Another change, a new chapter in life

Despite not indulging myself in public literary (if that is what they can be claimed to be) ramblings I haven’t given up on life. True I have felt very introspective, though have not lost myself to inner turmoil or torment. I’ve merely taken a step sideways to enjoy a relatively peaceful existence beyond the vagaries of every day, mundane life. Sloth and torpor have ruled my life for the last four months, and it has failed to raise the slightest concern. I guess I needed to rid myself of irrelevancies in my life, and I think I’ve done just that. I’m tempted to claim complete lethargy, but I’m far too honest for my own good (honest officer). I have been on a few trips within the UK, though not as many as I tend to promise people. If you’re one of the lucky one’s, well, lucky you. Otherwise, I apologise to the sadly neglected. Excuses, I have none! Sorry folks, I’ve been running on fumes.

Does this imply that I’m topped up and raring to go now? Naaa, but it takes more than that to keep me down for long. I’m bloody-minded at the best of times, out of sheer stubbornness I refuse to give up for long. So while it was a nice escape for a while, it’s about bloody time I got on with my life again. Wallowing in self-pity isn’t an attractive disposition, luckily that stage of my musings was short though certainly not sweet. It was a process that needed going through though, to clear the mind and allow my troubles to fall from my shoulders. As you’ve probably read my return from India was unplanned and under unpleasant circumstances, but I’m not going to go on about death and grief, to be honest I’ve had enough of that. It may be hard to lose those you love, even harder to accept the loss of someone you might have neglected, but you can’t give up on your own life. Don’t regret what you didn’t do with someone, cherish that which you did do.

I had hoped to have written more of my second book before returning to the UK. It took me four months to write half the proposed text, it felt harder going than the first. Hopefully I’m back on track now and about to plunge back into the fray. I’ve had my mind on the Philippines for a while, as a destination to relax and finish the book. I was even contemplating going directly from India, before events spiralled out of my control. Ever since, I’ve claimed to being close to booking a flight, and checked prices regularly. It didn’t grab me and having me gagging at the bit though, I kept putting it off. Truth be told I found myself withdrawing from the world around me in India, my thoughts befuddled and frustration at not writing more getting the better of me. So I didn’t want the Philippines to be the same.

The simple solution was to spice up the trip a bit, once more treat it as a cultural exchange, an adventure rather than simply an exotic office space. Yeah, I know another example of my appalling work ethic. But hey, I’ve always preferred a balanced life style, at least two months off for every month worked. Before I sicken you with my irresponsible attitudes, let me assure you I have worked often enough in my life. Sometimes it’s even overshadowed my penchant for the easy life, money has a habit of doing that, but I’ve never lost sight of enjoying life for no other reason than the sheer enjoyment of living. And so it came to be in India, finding myself lost in an unshakable desire to write at all costs, disregarding the multitude of ever-present distractions (well, almost).

So, instead of thinking along the lines of where to go to finish writing my next master piece, I started thinking of how I could combine it with something a bit more exciting. As the Philippines was already on the agenda Borneo, being next door, was an obvious extension to the trip. Now let’s be honest, Borneo isn’t merely a side line to another trip, it’s too big and too primitive to play second fiddle to anywhere else. However long I was to spend writing in the Philippines, I decided Borneo would need at least three months to explore and appreciate. And basically that’s the point at which I found myself when only two weeks ago I booked a flight to Manila. I will spend two or three months in the Philippines first, but then I will be Borneo bound. Hey I grew up with tales of my father patrolling Borneo rain forests amongst head hunters and nigh on invisible bushwhacking guarillas.

Onto a change of blog, yes it’s time again. My new blog site can be found at the following link: Borneo Bound. Be sure to switch over your allegiance, because this site is about to become a thing of historical record than a contemporary delight. Thanks for following this for so long, hope to see you all on the flip side.

