Gokarna is a small village in north west Karnataka on the west coast of India at the Adriatic Sea. The region of Goa is 50kms to the north as its more well known cousin. Pilgrims flock to Gokarna for the many temples and easy going pace of life. In fact the place was packed with Indian Tourists who had travelled far and wide to spend some time here. May is off-season for western tourists although a few lingered.
Unfortunately my travel buddy, Sarah, had come down with Delhi Belly or traveller's diarrhea. I won't spare you the details, but needless to say - I've never seen energy sucked out of someone so quickly and completely. With no appetite for solids and a mean craving for water, juice and various pills she spent her time sleeping in the cool of the fan trying to absorb fluids, recuperate and build her strength again.
In the meantime I was somewhat helpless to assist. There was only so many times I could say " are you alright", "how are you feeling", "can I get you anything", "any progress"? I instead would head out and ensure we had a good supply of water, juice and salty crackers to entice her eat. Toilet paper also a good investment particularly when I also had my moments of tummy upsets. Just another "incredible India" experience.
Gokarna was a perfect place to unwind irrespective of the current situation we were in. I read a lot on the balcony, begun this blog series and went on a few short adventures.
Gokarna Beach isn't the cleanest nor quietest beach. Many indians dabble their feet (most can't swim and women must remain fully clothed at all times) in the small shore break. In the off season there were only a few beachside huts selling wares keeping the place pretty quiet and 'pestering' free. Also at the beach carpark was what became my thrice daily eating venue Prem Restaurant. I could have a coffee and fruit salad for breakfast, thali for lunch and maybe another curry for lunch. The people were friendly, the food agreeable and location fitting.
On one evening excursion I wandered through Gokarna parallel to the beach. It was evening and locals were going about their evening activities - on their way to prayer, cleaning the kids, playing volleyball or getting their last work done in the relative cool of the evening heat. I was aiming to hit the beach so criss-crossed a number of fields, scampered past farm huts and through small breaks in the scrub til I reached the beach. I passed one group of farmers who were preparing their patch. The crusty red earth was being broken by pick. The lean farmers methodically and rhythmically putting steel to the earth to foster fertility. At the time i had been reading "a short story of tractors in Ukranian" and thought about how mechanised farming has had such a huge impact on the world over the past 100 years. Like most things in India, these wiry farmers knew nothing else so put skin to wooden pick handles and prepared the fields the way their fathers and fathers before them had.
A morning jog along the beach led me halfway along Gokarna main beach. Out to sea I saw a long parade of boats returning to land. Small boats with tall plumes of smoke stretched far out to see. As I got closer to
the section of beach where they were landing I was able to see the whole spectacle of a coastal fishing community. Many boats had already landed. They were 4-5m long, deep V'd, made of thick dark tarred timber and usually with an outrigger. The dirty engines were probably diesel or some other heavy oil. Five to six guys would be on board among the nets. As each boat approached a small receival team would be waiting like a pit crew. One would bring blocks to the water's edge, another would oil the logs and the rest would wait. With a final roar of the engine, the boats would surf up the beach as far as they could. Once on the blocks, egyptian style, the boat was to be pushed up the beach on a catepillar of blocks. The pit crew would get a hold wherever they could, mainly with their shoulders under the outrigger and push. My curious viewing of this spectacle probably made me a prime
candidate to be picked on as a helper. Happily accepting, I joined the other 18-20 guys getting a position next to the boss on an out rigger. Like a rugby scrum, we edge thed boat up along the planks. Women would bring the planks from the back to the front. The boss led a 'pushing' chant which although made no sense to me, gave me the cues I needed to add a bit of ex-rower leg power to the cause. Needless to say after we had moved this heavy thing 15m up the beach I was sweating prefusely and heaving for air - damn heavy and to think after a solid session fishing this was a daily chore (probably into the water also) daily. As soon as the boat was up, it was again all hands on deck to get the bounty into baskets and off to the streets to sell. The teams would drag nets out of the boat and untangle the caught fish into the baskets. The fish I didn't recognise but were all under 20cms and slowly filled the baskets. The boss offered me one for my help, I politely declined and thanked them for allowing me to join their ritual. A few days later, Fred told he how he had helped fisherman in Kochi and they had then asked him to pay them to being part of the experience!! I think in Gokarna they were friendly more reasonable fisherman!
