Vamos a la playa!

Sunday finally was the day on which Jackie got off the coach, almost straight to the beach! For a 'child of the sea' like me, of course, this was some serious fun. Colva Beach, here I am! Luckily I wasn't too tired after 15 hours of travelling, so after I had again found myself a perfect little hotel and had lunch, I put on my bikini, a shirt and sarong on top of it and hurried to the beach. Right - may the sun be with me!

But, as I wrote before, not everything goes according to plan or hopes. I had not been lying there yet for a full second before at least five local women were forming a circle around me. They all wanted to sell me saris, jewellery and henna tattoos. 'Damn,' I thought (an expression often used by one of my uncles - probably the most travelled one!), 'Here I am, after a month of waiting finally relaxing on the beach, and then this happens.' While 'f*** off!' might have been printed on my face, I thanked the women in simplified English, smiling sweetly at them for offering me their products and services and asking them politely to leave me in peace. 'Mehdehm is ty-ret,' one said cheekily. Yes, very tired indeed!

Fortunately, Jackie Turbo batteries quickly recharge when there is a sun, sea and beach, so at the end of the day I felt like an incredibly happy human being again.

The Ministries of Silly Bureaucracies

I do not know why, but there are two offices in India which are better avoided: the post office and the train tickets reservations office. Lucky me had to face both in one day. It was hell.

Even though sending a letter from Mumbai is fairly straightforward (you go to the first desk for checking the weight and thereby the costs, to the second desk to buy the stamps and to the third desk to have the stamps stamped), sending a parcel from Margoa is slightly more complicated. The parcel had already been made in Mumbai (all wrapped in linen and sewn together), so I was in good spirits when I entered the post office. Of course, it was crowded, but as no-one was waiting in front of the parcels desk (which should have warned me, really) I thought I was going to be lucky this time. Smiling as friendly as I could, I handed my parcel to the assistant. It did not help; it was returned to me on the spot. I stared back at her in surprise (my overdeveloped mimicking makes a study of Hindi, Sanskrit or any other impossible language redundant) and asked what was wrong. It turned out that the parcel had partly been left open. That was right, for I had been told in Mumbai that this was necessary in case they would have to check what was inside the parcel. 'Yes,' was the reply, 'but this is Margoa and the control system is not as strict over here as in Mumbai, so you will have to find someone who can close your parcel. You may find someone who can do that for you at the market. And ehr… thanks very much!'

I went in search of the market and even found someone: a shoemaker did the job. He has sewn the parcel manually (a sewing machine or stapler would have been a lot quicker, I thought, but I am in India and people are a lot cheaper than machines over here, so unfortunately the 'maximum efficiency programs' which I have developed over the past few years will not work here). Very pleased with myself because I had got this all done within half an hour, I walked back to the post office. Luckily, the parcel was accepted this time. I put it on the scales and filled in two forms. That was quickly done (name, address and content of the parcel, and it was ready to go!). But then the next joke presented itself: glue. Oh no, not that awful glue again! I had not brought any glue with me and so I had to go and find some. Fortunately, the assistant realized this was silly bureaucracy at its worst and lent me a dirty little pot of sludge. Do you remember the sort of glue you used in kindergarten? At least you could wash that one off, even though it would not stick to anything, apart from your clothes and fingers. Well, that is the type of glue they use over here. I went on with the job, while another assistant started putting stamps on the parcel. After some five minutes all my fingers were glued together and the form was securely glued to the parcel (there was not a tiny little corner that would come off!). The amount for the stamps was 795 rupees. And guess what? I received 10 stamps of 79 rupees and 1 of 5 rupees. I could not make it up if I wanted to. Why not just 7 stamps of 100 and 1 of 95 rupees? I thought I was going mad. Thanks to the perseverance of a Bouter the 11 stamps were all on the parcel after some extra ten minutes and I was covered in glue from head to toe. Mission one accomplished!

On to the next venture: the station. It seemed so simple: you complete a form, including your train number, destination, type of class you wish to travel on, your name, your gender, your age and, if you are a foreigner, also your home address (It is really very interesting for them to know that you are from 's-Gravenzande in The Netherlands!). All these data are entered into a computer and - pop! - your reservation rolls off the printer in the form of a train ticket. At least that's the theory. Now the reality: The inhabitants of this country do not know what a queue is. So, five, ten or more of them will stand in front of one desk. Everyone claims to know exactly when it is their own turn to go to the desk, but so do I, and that is lucky, for I am 5'8'' and they are usually not taller than 5'2''. Unfortunately, in most cases their families include a minimum of ten members and before their reservations are ready… Also, they blindly make their reservations and so they often have to cancel these again. This has to be done at the same desk where the reservation was made initially. That is why you have to wait for at least an hour. Varicose veins and a foul mood are the result. It is a good thing that the temperature in these offices is normally thirty degrees Celsius and that the people do not exactly smell like violets, she said sarcastically… so, when you finally receive your ticket you feel like a real hero!/p>