Chapter 1. Delhi to Pushkar

Chapter 2. Arambol to Fort Cochin and back again

Chapter 3. Singapore to Bangkok

Chapter 4. Koh Phangan to Pangadaran

Chapter 5. Yogyakarta to Exmouth

Chapter 6. Adelaide to Brisbane

Chapter 7. Noosa to Mount Maunganui

Chapter 8. Auckland to Home



So where did all this begin? It was the spring of 2006 and I was reflecting on the approaching end of a six year contract with my employer that Christmas. Six years on the hamster wheel, round and round, weekdays and weekends, shopping, working, cleaning, washing, running, drinking, chatting, loving, laughing, round and round.

Despite the wheel, I have a good life; no, I have a very happy and privileged life for which I am grateful every day. However, like many people in 2007, I want as much from life as is possible. I am not waiting for jam tomorrow. All around us we live with tragedy and injustice brought to us in a 24/7 plugged in media world but none was felt more personal than the death of my father from cancer in 1993. That was a stark lesson that life needs living now not when I'm 65. I think that is perhaps why more generally, young people don't have the same culture of 'saving for the future' that my parent's generation had. Life is so short and fragile, live it!

And so back in spring 2006 I had a choice. Move on to the next job, stay on the wheel, turning and turning except for those brief excursions into holiday relief five weeks a year and the weekends, when we get to disembark the wheel for a quick suck on the water bottle spout of freewill. After a while though, one Christmas starts to blur into the next and each year passes quicker than the last. Another birthday another new year's eve and all the photos start looking the same too. Was that picture last year or the year before?

You might think this was therefore an easy decision to make but it wasn't. One of the issues of the hamster wheel is that the longer you are on it the more entrenched we become in our warm comfort of its turning, the familiarity of knowing what is where, what to expect and when. There is a great solace in that. I knew that if I were to make this journey I would have to break out of my comfort zone and the more I thought about it the more barriers seemed to rise; leaving friends and family for so long, renting out my house to someone who might not look after it, the utilities, what to do with my car, what if I become ill, so many risks, am I too old for this? For weeks and months these doubts circled in my head but always on the other side were the counter arguements, a lifetime ambition fulfilled, it's now or never, a unique opportunity you will never forget or regret. I had a decision to make and it had to be made on 1st September for that was the date I needed to buy the round the world flight ticket.

One of the simple pleasures of traveling without a firm laid plan is your ability to change at a moment's notice. Within the first few weeks I understood that travelers are influenced by the knowledge and experience of other travelers they meet along the way. I had met a host of people who had been here and loved this, stayed here or avoided that. Such was the case on my final day before heading for Goa. I had read and thought long about the destination but it was a lady on the roof terrace at Whongen House that changed my mind. She asked me where I was heading and I told her Palolem. There was a pause. She was an American and not shy with her opinions. She told me that in her experience Palolem had two large sewage outlet pipes heading out into the sea and the place was full of holiday Brits.

I remained impassive which only seemed to rile her further. ''I have lived there over 30 years'' she told me, ''I know what I'm talking about. You want to head for the very North, Arambol''. I thanked her and reflected the rest of that day on what she had told me. Palolem in the south, the guide book described it as the nicest and most unspoiled beach in Goa. Or take this traveler's word and head north?

The next day was a journey of two halves, the morning, a very pleasant internal flight with Spicejet from Delhi to Goa in two and half hours, instead of 42 hours by train. Well worth the 52 pounds I'd paid back in the UK. The afternoon however was somewhat different. I was determined not to get sucked into the whirlpool of taxi drivers outside the airport and strode out into the street looking for a bus stand. A friendly coach driver told me a local bus did pass by; over there he flicked, by the cross-roads. So began four separate journeys by local bus, airport to Vasco, Vasco to Panjim, Panjim to Mapsa and Mapsa to Arambol. I wondered why there were so many short bus journeys here. Someone told me it preserves employment. If they were to merge short runs, people would lose their jobs. It was fun though, to meander along the palm fringed roads and through the rural villages. It is very much cleaner here than Rajestan, and the smells are altogether sweeter.

