Travel Stories

Some tales from travelling, by me, UncleEvey.

The first story I wrote a few years back, tells the tale of my good friend from Goa, Mario.
This story begins in Tanzania at a boarding school, and ends at a casino bar in Goa.

A Goan Miracle

Everybody loves History

Mario was the very best in his class at climbing the Mango trees. He would scamper up the tree like a frisky monkey, and throw down only the ripest fruits to his friends, who all eagerly waited below. 

Now being the best at climbing the mango tree did come with a price, and the cost for Mario was to sacrifice an education which quite frankly bored him. 

At the tender age of thirteen, Mario struggled with his concentration levels as the teacher began to take the lecture. His mind would often drift as the tedious drowning noise came from the teacher. Her voice began to sound like an old vinyl record, one that's being played on the slowest setting.

Mario had attended a boarding school in Tanzania during the late 70's and early 80's, while his father worked all day down the mines. Many Goan's have strong connections with East Africa as work was plentiful, but times were getting hard. Mario's mother would sell fish at the local market and make clothes for extra money, while his father would spend a shilling every week on the English football pools. He would then listen out for the results to be broadcast on the BBC's long service radio station. When Mario was back home from boarding school, he too would work, in a small restaurant that was used by the local fishermen.

Mario had a plan to help him get out of attending any more lessons. One day, while rushing back to his classroom after lunch time, Mario placed a chilli in the back pocket of his trousers, as he hadn't the chance to eat it with the Dal and Rice. Mario took his seat at the back of the class while his friends waited for the history lesson to begin. Then he rubbed his eyes and let out a sigh for the forth coming lecture. 
The teacher soon stopped the lesson as quickly as it had begun, and asked Mario why his eye was so red. Mario quickly realised that the chilli in his pocket must have contaminated his hands, thus causing his eye to turn red after being rubbed. Mario chose to inform the teacher that he also had a headache, and maybe this had coursed his eye to turn red. 
Mario was instantly dismissed from lessons and sent to the medical room for observations and rest.

Once upstairs in the sick bay, and still with the offending chilli safely tucked in his pocket, he lay down on the bed closest to the window and gazed across the fields to where the mango trees blow with the wind. 
Mario's plan began to take shape as he was given extra Dal and Rice that night for supper.

Every once in a while Mario would hear the nurse as she began to bang and clomp her way up the stone staircase, which caused an echo that filled the silent corridors of the sick bay. Mario took this opportunity to take the chilli out of his pocket, and once again rub his eye before carefully concealing the chilli back from where it had came.

"Your eyes are still red Mario, you should rest a few more days" soon become the usual statement from the puzzled nurse. Mario thought that this was the best idea he had ever thought of, as he ate all of his favoured foods and avoided the tiresome lessons.

After a week of being marooned in the sick bay, Mario began to feel lonely as he looked across the fields towards his friends, who all played cricket and climbed the mango trees without him. Mario began to miss his companions, and he also wanted to climb the trees for the fruits once more.

The next day, the nurse was relieved to learn that Mario's unusual medical condition had miraculously healed overnight, and Mario was promptly returned to his class that very morning.

As soon as the bell rang out to put an end to the days lessons, Mario ran to climb the mango trees with his friends once again. But in his haste to reach the fruit, he slipped and fell from the highest branch of the tree, and landed with a thump on the dusty ground. 
Mario had caused extensive damaged to his hip and was rushed back to the medical room, where he laid once again. Mario felt sad as he looked across the fields to his friends as they again played without him. 
The chilli was still tucked in his pocket, but not even this couldn't help him now.

Mario was left with a permanent disability after the mango tree incident. The family returned back to their native Goa a few years later. I often stay with Mario when my travels take me back to Goa. I share my balcony with three dogs, a cat, and a small frog that lives in the plant pot.

For a person living with a disability in India, Mario's self belief has helped him to leads a full and happy life with little hindrance to his daily routine. He still smiles about the mango incident, 31 years previous. 
Usually while we're enjoying a drink and reminiscing over past adventures.