The next boat came in, but this time an capstan winch made from timber was driven by 4 strong lads and hauled the next boat up. Once again I helped but the winch made lighter work of the task. Again the beauty of mechanised (even if human powered) tools showed its benefit.
On our last evening (of two nights) Sarah's internals had improved. With a little bit of colour in her face, a perkier conversation and some coersion, she saw the outside of our room for the first time. Although the dinner she ordered wasn't eaten in the end, it was a sign she'd survive and all would work out. We had an evening train on the
last day so again stayed low key for the day. I was talked into a private tour of a temple. The little man had followed me up the street when I ran my last errands for our onward journey. He took me up the backstreets of Gokarna, actually a lot cooler than the baking main street, up to another large reservoir and his temple. I should have seen it coming, but he put on some performance of ringing bells, walking around the vestible and all with me pretending to understand what going on. He gave me the red dot on my forehead and soon asked how much cash I'd donate to the temple's school. I had a measily 35 ruppes in my wallet at the time and upon saying I'd offer 20 of them to him, he promptly replied with "oh, two or three hundred should be fine". I showed him wallet and disappointedly he took 25 and put them in a safe, did a few more rings of the bell, laps of the vestible and we wandered out. I didn't understand why he didn't push for taking the whole 35 rupees until later. He got to his house and said the tour was over. He then again asked for money - this time for his services, at the rate of 10 rupees
knowing full well I had it! I guess that's what you call a fundraiser's commission or management fees in the IB world. He took my 10 rupees, wished me a good day and vanished into his abode. Normally I say NO to all these things but he seemed like a nice guy and also I knew I could hide behind my empty wallet (knowing my hidden
traveller's belt was not a technology these villagers had heard of).
Sarah had summoned all her energy for the trip to the Gokarna Rd Train Station. As expected the train was an hour and a half late. Luckily we were suitably entertained by an Irishman whose to response to our
question of "how long are you travelling for?" was "indefinitely but never back to Ireland!". He had scribbled in the palm of his hand in black ink "The World" - a pretty free mind. He was accompanied by a french cook travelling the world only with a day pack and another british women who'd decided to join the larrikans after her 6 week
medical work experience in the jungle villages. Oh, and there was mr 'know-it-all' who knew every train station and train timetable in the south wanting to set us on a quicker train to our destination.
An indian train station is bare bones, usually little more than a platform, some cover and an area for people to mill around or in many cases sleep. Often there are drinking water fountains along the platform for both those waiting and also those who jump off at only for a drink at each stop. The last distinguishing feature is the coach numbering system allowing passengers to know which coach to hop on. This system of white signs is good except there is a different number on each side of the sign and no clear system of working out what is what. Luckily we had mr know-it-all to lead the way. Barely a moment after the train stopped, the train slowly rolled forward ready to chug to its next stop. Those getting on and those who went for a drink break slowly
scamper to their now moving doorway to jump on and continue their journey.
If you've seen Slumdog Millionaire, the trains are not like as depicted with people on the roof, everyone jammed in ever cabin and so forth. It's not far from the truth as at each end of the train there are general carriages, which for a low fare you can squeeze in any which way. For us, our first leg, we were in a second class seating cabin. Basic seats, three on each side were lined down the carriage. Each person had a seat although many stood in the doorways and aisles to chat. Mainly families chose this form of carriage. Almost all the way, a chai wallah would offer masala coffee or tea or water. They were the official food service team with their blue with orange hoop
tops. They worked hard keeping everyone's energy up in the heat.