At around 5.30pm I set down in Arambol with a few others and an English couple that had been on a day trip, directed me toward the beach road. This was when I first appreciated the value of packing lighter or at least lightish, for as I found, the measure of a rucksack is not the pleasant little hauls from taxi to hotel door, the real test is humping the damn thing on and off crowded buses and then having to walk with it for 40 minutes in the afternoon sun. Finally I set down at the Dreamcatcher bar on the beach and ordered a beer. The sun was going down and I had nowhere to stay yet but I needed that beer. 30 minutes later I paid and set off down the beach toward the headland. I asked at the first restaurant if there were any rooms, but there were none. 'OK', I thought, this is going to be one of those nights, just find somewhere for tonight. The place next door looked the obvious follow up but I was expecting the same answer. It was a quiet eatery among the palms, surrounded by bamboo huts on stilts. ''Any rooms please?'' ''Yes we have a room''. Four pounds a night for a woven palm leaf hut with a double bed and mosquito net. This was a nice place I thought, I could stay here a while.

The beach at Arambol is long but like any beach with a lot of human traffic it accumulates litter and no one seems inclined to pick it up. The wandering cows and stray dogs don't help. The following morning I followed the rocky headland path through the cafes, clothes stalls and cheap rooms clinging to the cliff face round to another smaller beach by a freshwater lake with a backdrop of brown burned cliffs. It was time to develop a suntan. There's no getting away from the fact that you are still in India and the approaches from hawkers is relentless. After a while you stop looking at them at all or indeed saying anything. Your reaction turns into just negative body language or a flick of the head and they get the message, well eventually. I tried humor at one point but I think my Basil Fawlty school of humor was lost here. ''Hello friend', pineapple, coconut, blanket, necklace, CD?'' they asked…

I looked at the sand and replied ' No sun cream, ice cream, soda stream or broad beans, no mango, tango, hairbrush, toothbrush, toilet brush or lemon crush, no bangles, sandals, or scented candles, no shawls, balls, sarongs and definitely no bongs! Thank you!'

Arambol is a calm and attractive place, not too busy, a backdrop of scorched curtain earth, with clusters of beach shack restaurants and one main street of the usual tourist tat but pleasant enough to meander in the evening. The sea is clean enough, although not clear water and the sunsets over the headland made for great viewing every night at 6.30pm. Yes this is an easy place to stay and many people who come here intending to stay a day or two are still here weeks later and find it difficult to book there passage out. Perhaps, I thought, this is partly because mainstream India is such hard work to travel.

Thoughts from the beach: It's funny what the sea, sand and sun does to the mind.

- Why do men of a certain age wear thongs? Surely they don't want tanned buttocks? If not, it must a kind of monkey thing, the showing of the rear to the females to impress. Does it impress?

- There are lots of people out here looking for something. Yoga, meditation, devotees of this guru or that mission, they are here. Me included I guess, just not sure yet what it is I'm looking for. At sunset as I run along the breakwater of the beach in bare feet and there they are, the yogararti, waving their arms in the air, some standing on their heads, smiling uncontrollably at each other in self congratulation at having reached a higher level of self awareness.

- Scam of the week. This week's scam of the week is the ear insect scam. There you are walking along the beach minding your own business and to your side an Indian man cautions you 'sir your ear, in your ear sir the insect'. He moves forward hand outstretched with that concerned fellow human look on his face. I reach for my ear but can feel nothing untoward and then it dawns on me and I reach out to counter his hand away from my face. 'Don't touch me' I make it very clear to him. He shrugs his shoulders and makes off in search of more naive prey. No doubt the end of the trick is to produce in slight of hand some swashed bug and declare you had a close escape, quickly followed by a hand out for money.

- I have not succumb to the Arambol uniform i.e. rasta braided hair, wrap around shades, ying-yang tattoo, silver earring and orange cotton trouser with crotch located somewhere about the knees.

