With the hospital ordeal a fading but unwelcome memory, I was beginning to feel like Lara Croft, ever alert for the next potential threat or challenge. It finally came when Giles mooted the idea that, at some point, during our time in Goa, I might like to try driving – seeing as within a couple of weeks I would be making the school run – a twenty minute drive up to Old Goa. I balked, panicked and went into shut down mode.
Now, I like to think that I am pretty adaptable and, on some occasions, quite brave but driving in Goa had me literally quaking in my sparkly flip flops. If you are familiar with ‘The Wacky Races’ you will have some idea of what it means to drive in Goa. As my new friend Faye put it – ‘Driving in Goa is like playing a video game, you have to survive the obstacles on each drive in order to get to the next level’ (or live!) The traffic system flows here, it is an organic process that follows an unwritten code – as long as you don’t cause an accident, pretty much anything goes. The road does not merely belong to cars, but trucks, people, cows and, of course, motorbikes/scooters. Now, this is where I feel that the television advertising authority has made a mistake – they show countless adverts of rugged men, hurtling fearlessly on their motorbikes through rain, hurricanes, natural disasters and coming through it all with a smirk and a simpering, beautiful girl waiting at the other end – the problem is every male on a bike literally thinks that he is living the dream – they race through traffic, swerving around pedestrians, buses and animals whilst pouting meaningfully, and more often than not, texting on their state of the art mobile phones. Motorbikes are not just for the boys though; entire families – sometimes as many as six people - are on a bike, workers use them to transport furniture, carpets, anything really and then there are the girls who putter carefully at five miles an hour, adjusting their hair and examining their nails regardless of the chaos surrounding them.
Ok, that’s the bikes dealt with, now the animals. As cows are sacred here, they are given the freedom of the roads. They lay across two lanes of traffic, merely blinking at the cacophony of beeping horns around them They feed their young on roundabouts and play chicken with any vehicle regardless of size or speed. So, it is the driver’s responsibility to avoid a cow at all costs in spite of the consequences of their actions. It is the dogs however that cause me the greatest concern. With thoughts of Ellie still very much on my mind, I find the dog situation in Goa quite difficult to deal with. The majority of dogs are looked after but there are lots of strays, who, with the lack of tourists to give them titbits are starving and making more desperate attempts to reach a food supply. They trot along roadsides, leaping out in front of unsuspecting drivers who are concentrating fiercely on getting through their journey in one piece. Most dogs survive, some don’t – and this fills me with sadness.
So, now it was my turn to take up the gauntlet. Giles had been driving an ancient little white car called a ‘Zen’ and as I took my place in the driver’s seat, I felt anything but calm. I started the car, reversed carefully into the lane and reached the main road. Sigh of relief, so far, so good. I had driven about 100 metres. As I got on the main road, I noticed that Giles was very quiet, clutching the sides of his seat, white knuckles already showing. A glance in the rear view mirror confirmed that the children were silently sliding on their seatbelts – I thought ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence guys.’ However, I am pleased to say that my first drive was a success – I negotiated the obstacles with flair, shrieking once or twice, and only causing the children to scream once. All good.
My pleasure at this first attempt provoked Giles to announce that I now needed my own car. So, one blazing hot Saturday, we piled into the car and visited a succession of glossy car showrooms. The places were air conditioned the salesmen attentive but the cars felt sterile. There was no car that was ‘me’. We went into Panjim, Giles becoming more and more dispirited with his high maintenance wife when I saw her. My car. She was perched on the edge of a second hand car showroom, a princess amongst peasants and I knew this was the car I was meant to have. That moment from ‘Transformers’ – ‘The driver don’t pick the car, the car picks the driver. It’s a mystical bond between man and machine’ - filled my head and I begged Giles to pull over. It was Sam Witwicky and Bumblebee all over again – except this time the car was … pink. Giles groaned in despair whilst Fuff bounced gleefully on the backseat, ‘We’ve got to get it Daddy, it’s a Barbie car.’ Holly rolled her eyes and slunk down further into the seat, obviously having visions of me taking her to school in a very pink, very cute car. Giles made us drive by three times before giving in to the assorted cries from me, Fuff and Oscar who also seemed to find the pink car strangely compelling.
Once I sat in her. I couldn’t have been more excited if I had found an Autobot symbol on her steering wheel. The salesman, Kamlesh, beamed throughout the test drive, he knew the car was already sold and Giles’ objections from the backseat fell on deaf ears as Kamlesh and I grinned at each other in perfect accord. Of course, to me she was wonderful, but as a second hand car, she had some faults which needed repairing before I could pick her up. Meanwhile, I practiced in the ‘Zen’, only eliciting squeaks instead of screams from the kids whilst I waited.
Giles videoed the moment where Kamlesh finally handed over the keys and it is difficult to tell who is happier – Kamlesh for making a sale or me for getting my very own pink car. However, this euphoria was about to dissipate in a rather dramatic way. I had made the school run three or four times, feeling more confident with every trip. The road to the school is a hazardous one and you have to keep your wits about you as trucks and scooters tend to veer off in unexpected directions with no given warning.
I had dropped the children off and was about a quarter of the way home, when a large thumping noise reverberated through the car. Understandably worried, I pulled to the side of the road and assessed the cause – a flat tyre – on the only part of the road that had absolutely nothing in either direction for a couple of miles. First call, husband, who calmly told me to ring the repair guy and wait in the car. This was all fine, well and good until I phoned the repair guy and discovered he couldn’t speak any English and so had no idea who I was, why I was calling or where I was calling from. Feeling increasingly frustrated, I phoned Giles again, who told me that he would ring the repair guy, then ring me back. I sat in the car - the sun blazing down, no water, no air conditioning – and waited and waited. My phone sat, silent and black on the dashboard. With various curses running through my head, I was jolted out of my reverie by a huge iron ore truck thundering past me from Maharastra – my pink car wobbled alarmingly so I got out. This did not improve the situation as the moment my feet hit the dirt, leaves started rustling, things started slithering and I swear I was being watched.
Finally my phone buzzed on the dashboard, I snatched it up eagerly, desperate for some news of rescue. Giles informed me that the guy was on his way and would be there in 15 minutes (Goa time – at least thirty!!!) So I stood, rooted to the spot, hoping that lack of movement would not attract the predators a hairs breadth from my position. When the guy arrived, I am surprised he didn’t just find a puddle of melted me, recognisable only through sequins and glittery accessories. After changing the tyre, he informed me that the tyre he had put on was also flat and I would have to follow him into Panjim to the garage. Not thinking about anything except getting the car repaired and getting home, I followed him into the labyrinthine backstreets of Goa’s major city.