Saturday Night Market

I followed Mario back from the Saturday night market on my scooter. The evening had been sensibly spent at Ramnath's cocktail bar, where we drank cashew feni with fruit mixers. Mario helped his friend to serve the customers with the alcoholic punch, while also entertaining the regulars with light-hearted conversation. 
Mario has a natural gift with people and an ability to raise a smile from the sternest of faces. One lady asked him what 'Sex on the beach' was like, to which Mario replied 'FANTASTIC'

My job at Ramnath's place was to sit on the empty boxes at the back of the bar, and drink all of the dregs left over from the cocktail mix. Great work if you can get it.

After we had drunk all of Ramnath's profits that evening, and with our employment terminated for another week, we bid farewell and took off on the scooters in the general direction of home. 
Mario had the lead, leaving me stuck behind a truck. The HGV was attempting to overtake a heard of cattle on a blind curve in the road. Once I was around a few corners I raced passed the truck, and tried to catch up with Mario. But then disaster had already struck. 
Mario lay on the side of the road with his bike scattered and idle on the other. I rushed over towards Mario, as my alcoholic mind quickly began to sober up with apprehension. One tends to sobers up rather rapidly when faced with a potential tragedy. Mario slowly sat up strait and under a dark shadow. My friend looked up to see who had cast the shadow over him, and there stood a tall gentleman who towered into the night sky. The fellow introduced himself to me as I placed my arm around a semi-conscious Mario.

"My name is Guy and I'm a paramedic from the UK"

"This is Mario" I replied "and he's my friend"

Guy had seen the accident take place and with the natural instincts of a professional medic, stopped his taxi and came across to help a bruised Mario.

Once the pleasantries were over with, Guy began to ask Mario a series of questions like "Have you been drinking" and "Are you on medication" to which Mario answered 'yes' to both. 
Guy then held his index finger in front of Mario's face, and asked him to simply follow the digit with his eyes. The paramedic began to move his finger from side to side, as Mario watched, and concentrated, before declaring that there was indeed only one finger. 

Mario looked particularly proud with his response, but the paramedic failed to praise Mario's enthusiasm, and quickly began to complained, 

"No, no, I just want you to follow my finger, not count them"

Guy's medical advice for us was to take a taxi home, and sober up.

An Everyday Miracle

Mario had truly experienced a lucky escape after blacking-out while riding his scooter home. The fruit mixers in the cocktails were too rich for Mario's diabetes, which subsequently caused him to faint while riding the scooter that night. Once we had both realised this fact, Mario and I rapidly quashed any blame that had previously been directed towards the alcohol.

Mario decided that it is now time for him to learn how to drive a car, as the scooters were becoming far too dangerous to use on the Goan roads. 

An appointment for a medical examination was soon arranged, which caters for disabled people who wish to gain a driving licence in India, and held every four months. Mario was understandably concerned for the forth coming examination, so I agreed to accompany him for the short journey to Mapusa.

On the day of the medical test I followed Mario with my scooter, but we quickly became separated in the market town of Mapusa, which was alive and in full swing. Indians and tourists walked in every direction as they bargained for the finest foods and curios from the street traders. 

I could see Mario in the distance through the crowds of people. I wondered over towards him with both of my hands raised above my head, with the hope that Mario would recognise my whiteness amongst the energetic colours from the bazaar. An Indian chap walked past me and looked at my arms aloft, 
"Praise the Load" he declared as he passed me by.

Once reunited with Mario, we escaped the heat that beat down upon the buyers and sellers of the market, and found refuge in the building where the medical examination was due to take place.

Mario still looked slightly anxious, as we sat amongst twenty other guys who were all waited quietly for the test to begin. The doctor walked into the room with a clip board and a lethargic attitude. 

Mario was sent to have a x-ray of his knee. This surprised Mario as his hip was the cause of his disability, but with Mario not belonging to the medical profession, he chose to refrain from interfering. 

Mario followed another Indian chap to the x-ray room, as he also required to a scan. 
As they both walked along the corridor, the chap began to tell Mario that he required a medical for a driving licence, and this was essential for his new job. He wanted to work as a 'heavy goods vehicle' operator for a local construction company. 