- 'Travelers' hate being associated with 'tourists'. They talk about them with some distain and do all they can to avoid places where tourists can be found. Perhaps everyone needs someone to look down on. The problem is that travelers are tourists. We came here by plane just the same, we stay in accommodation, lie on the beach and eat in the restaurants. Of course we are tourists. Travelers would insist not, they are purer, the organic verses the vacuum packed.

After experiencing some beach restaurant service here, I don't think I shall ever have a complaint about British service again. In the end it's all relative to expectation. It is very obvious that Indian waiters here receive no training whatsoever and worse, they demonstrate no common sense, nor desire to learn while on the job. This is best illustrated by the fact that a. you do not receive a menu in the order you came in, b. your order is not taken in the order you sat down, c. they don't bring your food together, rather it comes to you in the order in which it is ready i.e. you are likely to get your French fries first, then 5 minutes later the salad and once finished, your main dish.

At its worst there are two speeds of service, slow and lost your order. Customers soon become exasperated at the lack of organization and so the waiters are constantly hailed this way and that. The result is that the waiters get pulled in every direction and become even more disorganized. At the end of this performance, sometimes the whole thing boils over into a customer outburst and that is when the waiters reveal their greatest weapon. Their abject failure is met with an expression of absolute tepid indifference.

In contrast I have to say that generally the Goan people are very friendly, polite and laid back. Like most of India they love their music and to laugh. Life is slow here but there is a very strong sense of family and community, perhaps illustrated well by a conversation I had with a friend I made here Sebi, who owns some of the beach huts. He told me his sister is getting married in April and as their father has passed away he is responsible for all the arrangements. 'How many people are you inviting I asked', 'two hundred he replied', 'two hundred I replied in amazement', he told me that it was expected to invite pretty much everyone of the locals in Arambol, that is how things are done here.

After eating, it is sometimes nice to just switch off at the Blue Sea Horse in front of one of their many pirate DVDs. For the benefit of those whose first language is not English, and to counter the occasional uproar from the kitchen, the films are always accompanied by the on screen subtitles. The problem is that the person who wrote the subtitles on these illegal copies doesn't actually speak very good English either, resulting in some very odd and misleading translations. Last night's western, the Bandidas, involved the stealing of land from farmers in Mexico to build a railroad. One farmer protests on screen 'how could you sell my farm to the gringos?' subtitle reads 'how could you sell my farm to the green coast?' and later one of the lead characters retorts 'these things are based on historical collaborations' which is translated on screen as ' these things are based on hasty conclusions'. You can imagine those struggling to follow the plot must be scratching their head trying to make head or tail of what on earth is going on.

I took a couple of day trips out of Arambol on the local bus service, the first to Panjim, capital of Goa, a reasonable sized and attractive town with lots of Portuguese architecture and a clean feel to it. Goa has a very different character to Rajasthan, the air is so much better, the traffic less chaotic and the light is clearer. There is less poverty, perhaps because of the economy of tourism, and far less rubbish apparent round and about. My second excursion was to the famous Wednesday flea market at Anjuna which was sadly disappointing. This is no flea market, in fact the availability of fleas for sale would have broken the monotony of row after row of tourist rubbish. It's essentially all the same consumables, cushion covers, bags, trousers, skirts, jewelry, blankets and bongos and so it goes on. It all looks the same because it's all from the same place, some back street factory in Mumbai churning out cheap clothes so that the tourists can look ethnic. I came away empty handed.

One of my ambitions for this year is to take advantage of opportunities to do things not available to me in everyday life. At the Sweet Lake beach beyond the headland I had watched them for several days, sweeping silent and majestic up and along the cliff tops, these were the paragliders. One such pilot had landed near the lake and I asked her for information. It turned out to be very cheap in comparative terms. Where else could you get a tandem paraglide of 20 minutes for 16 pounds? I booked the next day with Steve a veteran and instructor who had glided all over the world but spent several months a year here in Goa because it is cheap to live here and the gliding is good. We met at eleven and I soon came to realize the many complexities of air currents and how they affect the gliding conditions. We walked up to the top of the cliffs at 11am, perhaps 200 meters to where several other groups had assembled. The wind was too slight. Steve tried a solo flight but couldn't get any lift and ended up down on the beach, much to his displeasure. Time passed. They threw bits of grass in the air and peered over the edge, pointing and talked westerly, no north westerly. They couldn't agree. That is the thing about people who paraglide, like divers or rally drivers or skiers, they just want to talk about gliding, mostly to each other and mostly contradicting one another.