(Photos: A mixed bag of my days on the Andaman Islands, a few I thought were worth seeing again)

Drifting in the twilight zone

How quickly the delights of life can be ripped asunder! In one instant I’m revelling in the experience of seeing a nest of baby turtles released into the wild, then in the blink of an eye (figuratively speaking) death rears its ugly head. A couple of days after my last blog post I returned to Arambol, for a few days luxury while deciding where to spend my last six weeks in India. Within hours of arriving an email arrived informing me my older brother, Clint, had died. It was unexpected, though he’d fought illness for many years his demise was certainly not on the cards. I can’t claim it shocked me, after losing an eighteen-year-old son I don’t think other deaths can compare, but it was a surprise I wasn’t prepared for. The news came within an hour or so of his body being found by a friend. By the look of things he’d settled back after rolling a joint, closed his eyes and gently passed away. He had a heart attack, the only sign of having suffered any discomfort was a slight clenching of his hands. (Photo: A rare shot of Clint in his late twenties - North Wales 1984)

Throughout my life Clint has been around. We’ve always been close and maintained contact through thick and thin. When Cai (my son) died it was Clint who dropped everything, forgot his own predicament and came to nursemaid me through the darkest of days in my life. He was three years older than me, so he’s been around. We’ve had our ups and downs, we threw darts at each other, I shot him in the head with an air gun. But we were young then, we’ve shared many experiences together since and formed similar opinions of the world at large. He became a grumpy old sod, but certainly wasn’t always like that. Having suffered Fibral Myalgia for over twenty years it took its toll, he isolated himself more and more, reducing his circle of friends to a select few. Of those who did associate with him he was found to be a decent bloke, generous and kind-hearted to those who mattered to him. (Photo: Hiding from the camera, Clint, me and baby Cai - Tregarth, North Wales, 1989)

Top of my To Do list was to phone him once I got to Arambol. I’d been acutely aware of not contacting him for over a month, I knew how much he valued my calls from abroad. It was always great to hear a pleasurable rise in his voice when he realised who it was. I’d even wondered if I could get him on the back of my bike when I got home, not something I’d managed for many years. To have had such thoughts mere hours before his dead body was actually found was a bit strange. I don’t trouble my mind over the bizarre events, just get on and deal with what’s served up. And that’s pretty much what I did, even to the extent of barging in and insisting to family members that I would take charge of all arrangements. I didn’t mean to upset people, especially in their personal grief, but there really was no doubt who he’d have wanted to put his estate in order. Let’s just say certain aspects needed someone familiar with his lifestyle and associates. And no, he wasn’t some dodgy geyser; it was simply a matter of being too alternative for our overly conservative society. (Photo: Enjoying a rare spot of sunshine - Y Felinheli, North Wales, 1990)

It took two weeks to sort out everything, possessions, accommodation, cremation and finances. For me it was a practical exercise, there was too much to do to get in a flap over it. Many times I had to wonder whether I was a little bull-headed in my dealings with people. Though I harboured an uncaring attitude, I tried to accommodate as many people as possible. Those two weeks in Yorkshire were filled with the companionship of many of Clint’s friends, some of which I’d known for a good few years. During that time it was slowly sinking in, my brother was gone, my link to Yorkshire, my bolt hole too. When I returned the keys to the local council that would be it. It is weird assimilating the full implications of a close death, if it concerns a person you don’t have daily contact with it seems to take longer to sink in. Slowly it did though, and by the time I turned the lock of his emptied house it was with certain finality, I wouldn’t be going there again, I wouldn’t be visiting my brother again. (Photo: Ashes to ashes, laying him to rest - Newborough Beach, North Wales 2013)

As those who regularly read my blog may have realised, before I came home I was withdrawing a lot from the people around me, becoming more and more insular. Though I hadn’t thought Clint’s death affected me to a great extent I’ve grown to realise it compounded the cloud of lethargy that had started to settle upon me. For a long time I’ve thrown myself forward, into the thick of things, using this forward motion to maintain momentum and not give up on life. It has kept me going for years, but I’ve run out of energy now. Some time to allow events to catch up would be nice, time in which I don’t have to plan and contrive, where I don’t have to face people, or life, if I don’t feel up to it. And I haven’t felt keen on putting myself out there, anywhere. This is all very well if you don’t give a damn about your life, but I do, and I’m not happy to think of myself throwing too much of it away. The question then is how long will I allow lethargy to gain the upper hand? Like never before do I need to recharge the batteries and get on with life. (Photo: The new bike - Triumph Tiger 955i)

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't all gloom and doom. Sad yes, but quite touching all the same. For a virtual hermit he did alright for friends who wanted to show their respect, we had a good turn out for the cremation and the wake. In Wales we spread the ashes, and I lay all that was left of him in the same beautiful spot we spread Cai's ashes. All in all it was a good send off, one he'd probably be embarrassed to be the centre of attention of. As for me, I've a new bike and plenty of time to do as I please, it needs to be exciting though, I need to invigorate myself.

