Goa

Goa is so different from Bombay. It's a rural state which came under the Portuguese rather than the British in the age of colonialism, and the Portuguese were of course Catholic. So the missionaries came too, and eventually set up schools so that today Goa is the most literate state in India. With the literacy and the increased trade came wealth, and although I don't know the comparative wealth of the state as a whole, the people look better fed that those further north, they are both taller and more rounded, and the houses, roads and fields look cleaner.

Of course it's silly to compare it with the city of Bombay, there is no concentration of people in such numbers. But the difference is still striking.

It's also a hilly and damp state. So the hills are covered in lush vegetation and tall trees, while in the valleys are rice paddy fields, still managed in the old ways with lots of human labour planting (3 crops a year) and harvesting, and opening and closing the various irrigation ditches with mattocks. The rain levels mean large rivers too, and as there are few bridges across them, there's a certain amount of traffic concentration as you get near to a bridge. The roads leave a lot to be desired, especialliy if you are in the back seat of a coach!

We made a short visit to an uninspiring Hindu temple of no particular significance apart from an unusual tower of lights in its grounds: the original is still there, cast in brass and designed to be filled with oil, about 30 feet high. It is overshadowed by a new tower fitted with electric bulbs instead. Technology has much to answer for.

The real objective of the trip was a spice plantation, to which I was looking forward. I remembered it from a previous visit, when we walked all round the experimental farm with its scientist owner, then a grandfather and a charming gentleman, and I had much enjoyed hearing about his work and being beneath the trees in the cool shade.

But I was disappointed. The venue had changed to another spice plantation whose aim was to become an eco-tourist centre. So they had a restaurant business, a shop selling the spices, an area for performing dancers, and a guest house if you wanted to stay overnight. The tour of spices was given by our guide from the coach who simply lectured us rather than talked to us, along a narrow path (this one was built on the side of a hill and theefore was a series of terraces) which covered a trail that would have fit in my garden.

The saving grace of the day was that we were delayed getting back to the ship, and therefore travelled in the dusk and evening light. So by the time we hit towns or villages again, their Christmas decorations were lit. There are mostly paper lanterns in the shape of a three-dimensional pentagon and their gentle light was beautiful. Maybe there would be a string of lights along the front of the house as well, but the effect was always enhanced by the modesty of the setup.

Bombay

If Porbandar is small-town India, Bombay (or Mumbai) is big city India writ large. The population is between 18 and 20 million and growing all the time, as yet more families come to the city to find opportunity - or the chance to be a film star! Bombay is the home of Bollywood films, seen by more people across the world than nearly all Hollywood productions. Three-hour long musicals, they have limited storylines all involving steamy glances and violent family rows, but seem to hold Indians entranced.

Here the extremes of wealth and income are side by side. We saw a 28-storey block built by a billionaire to house all six of his family (plus their servants), and the price per square foot of some apartments would value our home at 2.4 million dollars. Incredible! But just along the road is one of the slum areas, the first possible home for many of the rural poor who immigrate to the city. This is, of course, when they are able to afford to sleep anywhere but on the streets.but how they will ever be able to afford proper housing I do not know. Perhaps they have other ambitions. I have tremendous respect for the determination of Indians to succeed, and with no welfare state to sustain them it is often succeed or die.

I decided to go down to the city centre as soon as we arrived, to see if I could buy some of the lovely fabrics the country is famous for: John refused to come but I wasn't worried. I thought I'd catch the shuttle bus from the ship and share a taxi with other passengers. This turned out not to work, so I got my taxi into town alone and ran straight into the rush-hour traffic. London has little to compare with this: Los Angeles maybe. I walked the last bit.

I knew the street I wanted to explore so I walked there, past the famous Taj hotel which was firebombed a couple of years back and is now applying a paranoid level of security: you can't go in unless you are a guest there. But when I got to Colaba Causeway my shopping nerve failed me. The crowds were so thick you had to just let yourself be carried along, past some interesting little shops which could have yielded - who knows what treasure? I tried walking in the road but had to keep doging motor bikes, who very kindly beeped me out of their way and occasionally smiled a "Be careful" at me.

The shop I really wanted was on the other side of the road but I could see no way to cross. I asked a chubby lady in a sari where the crossing was, and she waved me further down the road (through the crowds) but I still couldn't work it out. The traffic density was only part of the problem, the cars blow their horns all the time making thought almost impossible, and there is no sense of lane discipline at all. And there's a raised separator in the middle of the road. As I hovered nervously on the edge, my chubby lady caught up with me, took my hand and walked me across, dodging all the traffic, for all the world as if I were her child! She was so kind.

After all that, it was really disappointing to discover that the Cottage Industries shops have all gone very upmarket and no longer stock just fabrics. They had marvellous brocade coats and umpteen shawls in beautiful colours, but I would probably never wear the first and have too many of the second already. I wandered the side streets but couldn't find anything I wanted so I decided to go and look for a taxi back to the ship.

After 45 minutes of increasing despair, one stopped for me. Why did I find the only non-English speaking taxidriver in Bombay? After some false starts he did get me to the correct port gate, so all was well.