Finally by 3pm the wind had risen and within two minutes I was in the harness and the chute was thrown up behind us. Walk to the edge Steve told me from behind. We were fighting the pull of the sail until at the cliff edge the thermal caught us and we lifted. It had been a long wait but worth it. Silent and effortless we cruised with the birds along the ridge of the cliff picking up the warm rising air, banking left and heading out high over the beach below. We passed other gliders, swooped down in an arc towards the tops of the coconut trees and then up with the breeze, rising above the launch plateau and past others waiting to take off. Although 20 minutes was the norm, Steve had been frustrated by the wind all day and was enjoying himself. We stayed up for 45 minutes eventually coming round the headland, over the lake and in decreasing circles finally down to land on our feet on the beach next to the Sweet Lake cafe. It was worth the wait, a real treat and another ambition fulfilled. I thanked Steve and headed off to the Eyes of Buddha café for my new favorite indulgence, banana lassi with ice cream.

I was unsure whether Kerala in the south of India was worth the 16 hour sleeper train from Goa. It was a long way to go to be disappointed but I had heard that Kerala, a long narrow territory that hugs the south west coast, is one of the most beautiful parts of India. The journey was long but punctuated by broken English conversations with Indian gentlemen very interested in my background and plans. I arrived in Ernakulam at 11am on a rather dirty train that had brought some people and cockroaches all the way from Delhi. Ernakulam is a bustling City, capital of Kerala and set where the river mouth meets the sea.

The ferry to Fort Cochin, the prettiest peninsula off the mainland, is by far the cheapest and most pleasant way to travel. The picture postcard view of Cochin is the famous Chinese fishing nets along the waterfront. These unique teak frames hang off the jetty like great arched back insects glaring down into the shallows, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting seafood. In fact the crane-like structures swivel forward and drop flat nets into the water and then spring up again carrying their catch. Along the waterfront, a line of impromptu stalls claim to sell the day's catch fresh from the sea and just behind them equally rickety cooking stalls offer to fry them for you. It's charming but a complete tourist honey pot and overpriced. The Dutch architecture and laid back charm of Princess Street and its surrounds, together with the ornate interiors of Santa Cruz Basilica make this a very picturesque place to spend a few days.

After a busy day of walking, I sat at the restaurant on the corner of Princess Street and asked if they served beer. 'Yes sir but this will be in the pit'. 'where's that' I enquired'. ''Yes sir in a tee pit as we don't have the license for the beer''. My warm beer duly arrived in its teapot with accompanying ceramic mug. This must be the worst kept secret in Cochin I thought. Kerala is famous for its 'backwaters' and most people who come here do so in part to cruise on a houseboat in the serene palmed rivers and canals. There are many tours on offer but I chose a single day trip with no overnight stay. The taxi picked us up at 8 near the tourist office and drove for 40 minutes out of rush hour Ernakulam. The houseboat was a simple vessel, perhaps 40 feet long with palm leaf woven ceiling and an open deck. Our party of 12 meandered quietly along the river and out towards a collection of palm covered islands that had been inhabited by Kerala families for centuries. These people live a basic life, bathing and washing in the river, cooking simple vegetarian foods and making a modest living farming fresh water muscles or making construction lime from their shells and coir matting from coconut husks for the carpet industry.

We wiled away the morning passing the fishermen standing up in their simple slim boats and watching normal life in the back waters drift by. After a simple but pleasant lunch on board we took a further short journey by road to the network of smaller canals hand dug by the Kerala people to draw water off the main river into the villages and provide a source of washing and transport.

After a month and a half into my adventure everything is starting to show signs of taking a battering, including me. Last night, I christened the night of a thousand bites as I fought a endless battle with insects in room 604. I am more red bumpy blotches than tan today. The first of the rucksack clasps has given out and I have had to take steps to keep the straps secure. That's what comes of pushing your gear to its limit and bashing it on and off trains planes and automobiles. For myself I remain in good spirits and everyday remains a new adventure at the moment.