A bid for freedom

Over the years I’ve been lucky enough to swim and dive with turtles. I’ve watched them emerge from the surf and haul themselves laboriously up the beach and make an aborted attempt at nest building amongst building rubble. In Java I got to witness them laying their eggs, and the subsequent collection and hatching of the eggs. I’ve even handled baby turtles. But for the first time I actually got to see a nest of hatchlings being released. It might be seen as a shame I couldn’t see them breaking out their shells, but in truth that happens beneath the surface of the sand. This nest was enclosed a few weeks ago when the turtle came and laid her eggs, on the full moon. Tides were high and the effort needed to clamber up the beach was minimalized. Laying and hatching coincide with the moon cycles, making the most of the tides and available light. Now on the new moon, spring tides again, the hatchlings make their break for freedom in the dark of night. (Photo: Newly hatched - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra)

Except these one’s were given a helping hand, not left entirely to the devices of nature itself. There isn’t the problem of eggs being poached here, so they don’t collect the eggs and hatch them in controlled environments. Known turtle beaches are checked around the full moon, any nests have protective fences hastily erected around them. When it’s hatching time the nest is surrounded by a wickerwork barrier, a basket with the bottom cut out, so the hatchlings can get out the sand but go no further. The following morning they then release them at the water’s edge, being at hand to protect their escape. Of course once they’re in the water mankind’s ability to help them further lay in our treatment of the marine environment rather than individual creatures. I’m in two minds about interfering with nature, I do think we should be guardians and try and neutralise the detrimental effects humanity has had on the natural world, but I don’t think we should be playing god. (Photo: Turtle race across the sand - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra)

The way they do things here means minimal interference, which I’m all in favour of. There is no need to invest in hatcheries and staff to run them, financing can concentrate on field staff. Of course to leave eggs in situ relies on them being safe where they are. In Java they weren’t, wild pigs, dogs and poachers all extracted a heavy toll. There were dozens of nests, the beach was littered with them, and the vast majority had been desecrated. So eggs were taken, hatched in an artificial environment, grown on for a brief spell then released into the water on the correct phase of the moon. I always wondered whether that extent of interference might have a detrimental effect. At what stage does a newly hatched turtle imprint its geographic location, plot its position on its global map so it can find its way back? Personally I don’t think that happens in a laboratory building, or being carried in a container from the hatchery to the water’s edge. So unless a turtle’s imprinting happens once in the water, those Javan turtles are going to find it mighty hard to find their way home.(Photo: The final furlong - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra)

You can’t help but feel sorry for the tiny hatchlings being cast into an ocean void, so small, so helpless. At least they’ve been given a better chance of survival. After a frantic dash towards the water they get hit by the first surge of water and tumble back up the beach, to be deposited again metres from the water’s edge. It can happen repeatedly, yet still they struggle on valiantly against all odds. The presence of an audience kept the carrion eaters at bay, the occasional stray could also be put to rights by being placed closer to the water. Why they deposit them ten metres from the sea is debatable. Personally I think it’s better to do as naturally as possible, but suspect it was to put on a better show for spectators. Which is fine, some interaction with nature is good for people. At least they weren’t cashing in on the situation. (Photo: Waterborne at last - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra)

And that’s been the highlight of my last fortnight really, life has plodded on nicely here. I’m still taking the path of least resistance, by staying put. Not wanting the upheaval of moving on is one aspect of it, not being able to decide where I might go is another. I do have ideas but none appeal so much I can’t resist, what is foremost in my mind is to crack on with my book. Which is coming on, with only the occasional interference for social intercourse. I have to back pedal a touch, take the sting out of my words about Russian tourists. En masse they do leave a lot to be desired, but some are more than happy to communicate once the barriers are down. So many criticise their own countrymen, agreeing they’re not the friendliest of people to outsiders. Isn’t that the case though, especially in areas of mass tourism, the more discerning often heavily condemn the average tourist. As I state quite clearly most the time, wherever you go there are good and bad. So in effect it’s our own responsibility to reach out for the good when the opportunity arises. Though I must admit, my goals are to write, not get hammered at every available opportunity. (Photo: A change from turtle pictures - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra)