After about 15 minutes, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was and I was following a stranger to a place I didn’t know. Suddenly, my impulse to trust the smile of the repair guy seemed foolish indeed and all the serial killer thrillers I had read began to replay in my head. How often I had I shouted at the blonde bimbette not to follow the guy into the abandoned garage/warehouse/hospital ?! And here I was, making all the same mistakes ! It was with some relief that I saw him pull into a roadside garage – well, a room on the side of the road with garage equipment in it. He motioned to where I should park, smiled and told me he had to get back to work. What ??!! I was alone, in unknown territory, with several men who spoke very limited English. It took two hours to fix the tyre as in Goa, people turn up and expect to be served straight away, I however waited my turn, using the time to my advantage as I raged at everything and everyone involved in this mess. So the car was fixed, I was angry and the drive home tested my driving capabilities to the limit.
But now, my love affair with the little pink car is re-established (I have forgiven her for that minor hiccup – we all feel flat sometimes!) I cruise around the streets of Calangute and Candolim, loving the bemused stares from fellow drivers as I channel my inner Lady Penelope and explore this land that is now my home …
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Bad Medicine
There we were, safely housed in our new bling mansion – relishing the ‘Posh and Beckness’ of it all. Although, I have previously stated that neutrals do not play a part in the Goan consciousness – our new home was designed in tandem with a Belgian couple and as such, they have taken the European love of all things beige/grey/slate to a whole new level, even the furnishings blend in with the walls ! Having said that, they have, unavoidably, revealed a subconscious connection with early Elton John – big glitzy pictures adorn every wall and gilt edged mirrors reflect whatever you are doing, wherever you are doing it.
So, so far so good. The kids were enjoying the freedom of a secure, rubble free environment and we had relaxed due to the fact that our children were not going to encounter toxic materials on their travels – just friendly security guards. I was slightly surprised by the level of service, our complex comes equipped with a manager – the gentle, unassuming Luciano – as well as a collection of cleaners, gardeners and general workers. On our arrival to the complex, we were greeted by the warm smile of the housekeeper – what I should have realised that that smile contained the remnants of previous guests who didn’t toe the line! We were presented with a book of rules and regulations – fairly standard practice for rentals – but our housekeeper followed/follows that book like a bible. Each sentence, each word has been scrutinised with the fervour of a true zealot so when we came to do the inventory of the house, needless to say, we had to go through everything, right down to the last teaspoon. As most of the owners only use the villas surrounding us as holiday homes, she has had the biggest collection of doll’s houses to play with that you can imagine, it only becomes difficult when annoying people like us ruin her carefully structured perfection.
When the container arrived, it was a time of great celebration. Not only was everything intact, but having our own stuff around us made the place feel more like home. Unfortunately our housekeeper did not feel the same way – she regarded our furniture, pictures and trinkets with contempt – suddenly I felt like Rebecca living under the watchful eye of an Indian Mrs Danvers who viewed everything we had, every move we made with subtle, but palpable, disdain.
Over zealous housekeepers aside, we were excited and eager to start living here. I know that sounds strange, but up until now, Goa had been a place of holidays or over the past few days, a place of chaos. We decided to celebrate by cooking our first meal in the shiny, new kitchen. I collected an assortment of Thai spices from the market and Giles picked up some fresh prawns from the local fish seller. Everything was brilliant, the house was filled with beautiful aromas, the food was excellent and we congratulated ourselves on (another!) new start. We should have remembered the old adage ‘Pride comes before a fall’ because the following morning, I was feeling really unwell. I put it down to unfamiliar food or water but as the day progressed, I got worse and had to go to bed. I foolishly thought that a good night’s sleep would put me right.
How wrong I was. By the following afternoon, I was crunched in agony on the sofa and Giles saw no other option than to take me to the local hospital. Before I continue, I should explain that this is a local Church funded hospital, set amidst lush trees and fields – the bottom floor is the hospital, the second floor is a convent where the nuns, who double up as nurses on the evening shift, live. So I was wheeled into the emergency room – a small room filled with rows of plastic chairs and a huge, sparkly shrine containing a life sized baby Jesus – in order to wait for the doctor. Seeing my pain, the nurse on duty wasted no time, she ushered me through a curtain that would have been acceptable in the 1950’s, to see the doctor. His small, wrinkled brown face look concerned as he saw my condition, he gently examined me, poking and prodding to establish the problem before announcing – ‘She has to be admitted.’ Even in my less than lucid state, I saw the children’s faces fill with fear and Giles’ confusion. ‘What do you mean ?’ asked Giles, ‘Why does she have to stay here ? How serious is this ? Can’t we give her something and take her home where she can be comfortable ?’ The doctor refused to entertain any idea of me being allowed home and began to ask his own questions about how long I had been feeling like this and what I had eaten. Giles volunteered that we had eaten a prawn curry, to which the doctor nodded sagely ‘And you removed the intestinal tract before eating ?’ he questioned. Giles paled – in the UK, the majority of prawns are ready prepared however, in Goa, you buy them in a market where they are slung into a plastic bag in more or less the same shape as they left the river/sea. Unfortunately, what Giles didn’t realise was that he had selected river prawns which feed off all the assorted gunk that gets thrown in the water (use your imagination and make it worse!) so you have to remove the tract before eating. At this point, I slumped back on the examining table – Giles had poisoned me again and this time it was serious. (Giles has had a habit of serving me fish which has left me, no one else, quite ill – should I be worried ?!) The doctor continued by saying that I would have to stay in hospital for at least 48 hours and I would have to be given a selection of intravenous drugs to counteract the poison flowing through my system. I sighed, an assortment of intravenous drugs was definitely the best offer I had had all day and I meekly followed the nurse next door where she filled two of the biggest syringes I have ever seen with medication. As the huge needles came towards me, I prayed to the Lord, who was literally above me on a beautiful cross nailed to the wall, that it wouldn’t hurt, but it did.
Moments later, I was laid in an air conditioned room, cursing my fate but also incredibly glad that this was happening to me, not one of the children. It only takes one rogue prawn and all bets are off, thank God it was my plate that it ended up on. I was scared, away from home, away from my family (‘Doctor’ Bird (my Mum!) is on call 24 hours a day and there is very little that she doesn’t know about the medical world !) and I was worried about the children – as a mother, they almost expect you to be invincible, not laid low by evil shellfish, I didn’t want them to be upset, but that was an unfulfilled wish.