By now a few friends had asked me how I was feeling about this great adventure and particularly in the evenings at a roadside café or in the still quiet of my bed I would spend time reflecting on this. The truth is that it feels rather like I'm an actor in the middle of the performance of a play, that is, there is so much going on and so much to think about in terms of what now and what next, that I can't quite get a grip on how I feel about what has gone in the last few weeks. I am mindful that they are reactions from the experiences of the immediate, and must be thought of as a 'draft' for undoubtedly when I return to home, God willing, the benefits of hindsight will temper and mature these words and the final product will be a mixture of the two.

Being here also gives you the time and space to think about who you are, where you are and where you want to go. One of the common questions asked of you when you travel is what you do back home. Of course what people mean is what do you do as gainful employment and this usually produces an interesting two way discussion. It did lead me to think however about what defines us as individuals. Yes I may be a project manager or indeed an investment analyst but that, I thought is just what I do as the largest single source of income. When I thought about what I actually am, the list was far more interesting; father, musician, traveler, writer, property developer, landlord, friend, brother, designer, photographer, enthusiastic cook and appreciator of wine.

I can't, however, relate to this as a holiday as for the past 14 years most of my annual holidays have been with my son James coming to stay and doing the things boys like to do on their holidays. Of course, I had caught the odd week here and there but mostly the standard European sun bed laziness. No, this did not feel like a holiday but perhaps there was also a guilt factor here, after all, I would find it difficult to justify, taking a ten month holiday. Researching a book is altogether a more acceptable description of my purpose. Whether the book turns out to be a triumph or disaster remains to be seen but 'yes' I concluded, if anyone were to ask 'I'm taking a career break to research and write a book about backpacking around the world.' I could live with that.

Winter Brits abroad, thousands of them. If you're wondering where half your street is, they're here with me in Calangute. This is very different Goa experience to Arambol. This is beer and chips central, a home away from home but with all day sunshine. Why are they all here? Simple, the hotels are cheap, the food is cheap, the beer is cheap. All down the long stretch of beach it's packed nose to tail with hundreds of sunbeds and beach shacks, set up like tin after tin of sardines for as far as the eye can see. The pasty British are baking gently in their fish oil and exchanging cheery banter with the waiters. Calangute is a relaxing place though. You can simply turn up at your sunbed first thing, enjoy a leisurely breakfast looking at the ocean and then do a large amount of nothing all day except eat, drink tea, read and be waited on hand and foot. There are worse ways to spend a few days but three was enough for me.

A haircut had been on my agenda for a couple of weeks. I had pondered and avoided the local providers fearful of what horrors they might visit upon my head and how long I might have to suffer the public humiliation of a hacked mess. By Calangute it was getting out of hand and I decided that today was haircut day. I parked myself by the door of the local barber as he finished shaving the current incumbent. He beckoned me to the chair and we exchanged a few pleasantries and hand waving instructions as to what amount I wanted taken off. He started well enough with the sides and back and I was beginning to feel more confident.

It was then as I looked at the mirror reflection that I realized that the barber was now standing on tip toes as he worked. I eyed the chair was sat in and saw that it was of fixed height and not adjustable. Obviously, I thought, the chair was set for the average Indian client and I was somewhat taller. He snipped and combed around me, arms up stretched like a puppeteer delivering Punch & Judy at the seaside. After a while he stopped, ruffled the top of my head and declared victory. A little premature I reasoned as I asked him to take a little more from the front. Moments later the task was complete. 'How much' I asked, having seen his previous client pass him a 20 rupee note at the conclusion of his cut. '100 rupees' he declared, 'nooooo I retorted, that cannot be', 'yes sir he insisted 100'. This was a rare occasion I had failed to ensure the price before starting and he knew it. There followed a brief but lively exchange regarding the price charged to the previous client and the one currently in the next chair. I threatened to sit down and wait to see what the Indian gentleman to my right would be charged but at this point barber number 2 intervened with a new price '50 rupees'. 'It was 100 a moment ago' I questioned. 'Yes he is a new employee sir, he does not understand the prices'. I smiled and nodded in that 'you must think I'm an idiot' manner and the matter was concluded.