Domestic bliss in Paradise

Writing could become a curse if I’m not careful. I’m too analytical, get too involved in the detail. I don’t know how beneficial that is, often my initial assumptions are the one’s that seem to hold true. One of the local chai stall holders was in a mess when I first arrived. One arm was in a sling and her face was battered and badly bruised. My immediate assumption was that she’d been severely beaten, though she dismissed the injuries as the result of a motorbike accident. Over the course of time I’ve got to know her better, though never questioned her claims. I can’t see it myself, fail to see how you could sustain such extensive bruising without the slightest scratch to the surface of the skin, not by falling off a bike. So I’m left with my original impression, that she’s been given a beating. Domestic subjugation is still in the dark ages here, violence in the home is common, or so I’m told. Of course it isn’t something that’s likely to be witnessed, such events generally happen behind closed doors. I keep my eyes peeled now, and find myself noticing more and more women with bruises around the eyes. (Photo: Paradise beach - Maharashtra, India)

I don’t want to jump to the same conclusion every time I see a female with a bruise, but I am aware that domestic violence is a problem here. It isn’t easy to accurately interpret a conversation in a foreign language you don’t speak, but often actions speak louder than words. A group of guys sat at the table next to me in a restaurant, having an animated conversation in Hindi, while necking glasses of whisky. One made the motion of a high-handed slap, followed by an imitation of a whimpering mewl, to an uproar of laughter by the whole group. Another responded in a similar vein, but the noise he imitated was more a sobbing plea. Again it met with a round of approving laughter. Sorry, I can’t see it any other way than making a joke out of violence and the distress of their victims. The fact that the tone of the noises they imitated were distinctly female, leaves me in no doubt what they made fun of. (Photo: What's on the menu today? - Maharashtra, India)

It turns my stomach, not just the institutionalised violence but treating it as a joking matter. The casual cruelty to animals is bad enough, but vicious outbreaks on totally innocent creatures are too much. No-one bats an eyelid when someone lays the boot into a dog wandering down the road. It will be for no other reason than it walked too close, the guy just being in a crap mood and wanting to vent his anger. I’ve always liked Asia for the widespread absence of violent crime, it now dawns on me that it’s only due to me not being in one of the target groups. There’s plenty of aggression to be seen when you’ve a mind, the quick outbreaks I’ve witnessed have been accompanied with looks of seething hatred for the victim. I stopped a guy hurling stones at a dog, which was nowhere near him, no-one else was going to. But the look on his face said it all, he really wanted to hurt that animal.(Photo: Beach rides - Paradise beach, Maharashtra)

It leaves me in a better head-state when I focus on the delightful aspects of being in Paradise. Watching the dolphins patrol the bay in the quiet lull of early morning. Or noticing the fine control the eagles get by the slightest twitch of their tail feathers, they use their wings for lift, their tails for turning. There are dozens of them too, circling wherever there might be the chance of any scrap to eat. I refer to them as eagle though am unsure of what defines a hawk and what an eagle. They act as scavengers mainly, combing the shoreline for whatever the tide serves for lunch. I’ve encountered more sea snakes stranded above the waterline, managing to rescue a cute little creature who was much too lively to manhandle. The poor thing struggled valiantly against the incoming tide, but I finally coaxed it beyond the thin line of breaking surf. The bigger ones are always by the fishing boats, so I think it’s safe to assume they’re a by-product of the day’s catch. The fishermen can’t be bothered, but the birds waste no time in devouring them. (Photo: In the morning haze - Paradise beach, Maharashtra)

There are only eight weeks before my return, and my mind ponders which bike to buy when I get back. I even contemplated a car, but you know me, I can’t comprehend not having a bike to ride. So if anyone has any suggestions, or something decent on offer, let me know.