We had a seat reservation of all things next to Mr know it all. Half my luck. I got a lecture on his yearly temple pilgrimage and which stations are the best in southern india and the oxy-acetylene market in india. Thankfully he was asleep quickly.
Unfortunately my travel buddy, Sarah, had come down with Delhi Belly or traveller's diarrhea. I won't spare you the details, but needless to say - I've never seen energy sucked out of someone so quickly and completely. With no appetite for solids and a mean craving for water, juice and various pills she spent her time sleeping in the cool of the fan trying to absorb fluids, recuperate and build her strength again.
In the meantime I was somewhat helpless to assist. There was only so many times I could say " are you alright", "how are you feeling", "can I get you anything", "any progress"? I instead would head out and ensure we had a good supply of water, juice and salty crackers to entice her eat. Toilet paper also a good investment particularly when I also had my moments of tummy upsets. Just another "incredible India" experience.
Gokarna was a perfect place to unwind irrespective of the current situation we were in. I read a lot on the balcony, begun this blog series and went on a few short adventures.
Gokarna Beach isn't the cleanest nor quietest beach. Many indians dabble their feet (most can't swim and women must remain fully clothed at all times) in the small shore break. In the off season there were only a few beachside huts selling wares keeping the place pretty quiet and 'pestering' free. Also at the beach carpark was what became my thrice daily eating venue Prem Restaurant. I could have a coffee and fruit salad for breakfast, thali for lunch and maybe another curry for lunch. The people were friendly, the food agreeable and location fitting.
On one evening excursion I wandered through Gokarna parallel to the beach. It was evening and locals were going about their evening activities - on their way to prayer, cleaning the kids, playing volleyball or getting their last work done in the relative cool of the evening heat. I was aiming to hit the beach so criss-crossed a number of fields, scampered past farm huts and through small breaks in the scrub til I reached the beach. I passed one group of farmers who were preparing their patch. The crusty red earth was being broken by pick. The lean farmers methodically and rhythmically putting steel to the earth to foster fertility. At the time i had been reading "a short story of tractors in Ukranian" and thought about how mechanised farming has had such a huge impact on the world over the past 100 years. Like most things in India, these wiry farmers knew nothing else so put skin to wooden pick handles and prepared the fields the way their fathers and fathers before them had.
A morning jog along the beach led me halfway along Gokarna main beach. Out to sea I saw a long parade of boats returning to land. Small boats with tall plumes of smoke stretched far out to see. As I got closer to
the section of beach where they were landing I was able to see the whole spectacle of a coastal fishing community. Many boats had already landed. They were 4-5m long, deep V'd, made of thick dark tarred timber and usually with an outrigger. The dirty engines were probably diesel or some other heavy oil. Five to six guys would be on board among the nets. As each boat approached a small receival team would be waiting like a pit crew. One would bring blocks to the water's edge, another would oil the logs and the rest would wait. With a final roar of the engine, the boats would surf up the beach as far as they could. Once on the blocks, egyptian style, the boat was to be pushed up the beach on a catepillar of blocks. The pit crew would get a hold wherever they could, mainly with their shoulders under the outrigger and push. My curious viewing of this spectacle probably made me a prime
candidate to be picked on as a helper. Happily accepting, I joined the other 18-20 guys getting a position next to the boss on an out rigger. Like a rugby scrum, we edge thed boat up along the planks. Women would bring the planks from the back to the front. The boss led a 'pushing' chant which although made no sense to me, gave me the cues I needed to add a bit of ex-rower leg power to the cause. Needless to say after we had moved this heavy thing 15m up the beach I was sweating prefusely and heaving for air - damn heavy and to think after a solid session fishing this was a daily chore (probably into the water also) daily. As soon as the boat was up, it was again all hands on deck to get the bounty into baskets and off to the streets to sell. The teams would drag nets out of the boat and untangle the caught fish into the baskets. The fish I didn't recognise but were all under 20cms and slowly filled the baskets. The boss offered me one for my help, I politely declined and thanked them for allowing me to join their ritual. A few days later, Fred told he how he had helped fisherman in Kochi and they had then asked him to pay them to being part of the experience!! I think in Gokarna they were friendly more reasonable fisherman!