As Giles led a tearful Sophie and Oscar away to get some food, Holly stayed with me. Her caring, positive presence, the whispering habits of the nuns and the watercolour of Jesus hung above the bed combined to soothe me and within minutes I was asleep. The healing process was under way and time was marked by the quiet arrival of the staff who checked my condition constantly.
Under the excellent care of the nurses, who administered more drugs and drips than I could count, I was home in 48 hours. Paler, thinner and not so pleased with Giles’ prawn preparation – but well. The children were all delighted, especially Holly, who had stayed with me throughout ‘the prawn ordeal’ and as we drove back through the leafy lanes of Goa, I wondered what other challenges would be sent our way. I hoped, whatever they were, that they would give me a couple of days and then I would be ready to tackle them again. I also would like to mention, it was some time before I let Giles near the kitchen and my relationship with prawns of any persuasion is, regrettably, over.
So, so far so good. The kids were enjoying the freedom of a secure, rubble free environment and we had relaxed due to the fact that our children were not going to encounter toxic materials on their travels – just friendly security guards. I was slightly surprised by the level of service, our complex comes equipped with a manager – the gentle, unassuming Luciano – as well as a collection of cleaners, gardeners and general workers. On our arrival to the complex, we were greeted by the warm smile of the housekeeper – what I should have realised that that smile contained the remnants of previous guests who didn’t toe the line! We were presented with a book of rules and regulations – fairly standard practice for rentals – but our housekeeper followed/follows that book like a bible. Each sentence, each word has been scrutinised with the fervour of a true zealot so when we came to do the inventory of the house, needless to say, we had to go through everything, right down to the last teaspoon. As most of the owners only use the villas surrounding us as holiday homes, she has had the biggest collection of doll’s houses to play with that you can imagine, it only becomes difficult when annoying people like us ruin her carefully structured perfection.
When the container arrived, it was a time of great celebration. Not only was everything intact, but having our own stuff around us made the place feel more like home. Unfortunately our housekeeper did not feel the same way – she regarded our furniture, pictures and trinkets with contempt – suddenly I felt like Rebecca living under the watchful eye of an Indian Mrs Danvers who viewed everything we had, every move we made with subtle, but palpable, disdain.
Over zealous housekeepers aside, we were excited and eager to start living here. I know that sounds strange, but up until now, Goa had been a place of holidays or over the past few days, a place of chaos. We decided to celebrate by cooking our first meal in the shiny, new kitchen. I collected an assortment of Thai spices from the market and Giles picked up some fresh prawns from the local fish seller. Everything was brilliant, the house was filled with beautiful aromas, the food was excellent and we congratulated ourselves on (another!) new start. We should have remembered the old adage ‘Pride comes before a fall’ because the following morning, I was feeling really unwell. I put it down to unfamiliar food or water but as the day progressed, I got worse and had to go to bed. I foolishly thought that a good night’s sleep would put me right.
How wrong I was. By the following afternoon, I was crunched in agony on the sofa and Giles saw no other option than to take me to the local hospital. Before I continue, I should explain that this is a local Church funded hospital, set amidst lush trees and fields – the bottom floor is the hospital, the second floor is a convent where the nuns, who double up as nurses on the evening shift, live. So I was wheeled into the emergency room – a small room filled with rows of plastic chairs and a huge, sparkly shrine containing a life sized baby Jesus – in order to wait for the doctor. Seeing my pain, the nurse on duty wasted no time, she ushered me through a curtain that would have been acceptable in the 1950’s, to see the doctor. His small, wrinkled brown face look concerned as he saw my condition, he gently examined me, poking and prodding to establish the problem before announcing – ‘She has to be admitted.’ Even in my less than lucid state, I saw the children’s faces fill with fear and Giles’ confusion. ‘What do you mean ?’ asked Giles, ‘Why does she have to stay here ? How serious is this ? Can’t we give her something and take her home where she can be comfortable ?’ The doctor refused to entertain any idea of me being allowed home and began to ask his own questions about how long I had been feeling like this and what I had eaten. Giles volunteered that we had eaten a prawn curry, to which the doctor nodded sagely ‘And you removed the intestinal tract before eating ?’ he questioned. Giles paled – in the UK, the majority of prawns are ready prepared however, in Goa, you buy them in a market where they are slung into a plastic bag in more or less the same shape as they left the river/sea. Unfortunately, what Giles didn’t realise was that he had selected river prawns which feed off all the assorted gunk that gets thrown in the water (use your imagination and make it worse!) so you have to remove the tract before eating. At this point, I slumped back on the examining table – Giles had poisoned me again and this time it was serious. (Giles has had a habit of serving me fish which has left me, no one else, quite ill – should I be worried ?!) The doctor continued by saying that I would have to stay in hospital for at least 48 hours and I would have to be given a selection of intravenous drugs to counteract the poison flowing through my system. I sighed, an assortment of intravenous drugs was definitely the best offer I had had all day and I meekly followed the nurse next door where she filled two of the biggest syringes I have ever seen with medication. As the huge needles came towards me, I prayed to the Lord, who was literally above me on a beautiful cross nailed to the wall, that it wouldn’t hurt, but it did.
Moments later, I was laid in an air conditioned room, cursing my fate but also incredibly glad that this was happening to me, not one of the children. It only takes one rogue prawn and all bets are off, thank God it was my plate that it ended up on. I was scared, away from home, away from my family (‘Doctor’ Bird (my Mum!) is on call 24 hours a day and there is very little that she doesn’t know about the medical world !) and I was worried about the children – as a mother, they almost expect you to be invincible, not laid low by evil shellfish, I didn’t want them to be upset, but that was an unfulfilled wish.
As Giles led a tearful Sophie and Oscar away to get some food, Holly stayed with me. Her caring, positive presence, the whispering habits of the nuns and the watercolour of Jesus hung above the bed combined to soothe me and within minutes I was asleep. The healing process was under way and time was marked by the quiet arrival of the staff who checked my condition constantly.
