Travel Diaries: India

I’d only dreamed of being in a place like India until now. Growing up, it’s seemed like a completely different world, a million miles from home, and somewhere I’d never have the opportunity to visit. Even in the run up to boarding the plane a couple of days before, the excitement was slightly shrouded by a delayed visa arrival, and it didn’t feel real that I was going.

The layover in Munich was only a couple of hours long. We had time for a quick snack and a toilet break. The poor guy in the cubicle next to me was committing atrocities the like of which Germany hadn’t seen since the Second World War, and unbeknownst to me, this subtly foreshadowed what was to come.

Mia, Eden and I boarded the flight to Mumbai, and waved goodbye to Europe. Lufthansa provided a nice service, filling us with drinks and snacks through the 7-hour journey, which was soundtracked by a screaming child in front of us who really didn’t want to go to India by the sounds of it.

Even getting off the plane in Mumbai and wandering through the airport, it just felt different to anywhere else I’d ever been. Congregations of Indian men throughout the terminal seemingly took a liking to us, some workers and some travellers, their eyes sticking to us like glue. The shouting, the karts, the staring… we were a long way from home. The bottle of kingfisher whilst waiting for our connecting flight to Goa left us all with a sickly feeling, not because we’d flown for a combined 10 hours so far, and we were thinking about the prospect of doing it for a third time, but because the beers cost a whopping £9 each - I thought India was supposed to be cheap!

We exited Goa airport and the drogues of taxi drivers swarmed us like bees. “Taxi! Taxi my friend!”. We played it safe after a quick check that Uber was available, and we’re escorted by our driver to the edge of the highway. He explained that he parks away from the airport to avoid any fees, and that was why he’d made us walk in the dark, at 5am, to the edge of the Indian version of an M62 slip road with a year’s worth of luggage. We clambered into the Suzuki Swift, suspicious that it was even going to be able to set off now being nearly 300kg heavier… and then the beeping started. Every time we overtook, undertook, got overtook, got undertook, pass an oncoming car, go round a corner, nearly go head on into a lorry, the driver beeps his horn. We asked him why and he smiled and nodded. Little did we know that the notorious beep would follow us around the whole of Goa but, despite its annoyance, it’s actually quite effective. Particularly when it comes to trying to get the cows out of the way.

We arrived at our hostel at around 7am. The “reception” was a table with a laptop on it in a wooden gazebo. In the gazebo was a few chairs, a 70s snooker table, and some benches, all of which were littered with empty beer bottles and tab ends. The “receptionist” was a young Indian man who evidently partook in the party which, by the looks of it, had only just finished. He struggled to string a sentence together, but got his point across that we’d have to wait a gruelling 7 hours before checking in. The thought of Eden having to stay on her blistered foot for any longer was incredibly unappealing at this point. We advised the receptionist we’ve had a combined 4 hours sleep in the past day and a half, and urgently needed a bed. He offered us the wicker chairs which were covered in yesterday’s curry. After a brief mental breakdown at the thought of having to be awake, or even alive for that matter, for another few hours, we made the all-important decision to wander over the road and pay way over the odds for a 4 star Marriott hotel for the day and subsequent night. Mia’s role in the negotiation was vital, she really held it all together, as by this point, Eden’s tears were streaming and I was beginning to genuinely lose my mind. If it wasn’t for the Marriott, I can confidently say we’d be back in Blighty by now.

Having slept the whole day, we ventured out towards Anjuna beach in the evening in search of food… and boy, did we strike gold. Travelling with two vegetarians in India is a dream - myself skeptical of the meat here, I’ve had a fully vegetarian diet since arriving, and don’t wish to change it any time soon. Chana masala, aloo palak, paneer butter masala, jasmine rice, three butter chapatis and six bottles of kingfisher came to Rs1,400, roughly the equivalent to £14. We wiped the curry from our gobsmacked mouths and went back to the Marriott to make the most of our luxurious digs for one more night. We spent the next day clinging on to the opulence, sitting by the pool and being waited on hand and foot. I quickly nipped to the market because nobody wanted to play with me in the pool, and I was sick of hearing about Eden’s blister, so got myself a new shirt for the New Year’s celebrations. £4. Walking down to the market alone felt quite liberating, knowing that this kind of art of doing nothing was going to be my “job” for the foreseeable future. The stares came thick and fast, but after breaking the tension with a “Namaste brother” in a thick Yorkshire accent, more often than not I was met with a big grin and an extended right hand. The residents are so welcoming and excited by the presence of a white man. Goa is by no means off the beaten path, hippies have been coming here since the 60s, but that doesn’t take away from the joy in these people’s faces when you greet them.

We moved our bags from heaven to hell, and checked into the Madpackers hostel. We got acquainted with the resident cockroach in the bathroom sink, but most likely left a bad first impression given what happened in there. Everyone’s heard of “Delhi Belly”, but nobody had warned us about Goa Guts… no further information is required.