Once they had arrived at the x-ray room, the doctor asked the Indian chap to remove his trousers and belt, at which point his wooden leg fell to the floor with a loud thump. The doctor looked unfazed as the wooden leg lay abandoned on the floor, and proceeded to give the legless Indian a pass certificate, once of course, he had picked up his leg and dusted it clean.

Indian roads follow an unorganised chaos with only one real rule, to use your horn as a way of communicating and as often as possible. If a vehicle turns onto the road and you meet with an accident, it's your fault if you fail to sound your horn and warn the other fellow of your presents.

The doctor was now dealing with a man with a hearing impediment, and who could only lip-read.

So with this in mind the doctor covered his mouth with the palm of his hand, and proceeded to ask the hard hearing guy a few simple questions. The deaf patient was unable to see the doctor's lips move and failed to answer or even acknowledge that he was being spoken to.

The doctor then removed his hand which covered his mouth, and began to explain to the chap that he would now stand directly behind him and clap his hands. The doctor asked the guy to raise his arm once he could hear the sound of clapping. The deaf patient moved his eyes from side to side in a vain attempt of anticipating the doctor's movement, as he stood behind and clapped his hands three times. The patient consequently failed to raise his hand in recognition to the doctor's applause.

The doctor's next move was to stand at one side of the patient, who could now slightly see the consultant out of the corner of his eye. Once more the doctor brought his hands together, but this time he only simulated the clapping of his hands and failed to make any distinctive sound. The deaf man proudly raised his left arm, and like the fellow with the wooden leg that had fallen to the ground, he also passed the test.

After examining the x-ray of Mario's knee, the doctor confirmed that the knee was in fine condition. 

Mario too was declared fit to drive.

Everybody who attended the medical that morning left with a 'pass certificate'

Surely this was a miracle beyond biblical standards.

"My name is Jesus, sir"

A celebration was requested by Mario, after successfully completing the state medical examination. 

We decided to take a taxi to a small casino at the south of Goa, with the faint hope of wining a few rupees.

With the venue of the casino being held at a luxurious hotel, I began to cut away the tatty frayed ends from my cord trousers. I love my cords, but they had begun to grow dread-locks which aimlessly followed my flip flops around. Mario also decided to up his game for the night ahead, and gave his best sandals a good spit and polish.

We asked for one more miracles that day, as we got ourselves ready for the five star experience. 
We simply wanted to be admitted into the casino and allowed to participate with all of the fun. 
We wanted the whole gambling experience.

We took the sensible precautions for the taxi ride to the casino. I emptied out half the contents from a coca-cola bottle and passed it to Mario, who refilled the bottle with a local brandy. Once our taxi journey had begun, Mario had a genius idea, and borrowed a couple of glasses and a bag of ice from a local bar.

The journey in the taxi took a hour, which also happened to be the same amount of time it took for us both to finish our drinks. Unfortunately though, with the Goan roads not being renowned for their smoothness, we spilt most of our drinks as we tried to top up our glasses along the way. 
We arrived at the casino, with both of us smelling like we'd finished a tour of the local Honey bee Brewery. Mario and I began to fear rejection as we entered into the palatial hotel.

Our preparations were however rewarded, as Mario and myself were allowed to freely stroll towards the casino. We made a bee line for the bar.
The barman asked us both what we would like to drink, as we occupied the vacant stools closest to the bar. With Mario being the sociable type, he asked the name of the bar-tender before ordering our drinks.

"Jesus, sir" came the polite response from the young trainee.

"OK then" began Mario "We'll have a bottle of water and see what you can do"

The end...

This second tale is from Calcutta, and Tells the story of Norman Benjamin.

Norman Benjamin

Being able to return to the magical and mystical land of India, gave me a fantastic feeling.

Once of couse, you have suffered the pain of completing the relevant Visa application forms, not forgetting to find a photographer who can print the 50cm x 50cm photos that are required for your Visa form, oh, and then have to struggle through the Airport, whilst dealing with pointless obstacles and meaningless bureaucracy, until you finally fall out of the Airport, and onto the dusty streets of India...

