Nnnng! The latest instalment in what must seem to be the most depressing travelogue since “My trip to the West of Ireland” by the remnants of the Spanish Armada I was expecting to turn a little more Michael Palin by now, but Goa has not yet had the time to restore my shredded bowels from a ‘dose’ subsequent to and quite different from last time’s.
It was Kolhapur’s fault, or maybe Pune’s: either way, once my Duofountainitis had cleared up we had to get out of the head-in-a-cement mixer with the cast of Fraggle Rock rolling around inside atmosphere (all smoking cigars made from used tyres) to somewhere lovely and boring. Loony Planet (usually vicious liars or lazy ozzies and toffs with more misinformation than Lord Haw-Haw) certainly didn’t say much about K’Pur, so it certainly seemed boring enough. Boring enough to be compelled to visit a knackered old Maharajah’s palace full of his gruesome collection of the last 200 of about every endangered species on two continents (lovingly and hamfistedly stuffed), and get pecked by an emu that looked stuffed but wasn’t (yet), and boring enough to do what I had resisted doing for near on six weeks: go out at Midday on Saturday and get royally bolloxed.
That was the first of the mistakes. The second was to get another overnight bus the day after. I hope not to make a third by overdoing this, so to cut a short story shorter, I will just offer the following words: 5, days, hot gravy, pain, imodium, useless, acceptance, beach, beer, unfortunate timing of Birdman’s birthday, not long ’til next one, tits-a-plenty, what a waste.
Oh, the Israelis are back. One of these days……