The next boat came in, but this time an capstan winch made from timber was driven by 4 strong lads and hauled the next boat up. Once again I helped but the winch made lighter work of the task. Again the beauty of mechanised (even if human powered) tools showed its benefit.
On our last evening (of two nights) Sarah's internals had improved. With a little bit of colour in her face, a perkier conversation and some coersion, she saw the outside of our room for the first time. Although the dinner she ordered wasn't eaten in the end, it was a sign she'd survive and all would work out. We had an evening train on the
last day so again stayed low key for the day. I was talked into a private tour of a temple. The little man had followed me up the street when I ran my last errands for our onward journey. He took me up the backstreets of Gokarna, actually a lot cooler than the baking main street, up to another large reservoir and his temple. I should have seen it coming, but he put on some performance of ringing bells, walking around the vestible and all with me pretending to understand what going on. He gave me the red dot on my forehead and soon asked how much cash I'd donate to the temple's school. I had a measily 35 ruppes in my wallet at the time and upon saying I'd offer 20 of them to him, he promptly replied with "oh, two or three hundred should be fine". I showed him wallet and disappointedly he took 25 and put them in a safe, did a few more rings of the bell, laps of the vestible and we wandered out. I didn't understand why he didn't push for taking the whole 35 rupees until later. He got to his house and said the tour was over. He then again asked for money - this time for his services, at the rate of 10 rupees
knowing full well I had it! I guess that's what you call a fundraiser's commission or management fees in the IB world. He took my 10 rupees, wished me a good day and vanished into his abode. Normally I say NO to all these things but he seemed like a nice guy and also I knew I could hide behind my empty wallet (knowing my hidden
traveller's belt was not a technology these villagers had heard of).
Sarah had summoned all her energy for the trip to the Gokarna Rd Train Station. As expected the train was an hour and a half late. Luckily we were suitably entertained by an Irishman whose to response to our
question of "how long are you travelling for?" was "indefinitely but never back to Ireland!". He had scribbled in the palm of his hand in black ink "The World" - a pretty free mind. He was accompanied by a french cook travelling the world only with a day pack and another british women who'd decided to join the larrikans after her 6 week
medical work experience in the jungle villages. Oh, and there was mr 'know-it-all' who knew every train station and train timetable in the south wanting to set us on a quicker train to our destination.
An indian train station is bare bones, usually little more than a platform, some cover and an area for people to mill around or in many cases sleep. Often there are drinking water fountains along the platform for both those waiting and also those who jump off at only for a drink at each stop. The last distinguishing feature is the coach numbering system allowing passengers to know which coach to hop on. This system of white signs is good except there is a different number on each side of the sign and no clear system of working out what is what. Luckily we had mr know-it-all to lead the way. Barely a moment after the train stopped, the train slowly rolled forward ready to chug to its next stop. Those getting on and those who went for a drink break slowly
scamper to their now moving doorway to jump on and continue their journey.
If you've seen Slumdog Millionaire, the trains are not like as depicted with people on the roof, everyone jammed in ever cabin and so forth. It's not far from the truth as at each end of the train there are general carriages, which for a low fare you can squeeze in any which way. For us, our first leg, we were in a second class seating cabin. Basic seats, three on each side were lined down the carriage. Each person had a seat although many stood in the doorways and aisles to chat. Mainly families chose this form of carriage. Almost all the way, a chai wallah would offer masala coffee or tea or water. They were the official food service team with their blue with orange hoop
tops. They worked hard keeping everyone's energy up in the heat.
We had a seat reservation of all things next to Mr know it all. Half my luck. I got a lecture on his yearly temple pilgrimage and which stations are the best in southern india and the oxy-acetylene market in india. Thankfully he was asleep quickly.
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