Making our own paradise

Returning on foot to Paradise Beach could be seen as a bit of an anti-climax, apparently for the Maharashtrans anyway. It seemed that every local person was surprised to see me on foot, what surprised me was that had actually noticed me, one out of a constant flow of tourists. I could have understood the vendors in the nearby car park, I had after all passed them four times and stopped three of them. When tipper truck drivers, from the local mines, were attracting my attention to ask where the bike was I was dumbstruck. I thought I was reading too much into the beaming smiles and cheery waves as I cranked the Enfield round the bends, the toots and thumbs out of truck windows each time I overtook a them. I certainly didn’t think I was excessively feisty with it, but I couldn’t help yanking that throttle open to hear the deep rumbling throb. Obviously it got me noticed, which was touching in many ways. I’m glad I never chose robbing banks as a career choice, I’m much to recognisable. (Photo: Beach huts in paradise - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra, India)

My first few days on Paradise nearly saw me dismiss the place, once I actually got here I found it hard not to find fault in almost everything. Luckily I was too apathetic to make an immediate move, easily convincing myself to give it a chance. Where I’ve rented a hut is the cheapest around by far, literally half the price of anywhere else. It’s basic, there’s no doubt about that, open-air squat toilet and a jug to pour water over your head, instead of a shower. I’m used to amenities like that though, but even getting food here is hit and miss. Unless there are other people around ordering food they’re not keen on cooking for me. If I kicked up a fuss they’d oblige, I know that. I informed them I’d stay for two weeks at least, providing I was content. I added that my stay could be for as long as two months, but only if I settled into a good work rhythm. So since I complained about breakfast they’ve been dishing me up a huge pile of fresh fruit every morning. It would be nice for some curds too (and I don’t mean the ethnic group east of Turkey, though they’d be preferable to the Russians), I don’t want to be too pushy though.
(Photo: This poor guy can't even lie down properly - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra, India)

I’ve still not found a single Russian tourist who is willing to acknowledge a stranger or show any sign of friendship. Damn, tell a lie, a single female showed up today and makes a point of saying hello each time she passes. And don’t go getting ideas folks, I’m here to write! Since when did I go on the prowl while travelling? Anyway, let’s just not go there. I found most folk in Russia lovely people when I crossed the country, the only ones I disapproved of were the obviously wealthy ones, because they were the most arrogant of people you could have the displeasure of meeting. Unfortunately, I have to tar the average Russian tourist with the same brush. I can also see why the locals claim they are dirty people, visit a beach shade or even area of sand after they’ve used it. It’ll be littered with rubbish and dog-ends. They are without doubt the modern day party people in Goa, but they gather in ever-increasing groups of fellow nationals, and seem to have little respect for where they are or who else is trying to appreciate the place. Such a shame, I hate spurn a whole nation of people, but I’ve given up making an effort with them.
(Photo: Sunsets are stunning - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra, India)

I could easily have blown it, and nearly did. All alternatives for accommodation were explored and found either too expensive or not conducive to my creative bent. What I quickly established though was reliable sources of food, courtesy of the more expensive establishments and the vendors in the car park. I take a mid-day snack from the food stalls there, and use one of the two restaurants down the beach, generally alternating which I use. One does a good Thali at less than a quid, the other is expensive but does some fabulous local dishes. If I hadn’t of discovered them I wouldn’t still be here. Though I shouldn’t give them all the credit for my perseverance, opening my eyes and recognising my own actions was the turning point. However many doubts I tried confusing myself with, I was still writing well from the very first morning here, and I’ve kept up that momentum. Just as bloody well, I was starting to think my first book was to be a one book wonder, severely doubting my abilities to apply myself to writing. Now I can happily say that I think my writing is progressing, my style improving. Of course to judge for yourselves you’ll have to buy the book when it comes out.
(Photo: Half-fed and half dead - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra, India)