Today meant an early start to visit the Kanheri caves. The drive out there was surprisingly easy - our guide said the rush hour didn't begin until 0830. We took a new road which is a 6 km bridge built between islands and if it hadn't been so foggy the view would have been stupendous. But we arrived without incident at the national park in the suburbs, and the caves are 10 km inside. The environment changed instantly from the mix of high-rises and slums to serene forest and no other vehicles in sight. The forest is home to several sorts of monkey and a lot of birds who must have gone into hibernation among the treetops.

The caves date from about 100AD to about 900AD, and the sculptures in them describe the development of Buddhism in India over that period. They were used as a base by travelling monks, and a home for them during the monsoon periods. They are very dark inside, and I can't quite believe they had a library and scriptorium with wick lamps as their only light, but that's what our guide said. The caves now contain the two largest statues of Buddha in existence since the Taliban blew up the ones in Bamiyan a few years ago.

We had to walk between caves up steps carved in the rock, sometimes crumbling away, always getting higher until we had lovely views over the trees. The sculptures and caves themselves were carved from the rock, much like the ones at Elephanta Island, except that the latter are of Hindu gods. The carvers would have had iron-tipped chisels, but even so the labour involved makes me feel faint.

Returning to the centre we hit the inevitable traffic jams and crawled along Marine Drive, which is quite pretty with many art deco houses. We stopped for a short while to see the Gateway of India where George V landed (the only British ruler ever to set foot on the country) and which was mobbed by local holidaymakers making the most of their Christmas break. I don't know if they call it that, of course!

A late lunch on deck gave me enough sun for the day, and we sailed two hours later, for Goa.

Porbandar, Gujerat

We are calling at Porbandar because it is the birthplace of Mahatma Gandhi. Not many cruise ships come here, and you can tell: the dock is mainly used for coal, bags of aggregate and cement,and something nobbly in orange sacks which stack very badly and keep falling off the lorries into which they are being loaded. The port is well away from the town, and on the ride in there are mangrove swamps on either side: I'm told the mangroves are an essential part of the local ecology, helping to bind the land together and keep it stable.

But what we really see in the mangroves are birds, waders and water fowl of all sorts, in huge numbers. Half a dozen black-headed ibis sitting on a pole, storks and cranes with their huge wings, possibly an osprey (but we didn't get a good look), birds with long red legs, birds with very distinctive black bibs who may have been plovers, flamingos and pelicans, at least 3 sorts of herons and 2 sorts of egrets, many we couldn't identify at all as we sped past, and a snake bird. It was quite frustrating not to be able to spend an hour or so with the binoculars and the library's bird book.

Our first short visit was to a temple, in honour of a friend of Krishna. I keep meaning to ask someone why Krishna is always given a blue face in the paintings. The grounds were quite large but we were (as ever) rushed through and we dared not linger behind too long. This is because we were being allocated to a group of tuk-tuks who had instructions to take us to Gandhi's house. They are two-stroke, of course, and clearly Porbandar has no laws about emission control! Just getting in and out was a test for my knees, but it was a very enjoyable ride because you feel so close to everything going on around you.

The house where Gandhi was born was quite a good size, three stories, with separate quarters for men and women. His father was the chief minister in the local diwan. But the rooms were tiny and dark - to keep them cool - and the stairs were very vertical: just like ladders on a boat. Around the house, quite a large courtyard has been built to include pillars with his sayings about his philosophy of non-violence inscribed in Hindi. (I wondered what he would have made of India today). There is also a kind of shrine with his picture, and around the whole complex are symbols of many religions - but I failed to see any Christian or Islamic symbols, so maybe it's just the local religions of Buddhism, Jainism and Hinduism.

Notable, women go confidently with uncovered faces and heads while wearing beautiful and varied saris. But a large poster in the market square was an exhortation to abandon female infanticide and abortion, so it would seem women and girl children are not actually vaued equally to men yet.

A stroll through the market nearby brought India home to me. Life everywhere, existing cheerfully side by side: goats, bullocks, dogs, women, children and men (the stall holders). The people of Gujerat are very friendly, and many women wanted to shake my hand, while the children wanted their photos taken and to know which country we came from. Conversation stopped at this point, however, which was a shame. I photographed the carrots, too: they were extremely long with not a blemish on them, and bright red! In fact all the fruit, vegetables and herbs looked to be a of a very high quality, and they certainly smelled delicious. Gujeratis are vegetarians and eat not only no meat but no fish or eggs either, we were told, so their diet is almost exclusively vegetables. Even their cheese is vegetarian.

There were fishing boats in the harbour, but we were told the fish is dried, saved for the monsoon season and exported to the rest of India. There is still some evidence of ship-building here - wooden dhows - and Porbandar used to be a large centre for making these boats which are used off all the coasts of the Indian Ocean. But mostly the industry has turned to maintenance, and just along the coast is the largest ship-breaking yard in the world. The almost complete absence of safety measures and ecological controls mean this is an easy country on which to dump all the problems of a more affluent society.