So there I was back in Arambol and appreciating the lack of people, compared with Calangute and Baga, the quieter way of life and the good food. These are my last few days in India and in some ways these two months have passed quickly. I am looking forward to seeing Singapore and Bangkok for the first time, and for the chance to compare everything about them with my Indian experience.

When you first come to this beach it's easy to think that everyday is like the last, blue sky, the gentle crash of the surf, the birds on the breeze but after a while you start to notice the subtle differences that make every day distinct from the last, the current and the next; the phases of the moon as it waxes and wanes, the sun setting a little later and rising a little earlier, the ebb and flow of the tides, the different strengths of the wind, how much haze hangs in the air and the changing heat of the sun. Around all this rolls the orbit of the earth and our planets around the sun, constantly shifting day after day, all in cyclic annual motion. No such thing then as just another day at the beach. After two months I feel very much off the hamster wheel now. There are no weekdays or weekends here, no rush hours or deadlines, no choice of suit or jeans, no income tax or breakfast meetings. None of these have a place here. I spend my last days in Goa reading, keeping up with the world on the Internet, thinking about business ideas, writing, deepening my tan and eating too much.

Sometimes if I am feeling a little lonely or homesick I just think about the cold grey days of February in England, no warmth to the occasional sunshine on your face, no leaves on the trees and those endless hours in front of my work computer writing reports no one wanted to read, replying to emails no one wanted to act on and attending meetings no one wanted to be at. Then of course there were the regular winter rush-hour breakdowns of the train service to and from Liverpool, resulting in a mass of people stranded, pressing forward with stressed expressions to get a place on the inadequate bus replacement service. I look around me here, the waves stroking the shore, the flood of light, water, air, warm winds, the relaxed expressions on the face of everyone here and it's ok.



 Arambol ... There are plenty of travel agents in Arambol who will arrange tickets for onward travel. Be aware trains, especially sleeper trains can book up a week in advance so it's prudent to plan ahead. The local bus service from the edge of the resort is useful for trips out. The main terminus in the area is Mapusa (pronounced Mapsa). The bus from Arambol takes about 45 minutes and costs 15R. From Mapsa you can get out in any direction into Goa. The buses do get very packed though. I guess that's the trade off for their cheapness. There are many places to eat here and generally the standard of food is very good. I found that as a general rule the better the location of the eatery i.e. beach views etc, the more likely the food would be less good as they don't have to try so hard to get the customers in. I have to single out special praise in Arambol for the fish vindallo at 21 Coconuts, pizza at Fellini and Thai chicken green curry at Double Dutch. The food and drink is also very good value indeed if you avoid the obvious wallet killers i.e. fresh fish and seafood. I stayed at Residensea. Conclusion excellent.

 Kerala ... I have learned that Indian trains are very popular and get booked up way in advance. If you are intending to spend just a few days somewhere, and want to leave by train you will be well advised to book your ticket out as soon as you arrive at the destination or if possible at the same time as booking your inbound journey. When buying bananas from a stall, buy the small finger bananas not the large ones like we have in the UK. The large ones are actually for cooking with and are rather hard as I discovered chomping my way through one waiting for the train. The small ones should retail about 1R each. The ferry from Ernakulam jetty to Fort Cochin is 3R and every half an hour. I stayed at the Brisbane Lodge Fort Cochin. Conclusion good but let down by being overpriced and lots of biting insects. Great tea and breakfast at the Tea House off Princess Street. Great food and ambiance at the Art Café.

 Calangute ... Don't accept offers of a room when you first arrive from people on the street. Get off the main strip and find a beach shack for a drink. Ask one of the waiters for suggestions, you are more likely to get a decent deal. Sunbeds in front of the beach shacks are free if you buy some food or drink from the shack during the day. I stayed at the Sunset Cottages. Conclusion good.