Under the excellent care of the nurses, who administered more drugs and drips than I could count, I was home in 48 hours. Paler, thinner and not so pleased with Giles’ prawn preparation – but well. The children were all delighted, especially Holly, who had stayed with me throughout ‘the prawn ordeal’ and as we drove back through the leafy lanes of Goa, I wondered what other challenges would be sent our way. I hoped, whatever they were, that they would give me a couple of days and then I would be ready to tackle them again. I also would like to mention, it was some time before I let Giles near the kitchen and my relationship with prawns of any persuasion is, regrettably, over.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Ferals
When we stepped off the plane the following morning as was almost as if Goa released a breath that she had been holding until our return. The colours, textures and smells tumbled around us like treasure from a chest, inviting us to dive right in and become part of it all. With much manipulation of space and pushing, our huge suitcases were eventually crammed into two taxis and we made our way to our new house. For those of you that know us, you will know that for the weeks prior to our moving we had shown countless pictures of our new house in Britona. With walls the shade of buttermilk and an unusual indoor garden, it seemed to be a dream come true. I have lost count of the daydreams I had about the house, fairy lights twinkling whilst I prepared Thai feasts, children splashing in the pool whilst I wrote my best selling novel – well, finally we were on our way there and I couldn’t wait.
Reality however proved somewhat different. Our friend Samir had overseen the delivery of beds, fridges, TVs … whilst we were in England, so when we walked in, Samir had done his best to make it seem welcoming. But there was nowhere to sit, apart from a couple of cane chairs well past their sell by date and, quite simply, the house wasn’t finished. Workmen were scurrying about like ants, wielding an ever more disturbing array of power tools and paint pots littered the living room, making any attempt to reach the pool an obstacle course worthy of ‘The Krypton Factor.’ Giles immediately wanted us to move to Coco Shambhala, but we wouldn’t hear of it – we were here and we were staying.
Trying to ignore the installation of air conditioning currently being undertaken in the master bedroom and the muttered curses of the cleaning lady as she battled against never-ending clouds of dust from the workmen’s tools, I braved my way upstairs, dodging drills and wires to see the bedrooms. Fuff had already set out her dolls; jewellery and treasured bamboo calendar from an Irish Chinese restaurant (try to get your head around that one!) I walked out on the balcony and looked at the pool which seemed an alarming shade of blue tinged with green also it was mysteriously empty. I could hear Giles downstairs talking to the builder, demanding to know why the house wasn’t finished so I put my game face on and marched downstairs. Soothing ruffled feathers I assured him that it wasn’t so bad, we would make do – after all we have lived in worse. Giles reluctantly agreed, and later on that night, when the children were asleep, we cracked open the champagne by the side of the river, laughing and excited about our new life.
A couple of days later though, the laughter had turned to tears. As the kitchen was still a mess, we were unable to cook or use it in any way, Holly’s toilet overflowed on a regular basis and the outside pool was a poisonous pit – so full of chemicals that if you had put your hand in, you would have been lucky to have come out with bone intact. The garden contained the soak pit, which basically meant our children would have been playing above everybody else’s waste and it was covered in rubble, broken glass and empty chemical pots. Now, I am all for children having their freedom and exploring new, unfamiliar terrain – but you have to draw the line somewhere!
As building work was still ongoing, our house was used for all manner of things. One morning I got up, wandered downstairs wearing usual night attire – t-shirt and knickers, only to find two workmen stood in the living room, hooking up their tools to our electricity supply. Torn between my desire for a drink and outrage, I calmly suggested that they might want to ask permission before coming into our home and using our electricity supply. This was met with shrugs, embarrassed grins and shuffling feet, but they did not move and carried on plugging in their equipment as if I wasn’t there. I debated whether to make more of an issue of it, but, given said attire, decided this skirmish was over and retreated hastily to the bedroom in search of bigger pants, preferably ones that reached my ankles! People wandered in and out of our storeroom at will and the security guard stationed himself outside our balcony window every evening so we had no privacy at all. In fact, he became part of our existence, every conversation we had – inside or out – was enhanced by stumbling English comments from the direction of his plastic chair. It is hard to vent your frustrations when you have a small, wizened, grinning referee enjoying the match. The dream was becoming a nightmare and something had to give.
Whilst Giles and I were stressing about the state of the house, the children were loving it. The man responsible for painting and general maintenance of the properties had three children himself that lived with him and his wife on what was essentially a building site. Their children were gorgeous, beautiful smiles and eyes, but they couldn’t speak any English and, for the most part, they were allowed to run wild. They became affectionately know as ‘The Ferals’ and our children wasted no time in recruiting themselves into the feral way of life which consisted of running, screaming and hitting each other with sticks. It was like the bl**dy ‘Lord of the Flies’ outside, until Oscar revealed that he liked cricket and from then on, we had The Ashes series Britona style – England versus The Ferals. Feral cricket was fascinating – teams were quickly organised in order of feralness and then the game would commence. The rules were – well, really there were no rules. If you didn’t hit the ball, you were whacked with the plank of wood, also known as ‘the bat’ – this proved a very effective method of improving your game – when you live in fear of the bat – you hit and you run!
At the end of Day 2 in the Britona House, we had had enough. Giles entered into negotiations to release us from the contract before driving us to our real estate contact. Our mission was to find another house asap so we sat in the office, fans whirring overhead and perusing the houses on offer. There was little choice and we were starting to lose hope when Annalisa suggested a house in Sangolda. Ironically enough, it was a house that we had looked and dismissed on a February visit. I shrugged as Giles arranged a viewing, at this point; I didn’t feel that we had much to lose.
As we stepped into the cool, dim exterior of the house, we were surprised at our recollections – it was bigger, more beautiful and had every convenience known to man. After seeing the kitchen, I almost wept – it was immaculate and I wouldn’t have to negotiate with workmen, dirt or power tools to get a glass of water.There was not even a decision to make, the house in Britona, literally, was a minefield - this house had provided the answer to our prayers.
As Giles signed contracts at the office, I returned to Britona with the children and threw everything back into the suitcases with the fervour of a madwoman. Samir arrived in the taxi and again, the cases were squeezed into the back whilst the children wedged themselves into position. With a screech of tyres, we left the little yellow house behind. I didn't risk a backward glance as both the Ferals and the security guard were crying brokenly, holding out their hands as if to prevent our leaving.
And so, within three hours, we were ensconced in our very own bling palace in Sangolda …
Reality however proved somewhat different. Our friend Samir had overseen the delivery of beds, fridges, TVs … whilst we were in England, so when we walked in, Samir had done his best to make it seem welcoming. But there was nowhere to sit, apart from a couple of cane chairs well past their sell by date and, quite simply, the house wasn’t finished. Workmen were scurrying about like ants, wielding an ever more disturbing array of power tools and paint pots littered the living room, making any attempt to reach the pool an obstacle course worthy of ‘The Krypton Factor.’ Giles immediately wanted us to move to Coco Shambhala, but we wouldn’t hear of it – we were here and we were staying.