On returning to the ship, I found I had left my camera on ISO400 all day, so quite a number of my images will be too grainy. Rather foolish. I'd like to go back and revisit, but it's not possible.

Goodbye Dubai, Hello Muscat

On Tuesday morning when we woke in Stansted’s airport hotel, it didn’t seem at all likely that we would be leaving. Swan had told us our names were not even on the manifest for the newly-chartered flight and we should not actually have left home without being told they were. They offered a flight from Birmingham leaving on Wednesday evening with a 5-hour road transfer on Thursday from Dubai to Muscat. We called our travel insurers who said if we wanted to abandon the whole trip, we could do so with no penalty, and that’s what we resigned ourselves to. But as we were there, we went to the checkin at 0700 and lo! Two couples didn’t turn up. So we boarded as standby passengers at the very last moment, and thanked our stars for a turnround of luck.

Of course, we saw nothing of Dubai, arriving at 2100 and sailing at midnight: just the lights on the skyscrapers as we drove past. Two more ports of call have been cancelled, to get the itinerary back in line. So we spent Wednesday at sea, recovering ourselves and grateful to be here.

Today we are in Muscat, Oman, probably the most immaculately clean city in the middle East. John stayed on board this morning while I went on a visit to one of the old forts with which the country is littered, calling in at an oasis on the way back. This is based around a warm spring, and being a Thursday (already?) there were families preparing for picnics and barbecues. Here it’s a winter pastime, in the summer it’s far too hot.

Tomorrow and Christmas Day we will be at sea, and it seems the satellite link is very week at sea, but then we arrive in India on Sunday.

Maybe soon ...

We're now waiting for confirmation that a plane has been chartered in Dubai and will be collecting us from Stansted Airport (not Heathrow) tomorrow morning, take-off hoped for at 1000 am. I can't face an early morning trip up the M1 in these conditions so I expect we will book the aiport hotel for tonight: it's right on the airport and we can walk through into check-in, which will be helpful with our luggage. If only Swan would issue the confirmation shortly, we can make our plans.

I'm the optimist, of course: John is the pessimist. He fears more snow today and that we may not be able to take off tomorrow - when we'd be stuck rather further from home than we were at Heathrow. But Stansted has been clear and is looking only for a light fall tonight, and I hope they can cope with that.

I would have taken a couple of pictures of the snow to show you, but the cameras are right at the bottom of the suitcase .... and I'm not unpacking! The birds in the garden are getting a bit desparate, even though we've managed to put out seeds and fresh water each morning. But the water freezes over very quickly and the seeds vanish by lunchtime. I hope they get by while we're away. If we're away.

Pauline is looking to travel into the UK on Thursday, to spend Christmas with Adrian and family. I hope Heathrow is clear by then, but they are certainly struggling this morning after being shut yesterday bar 5 flights out.

I've been reading Piers Corbyn this morning: he is expecting a mini-iceage by 2035, and right now that sounds a whole lot more likely than the global warming hypothesis! Do we have to suffer 20 years of getting colder, or should we move to warmer climes?

Gone? Ah no ...

We left home yesterday evening in a car driven by a chatty Bangladeshi who had never driven in snow before - so we went very slowly to Heathrow. But once outside the village the roads were not icy and there was almost no traffic, so the journey wasn't difficult.

On arrival at Heathrow Terminal 5 the departure board showed cancellations for all the early evening flights, mainly to Europe. But the long-haul ones to the East were apparently still possible, even though the harrassed Duty Manager kept saying the airport was closed and would remain so for the night, as the temperature dropped again (it hadn't been above freezing all day). To our dismay and that of our fellow Minerva passengers, all of whom are oldies like us, there was no sign of a Swan Hellenic representative to tell us what to do and how they proposed to handle the problems. Some people had come from Devon, Buxton, Manchester ... following Swan's instructions to turn up at the airport. Some were in wheelchairs. There were no more hotel rooms available, no taxis, no minicabs. Even the underground had seized up on the Piccadilly line to Heathrow. The departure area has limited seating, very limited supplies of coffee and hardly anything to eat, and no warmth on the marble floors.

So we rang a neighbour who sent number 2 son over to collect us and bring us home. He said he didn't mind at all as the alternative was watching the Strictly Come Dancing final! We came back, opened a tin of soup, turned the heating back up and went to bed.

Just think. I should be on the deck of ship under a blue sky by now, warming my toes in the sunshine and ordering a light lunch under an umbrella: it's 26 degrees in Dubai. But home is a lot better than Terminal 5!!

Closer ...

Mum arrived back home yesterday after a successful operation. So I feel much more comfortable about going away, knowing she is back where she prefers to be. The weather was not kind to Mike when he transferred her, though, and today the snow continues - we have had a good 4-5 inches this morning. But I'm continuing to pack in the hope that a) we get to Heathrow and b) the plane to Dubai takes off around its scheduled time of 2130.

Going, going ....

It's not the best of times to be going away. Mum's operation is just 4 days before we go, and I have no firm idea when she'll be home again. Still, I am thankful for my two brothers who are taking charge and will be excellent support while John and I are away.