gathered at the side of the road. I eventually staggered to my feet, and wobbled over to the dusty verge, where a couple of locals poured bottled water over my wounds. One chap clawed a handful of earth from the roadside, saying that it would stop the bleeding.....fortuneately, I was compus mentis enough to decline the offer. An elderly gentleman offered me some lemonade in a rather grubby looking glass.....I felt compelled to accept his kindness.

I was told there was a hospital nearby, and a local man offered me a ride on the back of his motorbike. His five year old daughter rode on the front! He stopped at a small bar on the way to allow me to purchase a bottle of water, and dropped me at the front door of St. Anthony's Hospital and Research Centre, where a chubby, jolly Dr. Provin greeted me with a warm smile. I was ushered into a small room, and climbed up onto what looked like a butcher's block. It didn't look particularly clean, and the blue plastic pillow I was proferred looked decidedly unhealthy. I let myself go, and lay back and stared at the ceiling fan whirling above my head.

Dr. Provin got stuck into cleaning the clotting from my head wound, and I soon realised he was doing a bit of sewing! The nurse cleaned up the grazing to my right leg and arm, applying a red unction that stained my skin, making me look as if I was being prepared for the tandoori oven. Within 15 minutes they'd sorted me out, and I was discharged with some antibiotics and a bill for 600 rupees. If I'd been to A&E at Homerton Hospital, I would still have been waiting three hours later!

My plan to purchase a motor scooter to get me round London town will now be shelved indefinitely!