about far off places with palm trees and warm beaches was starting to become an everyday occurrence for both Garry and myself. The memories of Australia were getting the better of us and a creeping itch had begun. It’s the first symptom of the travel bug. It was definitely that time again; we needed to pack our bags and take off for a while. It had been almost two years since our last excursion, around Australia. We had both fallen in love with the great “down-under” continent and we knew we had to make an effort to get back there. Our plans changed one wet, drizzly afternoon, walking through the Gayle shopping center in Edinburgh.
A big sign in one of the travel agencies caught Garry’s attention: GOA - TWO WEEKS HALF BOARD - DEPARTING DECEMBER 13 - £329. He stopped and studied it, then looked at me. ”How do you fancy spending Christmas in India?” ”Yeah, right! If only.” ”Why not?” he shrugged. “We could start in Goa, forfeit our returns and make our way to Aus via Asia.” ”It sounds great, Garry, but it’s leaving in less than two weeks,” I pointed out, eager to finish the shopping and get home. “What about our jobs…our stuff? Where would we keep it?” ”Our jobs are hardly irreplaceable, and as far as our belongings are concerned, we’ll keep some at my grandmother’s and some at your mother’s, the rest we’ll sell. “I realized he was deadly serious. ”It’s all a bit sudden, isn’t it?” ”Sure, it’s sudden, but were hardly happy here are we?” he said. ”No, but India? We know nothing about the place.” ”I know it’s sunny and look, if we don’t like it, we’ll just move on to somewhere we do like.”
Garry was very persuasive, and I began to consider the possibility. Outside, the sky was dark and the rain was getting heavy. The wind was picking up and everyone looked thoroughly miserable. He watched me as the thoughts worked through my mind. A smile got the better of me. ”Why not? Let’s do it!” I said. “What the hell, we can always come back.” ”That’s the spirit, Rach!, ” he said gleefully throwing his arms around me. “I know we won’t regret it.” And that, roughly, is how I was talked into traveling around Asia. Before I had time to change my mind, we went into the travel agency and booked two tickets. There was no going back now. That evening, we went to the pub to celebrate our brilliant plan. ”We needn’t spend just two weeks in India. If we’re going all that way, why not take in a few more countries,” Garry suggested, now well excited by the idea and making plans at a mile a minute. ”We could go from there to Nepal and trek in the Himalayas!” “And then there’s the beaches of Thailand!” The whole idea was sounding better by the minute and by the time we left the pub, we had our trip mapped out.
Over the next week, we handed in our notice at work, and sold most of our belongings. We spent days packing what we needed and discarding the rest. Our departure date was drawing close but the butterflies were flapping in my gut. ”Are we doing the right thing?” I’d ask myself over and over again. ”Of course we are, it’ll be great,” I’d assure myself, but those damn butterflies would not go away. I’m sure everyone has a certain amount of apprehension when they plan a visit to foreign lands. The thought of India had my stomach in bits! I wasn’t sure what to expect. The country conjured up so many different images in my mind - extreme poverty, suffering and overcrowding, colourful festivals, diverse cultures and religions, strange and interesting customs. It was all going to be very different, but exciting. We were on the move once more. Excellent!
Being HIV positive, I was aware that I was taking a bit of a risk going somewhere like India. Maybe that’s why I had such butterflies but, as long as I have my full health, I have always been determined never to let it take over my life or get in the way of anything I want to do. I’m one of the lucky ones who have non-progressive HIV; I’ve never had illness nor needed medication. The most I have to do is go for a check-up every six months and I considered that I could do that somewhere en route if necessary. By taking the proper precautions and using some common sense, I was sure I would be just fine. At any rate, it wasn’t going to stop me from this great adventure.
After an extremely cramped eleven-hour flight, we were relieved to finally land in Goa. The first thing to hit us leaving the plane was the extreme heat, followed shortly by the chaos in the airport. The baggage carousel had broken down and a bizarre system of luggage collection was in place. The handlers had emptied the carousel to make room for the next load. People were tripping over suitcases and bags that were strewn all over the floor. It was stifling and thronged and full of the vibrancy that sets Asia apart from orderly European airports. Newcomers have a slightly bewildered, unhinged expression on their faces. It goes much deeper than jet lag. We finally found our rucksacks and went to change currency. ”How much will I change?” asked Garry. ”I don’t know, about £100.” After queuing for about ten minutes, he returned humming, “We’re in the money, we’re in the money”. In his hand, he had a huge wad of filthy notes stapled together, worn, torn and falling apart.
”Hello. Welcome to India,” said a holiday rep, placing a garland of flowers around my neck. It was a nice gesture, but I was sticking out enough without the garland. Everyone seemed to be staring - and at me. It was a bit unnerving. “Now I know how those famous actors must feel,” I joked to Garry. The bus trip to our hotel would be our first taste of the “insane” Indian driving. We had just sat down when the driver pounded his horn and sped off as fast as the bus would go. Seemingly oblivious to other vehicles he roared along at top speed. Anything smaller than his bus was forced aside as he carved his own route to the hotel. His overtaking antics could only be described as down right suicidal; around blind bends, over the brows of hills, wherever. It didn’t seem to matter; nothing was going to slow him down. Through the window, I could see the remains of vehicles that had been unsuccessful in negotiating their crazy maneuvers. I held on tight and hoped we weren’t going to become just another statistic.
Thankful to still be alive, we got to our hotel in the small village of Candolim where porters ran out to greet us. ”Please Sir, Madam, let me carry your bags.” They practically grabbed the bags off our arms, so keen were they to show us to our rooms and hopefully get a generous tip. Exhausted after our long, uncomfortable flight, we were fit for nothing but sleep. The hotel was good, although the beds were a bit hard. There was a large pool and the grounds were well kept, surrounded by exotic plants and palm trees. A few hours later, showered and refreshed, we strolled down to the beach. It was hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours previously we had been in the depths of winter, and now, here we were sitting on a beach watching the sun setting over the Indian Ocean. ”This is more like it, eh!” said Garry, leaning back on a sun lounger. “The sun, the sea, a bit of adventure.”“Definitely.” I sat back, happy with our decision, and took a long swig of my Kingfisher beer, as the sun disappeared behind the horizon.
Candolim is a small village with not much more than a couple of hotels and a few stalls and restaurants. We set off to do some exploring the following day. After the previous evening’s bus ride, I had no intention of taking the local mode of transport again. The alternative was to place my life in the hands of Garry and rent a motorbike. I had not been on a motorbike for three years, and I swore I would never get on one again following an accident we had had in Australia. Motoring along at high speed, Garry had leaned to turn a sharp bend. Feeling that the bike would give way under us, I foolishly leaned the other way. The bike went out of control, and careered off the road. Ahead of us was an irrigation channel, about 6ft deep and 10ft across. All I remember is being dragged along the gravel for what seemed an eternity - and pain, severe pain. It’s actually a miracle we cleared the channel and didn’t crash straight into it. Someone must have been watching over us that day. Garry got off pretty lightly too, with little more than a broken hand.
Needless to say, I was just a bit dubious about motorbikes. It took some time for Garry to convince me. ”Okay, okay,” I finally gave in. “But I’m going to be terrified, I know it!” ”You’ll be fine,” said Garry, reassuringly. I still wasn’t fully convinced, but the best way to tackle your fear is to face it so we hired a bike and gallantly took to the roads. This is definitely not for the faint-hearted. Forget brakes and lights, a loud horn and nerves of steel are all you need. More than once, I saw my life flashing before me, as we just managed to dodge