Oh yes, and its all there, right in front of you. This is an amazing place, Its a place that makes you feel like saying ´who cares which side of the road we drive on´ and ´I can still look good with dreadlocks at forty´,  Yes, its a truly magical place where anything is possible.

Before I travel back to Asia in a few days time, my mind begins to think back, with previous adventures and tales of India. One such story that I would like to share, is all about a man called Norman Benjamin, and takes place in Calcutta. 

The story begins at a small Tea-stall on a Wednesday afternoon, just a short walk away from Sudder Street.

Norman Benjamin

As I sat there, watching the afternoon bustle of the Indian streets pass me by, I couldn´t help but think about how peaceful I felt, especially in such a heavily populated and polluted city.

I had a small clay cup of masala chai in one hand, and a firm grip of my back-pack with the other, as I exchanged pleasantries with my fellow chai drinkers that sat around me.

I was at a small tea-stall, trying to blend in with some local guys, and mingle with the culture.

The afternoon heat had drained all motivation from the day. So I had decided to relax at the tea stall, and carry on chatting with the locals. After all, this seemed like a sensible option.

Another tea was soon ordered, and I began to make conversation with a small fella, who had just sat next to me.

The little fella´s name turned out to be Norman Benjamin, and after happily exchanging witty stories with him for an hour or so, while also discussing topics such as Indian Politics, the Muslim faith, and the X Factor, I soon realised that Norman Benjamin was my new friend.

The tea drinking continued until Norman suggested we move to his place, as his wife would make some dinner for us.

Everything seemed perfect, so I took hold of my bag and followed Norman out of the tea stall, and onto the busy streets of Calcutta.

The journey to Norman´s home.

Norman had quite a pace for a 65 year old man, as he gracefully waltzed his way in between pedestrians and stray dogs. He also had time as he skipped along,  to constantly turn around and remind me to watch my step.

"So what music do the kids in Goa listen too?" asked Norman, as he skilfully avoided two crows fighting over a cowpat, and an old woman carrying her washing.

"I have some music with me Norman, I can play you some later if you like. Its by a guy called Prem Joshua, He´s quite popular in Goa"

"I have something special for you also, when we get back" promised Norman. Then he smiled, and danced off along in front of me.

Norman´s favourite phrase was `Don´t worry, chicken curry` and he would use this phrase tirelessly, and for most situations.

"How long till we arrive Norman, do you think?" I began to ask, as the day-light had nearly disappeared, and we had been walking for a good hour or so by now.

"Don´t worry, chicken curry, we´ll stop at this Muslim shop here and buy some bread for dinner, then it´s just a short hop along the train tracks, and back home"

Norman continued to happily bustle his way to the front of the queue at the bread shop, leaving me standing there, in the middle of the street, looking like twelve noon half struck.

"What do you mean? Train track? Norman?... where?" I mumbled in a confused mannor.

But Norman, having got the bread from the Muslim´s, just laughed at my questions, and said "follow me" with an excited tone to his voice.

We happily talked along, as we progressed on what had become less of a stroll, and more of a quest to reach Norman´s house. Norman asked questions about England, like "Have you been in a London Taxi?" and "Why has England such a poor Cricketing team?"

I had no answer for our National Cricketing fiasco, but I could tell Norman about my trip in a London Taxi, and the fake fivers that the driver had tried to give me.

This cheered up Norman, but not that he needed cheering up, as he was still jumping around like a Jack Russel in season. Norman then began to pick up the pace once more.

We drew closer to the train lines which had now become visible, between some distant shacks and overgrown bushes that lay ahead. Some of the shacks had lights shining bright from within, as the time was fast approaching seven, and the day was almost done.

Norman lead me down a small dark alley, with a few shacks to either side, then between a couple of bushes, and finally onto the main train line that entered into the heart of Calcutta.

Off the Rails.

We were without a moon in the sky that night. But this was just a small issue. In fact the only light pollution present to guide us along our journey, was donated from the shacks that lay along side the track.