Trying to ignore the installation of air conditioning currently being undertaken in the master bedroom and the muttered curses of the cleaning lady as she battled against never-ending clouds of dust from the workmen’s tools, I braved my way upstairs, dodging drills and wires to see the bedrooms. Fuff had already set out her dolls; jewellery and treasured bamboo calendar from an Irish Chinese restaurant (try to get your head around that one!) I walked out on the balcony and looked at the pool which seemed an alarming shade of blue tinged with green also it was mysteriously empty. I could hear Giles downstairs talking to the builder, demanding to know why the house wasn’t finished so I put my game face on and marched downstairs. Soothing ruffled feathers I assured him that it wasn’t so bad, we would make do – after all we have lived in worse. Giles reluctantly agreed, and later on that night, when the children were asleep, we cracked open the champagne by the side of the river, laughing and excited about our new life.
A couple of days later though, the laughter had turned to tears. As the kitchen was still a mess, we were unable to cook or use it in any way, Holly’s toilet overflowed on a regular basis and the outside pool was a poisonous pit – so full of chemicals that if you had put your hand in, you would have been lucky to have come out with bone intact. The garden contained the soak pit, which basically meant our children would have been playing above everybody else’s waste and it was covered in rubble, broken glass and empty chemical pots. Now, I am all for children having their freedom and exploring new, unfamiliar terrain – but you have to draw the line somewhere!
As building work was still ongoing, our house was used for all manner of things. One morning I got up, wandered downstairs wearing usual night attire – t-shirt and knickers, only to find two workmen stood in the living room, hooking up their tools to our electricity supply. Torn between my desire for a drink and outrage, I calmly suggested that they might want to ask permission before coming into our home and using our electricity supply. This was met with shrugs, embarrassed grins and shuffling feet, but they did not move and carried on plugging in their equipment as if I wasn’t there. I debated whether to make more of an issue of it, but, given said attire, decided this skirmish was over and retreated hastily to the bedroom in search of bigger pants, preferably ones that reached my ankles! People wandered in and out of our storeroom at will and the security guard stationed himself outside our balcony window every evening so we had no privacy at all. In fact, he became part of our existence, every conversation we had – inside or out – was enhanced by stumbling English comments from the direction of his plastic chair. It is hard to vent your frustrations when you have a small, wizened, grinning referee enjoying the match. The dream was becoming a nightmare and something had to give.
Whilst Giles and I were stressing about the state of the house, the children were loving it. The man responsible for painting and general maintenance of the properties had three children himself that lived with him and his wife on what was essentially a building site. Their children were gorgeous, beautiful smiles and eyes, but they couldn’t speak any English and, for the most part, they were allowed to run wild. They became affectionately know as ‘The Ferals’ and our children wasted no time in recruiting themselves into the feral way of life which consisted of running, screaming and hitting each other with sticks. It was like the bl**dy ‘Lord of the Flies’ outside, until Oscar revealed that he liked cricket and from then on, we had The Ashes series Britona style – England versus The Ferals. Feral cricket was fascinating – teams were quickly organised in order of feralness and then the game would commence. The rules were – well, really there were no rules. If you didn’t hit the ball, you were whacked with the plank of wood, also known as ‘the bat’ – this proved a very effective method of improving your game – when you live in fear of the bat – you hit and you run!
At the end of Day 2 in the Britona House, we had had enough. Giles entered into negotiations to release us from the contract before driving us to our real estate contact. Our mission was to find another house asap so we sat in the office, fans whirring overhead and perusing the houses on offer. There was little choice and we were starting to lose hope when Annalisa suggested a house in Sangolda. Ironically enough, it was a house that we had looked and dismissed on a February visit. I shrugged as Giles arranged a viewing, at this point; I didn’t feel that we had much to lose.
As we stepped into the cool, dim exterior of the house, we were surprised at our recollections – it was bigger, more beautiful and had every convenience known to man. After seeing the kitchen, I almost wept – it was immaculate and I wouldn’t have to negotiate with workmen, dirt or power tools to get a glass of water.There was not even a decision to make, the house in Britona, literally, was a minefield - this house had provided the answer to our prayers.
As Giles signed contracts at the office, I returned to Britona with the children and threw everything back into the suitcases with the fervour of a madwoman. Samir arrived in the taxi and again, the cases were squeezed into the back whilst the children wedged themselves into position. With a screech of tyres, we left the little yellow house behind. I didn't risk a backward glance as both the Ferals and the security guard were crying brokenly, holding out their hands as if to prevent our leaving.
And so, within three hours, we were ensconced in our very own bling palace in Sangolda …
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Nappy Incident
So where were we? Oh yes, we were packed into a car, surrounded by suitcases, leaving our old lives behind. The house had been sold, our belongings were wending their way to Goa via Columbia and everything was focussed on the future. Any misgivings had been quietly dispelled, but, although I was excited, I was also sad to be leaving my hometown and the multitude of memories that lurked around every corner. With a grin, I settled back into the seat, enjoying my last glimpses of England’s green and pleasant land, for a while at least, whilst a trio of Gameboy Advances bleeped cheerfully in the background.
The arrival at the airport was weird. Usually, travelling with the three children means things can get ever so slightly fraught as Oscar tries to throw himself on the belt with the cases, Sophie tries on 500 hundred perfumes, nearly choking everyone within 100 metres and Holly moans about the food, the flight, her embarrassing parents … This time though, there was none of that – we were all aware that this was the start of our big adventure and, as such, wanted to enjoy it as much as possible.
Once the suitcases had trundled down the conveyor belt, we walked into the departure lounge surrounded by fellow travellers, their expressions revealing the meaning of their destination – excitement if they were returning to a home or loved one, anticipation if they were starting something new and grief at leaving loved ones behind. As I scanned these unfamiliar faces, I recognised these emotions because each one was coursing through my veins along with so many more, that to examine them would have probably undone me and my priority now was supporting my family by remaining positive. I couldn’t help my feelings and I struggled to keep things under control, but luckily Giles realised that the reality of leaving was hitting me hard and knew he had to provide a distraction for my thoughts.
