The Train to Goa

We board the train with our rucksacks on our backs and only just fit through the doors. It seems fairly empty despite the difficulty we had getting tickets - at the hostel the website kept crashing and we were told to go to the station, at the station; "not possible madam, fully booked", and at the travel agents it is possible only for a huge booking fee. Eventually we get 'taktal' tickets, which seem to only be available the day before - for ' emergencies'. So we are very relieved when we find our bunks and our ticket is checked and deemed valid. The aisle is slightly off center. On the larger side of each section there are two sets of three bunks facing each other horizontally across the carriage. On the smaller side there are two bunks parallel with the aisle. The bunks are very narrow and there is not enough room to sit up on them. We are on the upper birth as we had been told that this was the best way to avoid being trodden on as people climb up.

As we set off chai and samosa sellers hurry up and down calling 'chai chai chai' etc, but are going too fast to get their attention. There must be some sort of secret signal. It is very cold although we thought we had booked non AC, so I wrap myself up in my brown 'Indian Rail' blanket and drift off. I sleep for the first few hours but I'm disturbed by the man in the bed across the aisle with the most offensive snoring. It is comical and disgusting at the same with a huge guttural intake that suggests that all the hocking and spitting doesn't actually do much good, and an actual whistle on the way out. I get up to wonder around the train. There are lots of families producing huge picnics from their bags in little Tupperware pots and spreading them out over their bunks. The first and second class cabins have only one or two tiers of bunks, but other than that are not much different from our sleeper class. The kitchen carriage is hot and noisy with pans wobbling around on a huge stove. Men are hurrying in and out with either boxes on their head full of sandwiches, samosas, omelets and dosas or carrying vats of tomato soup and chai. I am shooed away back to my compartment where I spend the 12 hour journey reading, playing cards and hanging out of the big open doors between carriages to see the view.

 Views of and from the train

Train arrives at Marago two hours late. It is now 20:30 and we have another hour's bus journey before we get to Palolem - if there any buses. I am looking forward to waking up on the beach and don't really want to spend the night in the city. As we walk down the platform we spot two rucksack laden girls asking a porter about buses and and we ask if they happen to be going to Palolem. They are and so we share a taxi for the 40 minute drive. The main (and only) street in Pallolem is lined with shops, cafes and, worst of all, men who work for commission by bringing you to the hostel, beach hut or guest house they work for. We refuse all offers as the commission gets added to our bill. We walk down the beach for 5 minutes or so, which is very difficult with our rucksacks, and eventually give into a young man with good English who mentions some beach huts listed in our guide book. He says it is his family business, he doesn't work for commission, and there are lots of other travelers there. The latter is at least true. The two leathery European hippies strung out on hammocks and say that the 'Brown Bread Coco Huts' as they're called, are "really cool". The hut is clean, has a fan, mosquito net, attached bathroom, and is 100 meters from the beach. It is now nearly 22:00 and it will do for tonight. As I fall asleep I am still rocking from the train and I can hear the sea.

The view from our beach hut in the morning.