So the discipline has come naturally, I get up and get to it with writing. I’m not wasting time editing the previous day’s ramblings, just getting straight down to the nitty-gritty. When it flows, boy does it flow. I put in 4 or 5 hours without realising the passage of time. Before I know it it’s mid-afternoon, and my stomach is crying out to be fed. A quick snack and it’s beach time, an hour or so of getting the sun to shine where the sun don’t shine. The afternoon is more leisure than work, making the most of the paradise. Of the people I talk to, most are local Maharashtrans, foreigners tend to form into cliques which I can’t be bothered with. The beach is quiet at the far end, I can general find a place devoid of other visitors. I’m all in favour of exposing myself to what nature has to offer, but I don’t wish to upset the applecart, I’m not about to flash my bits at the local population. Someone has to respect local sensibilities. I don’t think the local populace holds the naked Russian tourists in high regard.(Photo: Making a break for freedom - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra, India)

This morning was different, not a single word sprang to mind as I sat contemplating the morning’s literary endeavours. So I hit the beach with the intention of shooting the dynamic type of photos I could wow you all with. I’d got less than a few hundred metres when coming across a trio of sea-snakes, by some fishing boats. I guessed they’d been caught in the nets and discarded, left to slowly die in the sun. I thought they were all dead, until one lethargically attempted to untwine itself, it seemed as close to death as you could imagine. Any sign of life shows promise, so I went on a rescue mission. With a stick I proceeded to coax it back into the water, which was about five metres away and slowly receding. As soon as it felt water wash over it, it showed a bit more vigour, so I helped it gradually combat the slight swell and swim to safety. The second one, which lay with a fishtail sticking out its mouth, was another success. Unfortunately the third showed no signs of recovery. I’d picked it up by the tail rather than mess around trying to manoeuver with the stick. As I watched for a miraculous recovery a fish eagle came and settled close by, watching it floating lifeless in the surf. As it was too wary of my presence I oiked out the dead snake and left it on the sand for it, and it wasted little time before tucking into breakfast. (Photo: Looking for breakfast - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra, India)

The most sorrowful sight I’ve seen was the most pitiful dog I can remember. Completely hairless with folds of saggy skin, it moved with lethargic slowness, looking very malnourished. The first sighting it had a gaping hole in its ear, and its head around the ear was swollen. Two days later the whole earflap was in rancid shreds, bloody tatters, looking as if the living flesh was rotting. The swelling had increased and it was possible to see into the ear cavity, where it looked as if something was eating into its skull. It stank, so much so it nearly made me puke to go near it, and I’m not generally squeamish. All I could bring myself to do for it was feed it the only food I had, a couple of packets of crisps. Another couple of days and there was nothing left of the outer ear, one side of its head behind the ear was nothing but a cavernous pit, exposing the skull itself. I couldn’t believe it was still alive, I assume it had some sort of parasitic infestation. I’ve not seen it since, it must have died! The most heart breaking part of the whole episode was the look of dejection and confusion in its eyes. It sought human companionship, but was chased off by everyone, except a couple of us. For me, it was deeply upsetting, and I felt powerless to help it further. As I sit and write this now I’m ashamed at not having tried to do more. I was sure it suffered terribly and would die of its affliction, yet couldn’t bring myself to even consider putting it out of its misery. The only way would have been to bludgeon it to death, and I just couldn’t imagine doing that.( Photo: Breakfast on the beach - Paradise Beach, Maharashtra, India)

I hate to see animals suffering, yet know it’s the natural order of our world. I believe as human beings we should be guardians of the world we despoil. Yet, as a race, we systematically ignore that which we could save, profit from the unsustainable rape of limited resources, and refuse to invest in a better future for the generations yet to come. The world could be a better place, it’s in our power to make it so, instead we slowly decimate our planet. Shame on us all!

Going on from Goa

Arriving in Goa blew me away, not immediately, only when I got out the cab. Yeah, decadent bastard that I am, I got a taxi from the airport to the furthest beach away. The plan was to skip Goa itself, head straight on through and stamp my mark on Maharashtra. When you hear of a beach called Paradise it’s got to be worth checking out, it also came well recommended. Largely due to flight times there was no way I would make it in one day from Chennai, so at least one night in Goa was on the cards. And that actually turned into one week, how I’ll never know. I came to Arambol, the north most beach in Goa, renowned as one of the quietest beached in the state. Aren’t I damned glad I didn’t try one of the others, by my standards it’s heaving. According to the locals and regulars, numbers have dropped off drastically in the last couple of weeks. So what have I got to complain about? (Photo: Sunset on Arambol Beach - Goa, India)