Giles, ever practical, realised that, at a moment like this, only two things could help – shopping and wine. So Sophie (aka Fuff) and I were dispatched to … erm … window shop whilst Giles found a table in a nearby bar/diner. We wandered through the duty free, oohing and aahing over Gucci, Prada, Versace (Fuff is so her mother’s daughter – I do feel proud of this vital aspect up her upbringing! An appreciation for the finer things – shoes, handbags, clothes can never be undervalued…) I am pleased to report that, although there was much appreciation going on we didn’t succumb to the tantalising allure of the labels. I say we, but, I’m afraid Fuff found something that she couldn’t resist … We scooted through Harrods, finding nothing much of interest in the vast array of English memorabilia, unfortunately, Fuff heard a tinny little bark and raced off to find its source. Several minutes later, we left the shop, carrying a pristine white West Highland terrier toy that barked, flipped, walked – when it had batteries. Sophie wrestled it out of its packaging, grabbed the batteries and turned to me with pleading eyes – ‘Please Mum.’ I am very sorry to report that after an exhaustive search of the entirety of Heathrow airport, we could not locate a screwdriver and the poor pooch had to remain blessedly silent for the flight.
The majority of the flight was unremarkable – wine was drunk, food poked and rejected until about an hour before landing. Oscar had turned very pale and clutching his tummy, begged to go to the toilet. Again. And again. And again. Before we removed all the carpet from the gangway, I asked the air hostess if she had anything we could give Oscar to help him, she nodded curtly, ran to the tannoy and asked ‘Is there a doctor on board?’ I had only ever heard that phrase in films, I never imagined that one day, it would be applicable to me and my family. Within seconds, a fantastic doctor appeared, assessing Oscar gently, making him giggle in spite of his obvious discomfort. He found a packet of rehydration salts and I sat outside a toilet cubicle that had been used by 500 people over the course of nine hours, for the last few minutes of the flight, trying to make Oscar drink the equivalent of salty water. Not good at all. But my concern for Oscar outweighed the stench oozing under the toilet door and the insidious progression of a damp patch on the carpet …
As with all things in life, the situation took a more drastic turn for the worse when the air hostess calmly announced that we would have to return to our seats as we were about to begin our descent into Mumbai. Oscar grabbed onto the toilet door, refusing to move from safety whilst I was filled with horror at what the person sitting in Oscar’s seat after him would find if an accident was to occur. Trying desperately to come up with a solution, we stood debating the best course of action; store cupboards were ransacked by increasingly frustrated staff until one of them victoriously held up … a nappy. Good plan I thought until I actually examined the nappy and found that it would probably fit an incontinent Barbie doll. I looked from my tearful boy to the tiny nappy and pushed into the toilet. With much flailing of limbs and adjustments, the nappy was squashed into position. I emerged from the WC, hair askew, makeup smudged, holding Oscar who was proclaiming at the top of his lungs – ‘Why Mummy? Why? I am not a baby!’ He wrestled out of my arms, sped back to his seat and spent the remainder of the flight, wriggling uncomfortably whilst sending me scathing glances.
Needless to say, despite the obvious animosity towards both myself and the nappy, I was extremely worried about my boy and wanted to get to the hotel as soon as possible. I sat the children on a trolley, with firm orders not to move one inch, whilst Giles and I collected the cases. Glancing over my shoulder, every few seconds to assess both the whereabouts of the children (hey, Mum’s rules are often made to be broken!) and Oscar’s condition, I was amazed to see my baby boy sharing a packet of sweets with his sisters, chattering happily, no sign of the pale, wan little figure of an hour previously. Torn between laughter and astonishment at his rapid recovery, I cringed as the doctor walked past, a frown marring his forehead as he obviously reviewed my parenting skills and found the medication of sugar/e numbers seriously wanting. (At this point, I should mention I didn’t give them the sweets at the airport, they were part of the booty that the children had been given by the grandparents for the journey – the children had seized the opportunity to top up their energy because my three children and plane food do not mix well – ok, at all – so sweets prevented them from certain starvation as they saw it!) Marvelling at the resilience of children and the healing properties of strawberry laces we made it through the airport into the humid Mumbai air.
Within moments we were speeding in air conditioned luxury to our hotel. The usual sequence of events occurred – pool, food, tired crying and cold beer – that was just me – never mind the children!!!
As evening fell, we dressed and travelled to our favourite restaurant ‘Sheesha’. It is an amazing place – it sits prettily on a rooftop, every table is low and seats are scattered with patterned cushions. Moroccan lanterns dangle haphazardly from the struts in the ceiling, casting diamonds of light across the tables, candles flicker in the balmy breeze and watching the sunset from the terrace is breathtaking. As Giles enjoyed a Hookah pipe, Sophie snoozed, Oscar and Holly chattered about their day, I sipped my drink and I began to feel tension that I hadn’t known was there seep slowly from my system. This was a good way to start (nappy incident notwithstanding!) and tomorrow, tomorrow we were heading for Goa, our new home …
The arrival at the airport was weird. Usually, travelling with the three children means things can get ever so slightly fraught as Oscar tries to throw himself on the belt with the cases, Sophie tries on 500 hundred perfumes, nearly choking everyone within 100 metres and Holly moans about the food, the flight, her embarrassing parents … This time though, there was none of that – we were all aware that this was the start of our big adventure and, as such, wanted to enjoy it as much as possible.
Once the suitcases had trundled down the conveyor belt, we walked into the departure lounge surrounded by fellow travellers, their expressions revealing the meaning of their destination – excitement if they were returning to a home or loved one, anticipation if they were starting something new and grief at leaving loved ones behind. As I scanned these unfamiliar faces, I recognised these emotions because each one was coursing through my veins along with so many more, that to examine them would have probably undone me and my priority now was supporting my family by remaining positive. I couldn’t help my feelings and I struggled to keep things under control, but luckily Giles realised that the reality of leaving was hitting me hard and knew he had to provide a distraction for my thoughts.
Giles, ever practical, realised that, at a moment like this, only two things could help – shopping and wine. So Sophie (aka Fuff) and I were dispatched to … erm … window shop whilst Giles found a table in a nearby bar/diner. We wandered through the duty free, oohing and aahing over Gucci, Prada, Versace (Fuff is so her mother’s daughter – I do feel proud of this vital aspect up her upbringing! An appreciation for the finer things – shoes, handbags, clothes can never be undervalued…) I am pleased to report that, although there was much appreciation going on we didn’t succumb to the tantalising allure of the labels. I say we, but, I’m afraid Fuff found something that she couldn’t resist … We scooted through Harrods, finding nothing much of interest in the vast array of English memorabilia, unfortunately, Fuff heard a tinny little bark and raced off to find its source. Several minutes later, we left the shop, carrying a pristine white West Highland terrier toy that barked, flipped, walked – when it had batteries. Sophie wrestled it out of its packaging, grabbed the batteries and turned to me with pleading eyes – ‘Please Mum.’ I am very sorry to report that after an exhaustive search of the entirety of Heathrow airport, we could not locate a screwdriver and the poor pooch had to remain blessedly silent for the flight.