I put on my new shirt and headed upstairs to the “reception” to start drinking. I got chatting to two seasoned travellers, Max and Hugo, a pair of Kiwis who, when we discussed the cleanliness of our hostel, laughed and shrugged as if to say “get used to it”. We quickly sparked a friendship of sorts, and agreed to travel together to the beach to find some sort of party. During the pre-drinks, I asked one of the more competent hostel workers where the nearest ATM was. He was called Anass, and thankfully didn’t turn out to be anass-hole like the first staff member, although Mia might disagree. I jumped at the chance to accompany him to get some onions, and he would call at an ATM with me on the way back. He snatched some moped keys from one of the guests and off we went round the winding roads of Goa to an absolute shack of a grocery store. He instructed me to weigh out 5kg of red onion whilst he did the same with some potatoes. Three tabby cats stood guard over the weighing scales whilst Anass negotiated payment. We lugged them back onto the scooter and beeped our way back to the hostel, so excited by this every-day experience, I almost forgot to even go to the ATM.

A couple of hours later we were ready to go. An Indian soldier we’d met named Veer attempted to delay our departure at 23.45, advising that he’d ordered food and “couldn’t eat 2 pizzas all to himself”. We reluctantly waved goodbye to Veer and told him to meet us there. We were also joined by Toni, an easy-going lad from Frankfurt who had travelled south from his friend’s wedding in Mumbai. We walked the length of Anjuna beach, my white Salomon trainers now orange and scarred from the journey, to Shiva Valley. The “queue” was like a herd of sheep running away from a border collie. Absolute chaos, which we managed to meander around by slipping down the side of some mopeds, or “scooty” as it’s called here. Rs2,000 for me and Rs1,500 for the girls, obviously, and we were in. We danced our way down through the bar to the beach just in time for the firework display. It really was impeccable timing, something we’ll struggle to find anywhere else in India. The fireworks were relentless, the sky was red, blue and green for 10-15 minutes, apart from the 2 minutes when the firework apparatus fell on its side and began firing into the crowd. Nobody batted an eye lid, as Eden protected her blister like a young child in a war zone.

We went into 2025 with our new pals by our side, with Anglo-Kiwi relations in full flow. Veer had turned up in a Bart Simpson-vest covered in Margarita sauce, albeit having missed the countdown. It was surreal when I reminded myself that we’re normally at a fancy dress party in Leeds for New Year’s Eve, with friends who we know and love, and we’re now nearly 5,000 miles away spending it with people we’d just met. Nevertheless, it was a great night.

We took advantage of the “Taxi!” offers and headed back to Madpackers. Veer had managed to source us a couple of Paneer Masalas at 6am, and whilst we were trying to enjoy them, a loud-mouthed German came over doing his best impression of a stereotypical Brit abroad, pissed up and shouting obscenities. The roads had quietened down, so the beeping that fills the air during the day was sound asleep, thus making this bellend sound even louder. His banter was dreadful, you could have a better laugh with one of the fifteen mosquitoes that had taken a bite out of Eden’s leg. He said that he’d been in India for a fortnight, which is why he now does “ze headvobble”. When we replied with a silent, straight face, unamused by his joke, he took great offence, and went on a rant about how British people are “so unfunny” and have terrible humour… we’d had enough of him by this point, and in not so many words, told him to go away. He was a shadow of himself the next morning.

New Year’s Day was a write-off. We’d woke up at 14.30 and only seen three or four hours of daylight. We made a quick trip to a grocery shop and bought some carrots to feed some lucky cows. In the evening, we solidified our friendship with the Kiwis, and arranged to make the short trip to Vagator beach the following day.

Vagator beach was great. The sun-loungers were owned by the bar and restaurant, and in exchange for a bed you just needed to order some food and drinks. We did just that, running up a bill of nearly Rs5,000… extortionate for India. A few different Indian men came over to us and asked me and Hugo for a photo. We kindly obliged but soon realised they were just using us as a gateway to ask for a photo with the girls in their bikinis. An Indian family next to us who spoke great English were confused as to why we were being asked for photos. They momentarily mistook me for Ron Weasley, an unwelcome comparison which has now been made in multiples countries. The four of us clambered into the back of a tuk-tuk and set course for the hostel. The journey came to an abrupt and premature end when Hugo spotted a family of eight lagurn monkeys causing trouble on the roof of a shop. We jumped out with a great sense of urgency to have a look and probably looked like crazy chimps ourselves to passers-by.

Max and Hugo were leaving and heading north to Mumbai, so we had to bid our first farewell of the trip. It struck me how close I felt to them after such a short time, and we were genuinely gutted to see them leave. Much like when we were discussing the cleanliness of the hostel during our first meeting, they laughed at the idea of us being sad to see them go, and shrugged as if to say “get used to it”. They told us we’ll meet another 300 travellers throughout our time in South East Asia, and they’ll be nothing but a memory in no time. Well, if you’re reading lads, you’re in the travel diary, so you’re not going anywhere… just like Eden’s blister.