Not the variety of food available anyway, that is probably the single biggest bonus for being here. But for a wide choice there must be a high number of cafes/restaurants, and the beach is filled from one end to the other, as well as the roads into and out of the beach area. Sun loungers are laid out throughout the day, with sun umbrellas for shade, so you can sit back and watch the world go by. And just what is the world you behold? Actually I think it’s a suburb of Moscow, there are that many Russians here. Pardon me comrade in case I offend, I’ve heard more Russian spoken in the last week than I did crossing mother Russia. I won’t go into details, but the locals have a very dim view of them as a nation. I think the most noticeable difficulty they face is having poor English, a high percentage anyway. In my eyes tourists from nations rising out of poverty are all quite bad. They love to flash their cash, they don’t deal well with cultural differences, and they often show little respect for anything or anyone other than themselves. (Photo: The nicest view of Arambol Beach - Goa, India)

As Brits we used to be the same, probably having to give everybody’s territory back to them humbled us slightly, some of us anyway. As a nation we are no longer high in the tourist stakes, I’ve met more Austrians than Brits in the last three months. We used to have a bad rap abroad, when the average Brit was either staggering around drunk, or stoned in a heap in the corner. The party scene is still going strong at choice destinations around the tropics, but the clientele are much more cosmopolitan nowadays. To say the average tourists are looking very young is testament to my advanced years. There are plenty of old farts doing the Goa scene, some are eccentric in the extreme, others just plain crazy. There is no shortage of characters to amuse yourself by watching, I can do it all day. But for all I know I could be earmarked as one of the weird old ones. (Photo: Evening entertainment - Arambol Beach, Goa)

In my own mind I’ve failed to settle or feel comfortable in Arambol. There’s too many people, too much noise, it’s too polluted and way too developed. The local Goans are nice people, friendly and accommodating, which is why their state was turned into the party centre of the planet for quite a few years. Recent years have seen a crackdown on the beach parties, the week long free for all’s are now a thing of the past. Goa is now mainstream tourism, but still with a heavy blend of neo-hippies remaining faithful to the area. So I should fit in, right? You know, with the sun-bleached dreads, bronze tan, emblazoned with tattoos. I may do in appearance, but it’s not where I’m at in life. At least not at this moment in time, I’d go as far as claiming to be introverted. Maybe I should stumble into another pal like Rudy, in Kuala Lumpur, whose indomitable mood would always end up where there was alcohol, music and a good time in the offing. (Photo: Evening entertainment - Arambol Beach, Goa)

It’s mayhem here, which is what makes me withdraw. The beach is crowded, guesthouses are crammed together, cafes are wall to wall along the whole of the beach, the tables and sun-loungers are almost elbow to elbow; there is no personal space. I can’t sit quietly and think straight, every establishment plays music loudly, competing for the airwaves, every waking hour. If I sit in the open air my ears are bombarded from all directions. And I guess this is not what I’m after, so why have I stayed here so long? Apart from a little business at home to administer to, there is nothing here I need. But it gave me time to realise it, that I do actually want to be away from it all. So it has been useful having a glut of facilities to pander to my every whim, but my demands are simple. I want all the facilities as well as some peace and quiet, so I’ve utilised what facilities I need and now it’s time to depart once more. Paradise calls! (Photo: My first view of Paradise Beach - Maharashtra, India)

The big thing for me here was an easy rental of a motorbike, and it had to be a Royal Enfield. At £6 a day they aren’t expensive, but on an Indian budget it makes a heavy dent in expenditure, so I used it to both sightsee and find the elusive Paradise Beach. I had a good day, being on a bike again was lovely. What did surprise me was feeling nervous of hiring a bike, that’s a first for me. It was fine though, before many miles I was loving throttling the poor throbbing beast for all it was worth. Two trips to Paradise were made, one to find somewhere to stay, and then to take my bag over with the bike. The beach looks as nice, despite the tide line of flotsam. At least on Paradise the litter is washed up, not semi-buried as it is in Arambol. Here they dig a shallow hole and bury the litter, only just beneath surface level. The effect is a constant uncovering of old waste, the sand is forever strewn with discarded plastic wrappings. Yeah, it’s gonna be good to move on today. (Photo: Me and the machine - Arambol, Goa)