The majority of the flight was unremarkable – wine was drunk, food poked and rejected until about an hour before landing. Oscar had turned very pale and clutching his tummy, begged to go to the toilet. Again. And again. And again. Before we removed all the carpet from the gangway, I asked the air hostess if she had anything we could give Oscar to help him, she nodded curtly, ran to the tannoy and asked ‘Is there a doctor on board?’ I had only ever heard that phrase in films, I never imagined that one day, it would be applicable to me and my family. Within seconds, a fantastic doctor appeared, assessing Oscar gently, making him giggle in spite of his obvious discomfort. He found a packet of rehydration salts and I sat outside a toilet cubicle that had been used by 500 people over the course of nine hours, for the last few minutes of the flight, trying to make Oscar drink the equivalent of salty water. Not good at all. But my concern for Oscar outweighed the stench oozing under the toilet door and the insidious progression of a damp patch on the carpet …
As with all things in life, the situation took a more drastic turn for the worse when the air hostess calmly announced that we would have to return to our seats as we were about to begin our descent into Mumbai. Oscar grabbed onto the toilet door, refusing to move from safety whilst I was filled with horror at what the person sitting in Oscar’s seat after him would find if an accident was to occur. Trying desperately to come up with a solution, we stood debating the best course of action; store cupboards were ransacked by increasingly frustrated staff until one of them victoriously held up … a nappy. Good plan I thought until I actually examined the nappy and found that it would probably fit an incontinent Barbie doll. I looked from my tearful boy to the tiny nappy and pushed into the toilet. With much flailing of limbs and adjustments, the nappy was squashed into position. I emerged from the WC, hair askew, makeup smudged, holding Oscar who was proclaiming at the top of his lungs – ‘Why Mummy? Why? I am not a baby!’ He wrestled out of my arms, sped back to his seat and spent the remainder of the flight, wriggling uncomfortably whilst sending me scathing glances.
Needless to say, despite the obvious animosity towards both myself and the nappy, I was extremely worried about my boy and wanted to get to the hotel as soon as possible. I sat the children on a trolley, with firm orders not to move one inch, whilst Giles and I collected the cases. Glancing over my shoulder, every few seconds to assess both the whereabouts of the children (hey, Mum’s rules are often made to be broken!) and Oscar’s condition, I was amazed to see my baby boy sharing a packet of sweets with his sisters, chattering happily, no sign of the pale, wan little figure of an hour previously. Torn between laughter and astonishment at his rapid recovery, I cringed as the doctor walked past, a frown marring his forehead as he obviously reviewed my parenting skills and found the medication of sugar/e numbers seriously wanting. (At this point, I should mention I didn’t give them the sweets at the airport, they were part of the booty that the children had been given by the grandparents for the journey – the children had seized the opportunity to top up their energy because my three children and plane food do not mix well – ok, at all – so sweets prevented them from certain starvation as they saw it!) Marvelling at the resilience of children and the healing properties of strawberry laces we made it through the airport into the humid Mumbai air.
Within moments we were speeding in air conditioned luxury to our hotel. The usual sequence of events occurred – pool, food, tired crying and cold beer – that was just me – never mind the children!!!
As evening fell, we dressed and travelled to our favourite restaurant ‘Sheesha’. It is an amazing place – it sits prettily on a rooftop, every table is low and seats are scattered with patterned cushions. Moroccan lanterns dangle haphazardly from the struts in the ceiling, casting diamonds of light across the tables, candles flicker in the balmy breeze and watching the sunset from the terrace is breathtaking. As Giles enjoyed a Hookah pipe, Sophie snoozed, Oscar and Holly chattered about their day, I sipped my drink and I began to feel tension that I hadn’t known was there seep slowly from my system. This was a good way to start (nappy incident notwithstanding!) and tomorrow, tomorrow we were heading for Goa, our new home …
Saturday, June 26, 2010
There had been rumours for some time that the firm Giles worked for was going to be sold, but as with all office gossip, it was discussed and ultimately dismissed. However, it soon became clear that this story wasn’t going to go away and within weeks, Giles delivered the news that the firm was definitely being sold. At that point we were pretty sure that everything would be fine, but again, as time progressed, Giles’ future looked increasingly uncertain. It was at this point we sat down and took stock of our lives, what was working, what wasn’t, how we saw our future developing. We suddenly realised that fate had actually done us a favour, she had encouraged as to examine the positives and negatives of our life in Caistor and gifted us an opportunity.
For years, we had skirted around the idea of moving overseas, and then, once Coco Shambhala was built, moving to Goa. But life, as they say, got in the way of our plans – babies arrived in quick succession, I left my job to take a new position at a prestigious local school, Holly started secondary school … you get the drift !!!
So here we were, stood on the edge of a cliff, wondering whether to take a leap of faith or stay put. Countless late night discussions ensued, weighing up the cost, financially and emotionally, of moving to Goa. It wasn’t easy. It’s fine to have these ‘wouldn’t it be lovely if …’ conversations, especially after a few glasses of vino, but the reality is much harder than you ever think it is going to be. You feel the elastic ties of family and friends being stretched to breaking point, you acknowledge that the job you dreamed about is going to have to be sacrificed, you realise all that furniture you have so lovingly collected over the course of a marriage isn’t going to travel with you and worse, neither is a member of your family – our dog, Ellie.
Even as I write this I have tears in my eyes, I could give up clothes, furniture, my house but saying goodbye to our dog was awful, truly, truly awful. We spoke to vets, obtained advice from every person we could think of before making the decision to leave Ellie behind. Family and friends had personal commitments, so although they would have loved to help, for whatever reason they couldn’t. Basically, Ellie was an old dog, she was (and is) ageing gracefully, but the journey out here and climate would not have been kind to her. Luckily, we found a wonderful woman to look after her but it was so hard. Holly and I were dreading the day when Wendy would come to pick her up, many tears had been shed before the hour came. I knelt on the floor, cradled her scruffy little brown face and told her to be good. She looked at me with the same bemused expression she usually wore, wagged her tail and trotted to the door. By now, Holly and I were clutching each other and sobbing like something out of ‘Titanic’. As Wendy opened the car door, my heart broke. I desperately wanted to call her back, say that we were taking her, this was a mistake, anything to stop the pain that we were feeling. Ellie, the little bugger, jumped into the convertible, wagging her tail and zoomed off into the distance without a backward glance!!! I think that the convertible had sold it to Ellie, finally she was going to be treated like the princess she was instead of a member of a madcap family.