I stood still for a moment, as Norman began to skip across the sleepers towards central Calcutta.

I looked down at my flip-flop´s and dirty toes, and then back up towards Norman, who had stopped skipping by now, having become aware of my hesitance.

I reminded myself that even great explorers have their off days, and so with the limited amount of light available, and the increasing possibility of the Rajasthan Express coming along at any moment, I began to stumble over the first few sleepers.

"What do we do if a train comes Norman?" I asked, almost as if I didn´t really want to know the answer.

"Don´t worry, Chicken curry" came the familiar response from my host,

"If there is a train coming from Calcutta, you stand on the left hand side track" he explained.

"So where will you be standing?" I quickly enquired.

"Ha Ha, with you" laughed Norman, as I slowly began to catch up with him.

"So if there is a train going to Calcutta, then we should go on the right hand line?" I shouted.

"That's it, you've got it!"

I thought for a moment, while taking the time not to stumble over anymore sleepers, and keep a close look over my shoulder for the Rajasthan Express, and then I asked Norman the obvious question.

"So what happens if two trains come at once?"    ....   "Norman?"

Norman stopped and turned to face me, and then said with a calm smile "we stand in between both tracks"

I looked at Norman, I trusted his face, I felt the warmth from his eyes, but the only thing I could think to say to my new friend was "you´re having a bubble aren´t you! Stand between two bleeding trains! Its pitch black!"

But what more could Norman say, except "Don´t worry, chicken curry"

By the side of the rail track, amongst the rubbish and overgrowth, there lay a couple of make shift carts. These carts had been made by the local people who lived next to the Train track, and designed to use on the rail lines. (when no trains are coming, obviously)

They would pop their home-made-cart on the track, and either by using a bamboo cane, or a house brick, or whatever came to hand, they would simply push their way along the train track, and commute to and from the neighbour´s house.

I remember thinking that we should rent one of these carts, or at least pinch one. But before I could bring my idea to the attention of Norman, he was ecstatically pointing over to his Home, Which stood on a small hill, and surrounded be three train lines.

Inside Normans home.

I could not believe my eyes, as I stepped away from the train track, and up the dozen or so steps that separated Norman´s House from one of India´s busiest rail lines.

Norman´s home was made of mud and clay. An estate agent would view the property as,

"A one room dwelling that boasts a small back garden, with close rail connections and no real neighbours."

But they would forget to mention the three train tracks that transforms Norman´s house into a round a bout for the Indian Rail Networks, or the pile of shit in the back garden.

Every ten minuets a train would whizz past the front door, with a vibration that shock the foundations of the house, and flickered the flame of the candle.

Norman was proud of his home, and his wife. He was happy with life and extremely generous with his soul. Although his house was falling down, and that he risked his life on the train tracks every time he went to the shops, Norman remained totally optimistic with life.

I played my music for the family, which I´d promised earlier that day, and soon began to understand how important this was for Norman.

With no power source to his property, and only candles for light, the chance to listen to music for Norman and his wife was priceless.

I listened to my new friend, as he told me stories of Goa during the Sixty's, and the freedom that they had enjoyed as kids. He reminisced tales of love and dreams.

That night, we listened to Madness, Bob Marley, which Norman sang along with, and Prem Joshua, which then reminded Norman about his earlier promise to me.

Norman jumped up from the floor like a teenager on speed, and went over to the only drawer in the house, from which he took a matchbox and brought over for me. I looked at Norman, as he rested back down on the floor beside his wife, and began once again to fidget.

I opened the matchbox, and smiled at Norman.

"That Charis is from Burma and is the best" said Norman. And I believed him.

We listened to music until the battery was dead and the computer said "no".

Norman lit another candle and placed it on the floor between us. His good Lady had gone to sleep by this time, in the corner of the room, and the whole place held an aroma of natural incense.

My time with Norman had been short, and very memorable.

His inner peace was deep, and order of life simple.

I´m sure I once read a book by the Dalai Lama about a similar subject.

The end...