With Ellie gone, the house felt emptier. The imminent arrival of the container meant that the majority of our belongings were packed, discarded or given away. Suddenly, it wasn’t so much a home as the space we lived in. The ‘For Sale’ sign had gone up and things began moving at breakneck speed.
Funnily enough, I was very pragmatic about the whole thing until the day before the container arrived. Our hero and one of my best friends ever Joolz had popped in to see us, and, thank God, she did. She surveyed our packing with a critical eye and then proceeded to tell us what we needed to do. Joolz used to run a shipping company and, as such, knew all about the consequences of packing a container poorly. (I think in order to scare us into action she actually used the term ‘matchsticks’!) Within minutes, she had her sleeves rolled up ready for action, but as there seemed so much to do before morning, I just didn’t know where to begin. I ashamed to say, I lost it. I walked up the garden, bottom lip trembling, stumbled into the summer house and sobbed. Before I knew it, Mum arrived at my side with a large glass of wine, tissues and sympathy whilst Giles, Joolz and Dad toiled in the kitchen. After I had gained some perspective and downed half a bottle of wine, I rejoined the fray and when the lorry pulled up the following day, we were just about ready.
Giles had gathered a team of family and friends to help move our belongings onto the container and Joolz was managing the motley crew. Every time I think of Joolz, I see her walking up our drive, wearing a glam shift top, shades and her ubiquitous Crocs, standing hands on hips before giving orders like a drill sergeant. I still treasure the memory of Joolz having six grown men completely under her thumb, doing exactly as they were told without a murmur. You go girl !
I frequently stopped the inventory to glance in the direction of the container, which seemed to be filled, not with our stuff, but naughty giggles and muffled laughter. When I took out some drinks, Joolz and Andy were crying with laughter. Throughout the morning they had been breaking up massive sheets of polystyrene to reinforce the levels of packing, Giles, of course, had decided to help. Joolz and Andy watched helplessly as Giles carefully inserted a strip of polystyrene the size of his finger in between two boxes, his concentration was intense, the polystyrene was placed with precision and when he stood back to admire his handiwork, Joolz and Andy were bent double, unable to stifle the gales of laughter any longer. To this day, I wonder whether that little block of polystyrene did the trick as there were no breakages when the container arrived over here !!! (Just kidding Joolz – I know you are reading this – and thank you, thank you, thank you xxx)
I cannot write this without mentioning the awesome support of our family and friends during this period of time. It goes without saying that our parents were wonderful, my Mum was (and still is) on hand twenty four hours a day, seven days a week to support understand and listen (even if she is a slightly more virtual form than we are used to – Avatar Mum!), my Dad taught the children naughty songs and generally poured the wine/beer/champagne – delete as appropriate - and Giles’ parents, though struggling with our departure, offered encouragement and advice. It is at times like these that you realise just how much you are loved, and just how much you take that love for granted sometimes. As for friends, Princess Diana referred to Paul Burrell as her ‘rock’, well my very glamorous, very wise rock (no, make that an entire mountain) was (and is) Joolz. Unfailingly positive, generous and fabulous, she took time to share my concerns, listen to my worries and tell tales that made me laugh when I felt like crying. One in a million. Without the support of our family and friends, we wouldn’t be here now, so a huge thank you – I think – and let’s continue to see how the story pans out together …
For years, we had skirted around the idea of moving overseas, and then, once Coco Shambhala was built, moving to Goa. But life, as they say, got in the way of our plans – babies arrived in quick succession, I left my job to take a new position at a prestigious local school, Holly started secondary school … you get the drift !!!
So here we were, stood on the edge of a cliff, wondering whether to take a leap of faith or stay put. Countless late night discussions ensued, weighing up the cost, financially and emotionally, of moving to Goa. It wasn’t easy. It’s fine to have these ‘wouldn’t it be lovely if …’ conversations, especially after a few glasses of vino, but the reality is much harder than you ever think it is going to be. You feel the elastic ties of family and friends being stretched to breaking point, you acknowledge that the job you dreamed about is going to have to be sacrificed, you realise all that furniture you have so lovingly collected over the course of a marriage isn’t going to travel with you and worse, neither is a member of your family – our dog, Ellie.
Even as I write this I have tears in my eyes, I could give up clothes, furniture, my house but saying goodbye to our dog was awful, truly, truly awful. We spoke to vets, obtained advice from every person we could think of before making the decision to leave Ellie behind. Family and friends had personal commitments, so although they would have loved to help, for whatever reason they couldn’t. Basically, Ellie was an old dog, she was (and is) ageing gracefully, but the journey out here and climate would not have been kind to her. Luckily, we found a wonderful woman to look after her but it was so hard. Holly and I were dreading the day when Wendy would come to pick her up, many tears had been shed before the hour came. I knelt on the floor, cradled her scruffy little brown face and told her to be good. She looked at me with the same bemused expression she usually wore, wagged her tail and trotted to the door. By now, Holly and I were clutching each other and sobbing like something out of ‘Titanic’. As Wendy opened the car door, my heart broke. I desperately wanted to call her back, say that we were taking her, this was a mistake, anything to stop the pain that we were feeling. Ellie, the little bugger, jumped into the convertible, wagging her tail and zoomed off into the distance without a backward glance!!! I think that the convertible had sold it to Ellie, finally she was going to be treated like the princess she was instead of a member of a madcap family.
With Ellie gone, the house felt emptier. The imminent arrival of the container meant that the majority of our belongings were packed, discarded or given away. Suddenly, it wasn’t so much a home as the space we lived in. The ‘For Sale’ sign had gone up and things began moving at breakneck speed.
Funnily enough, I was very pragmatic about the whole thing until the day before the container arrived. Our hero and one of my best friends ever Joolz had popped in to see us, and, thank God, she did. She surveyed our packing with a critical eye and then proceeded to tell us what we needed to do. Joolz used to run a shipping company and, as such, knew all about the consequences of packing a container poorly. (I think in order to scare us into action she actually used the term ‘matchsticks’!) Within minutes, she had her sleeves rolled up ready for action, but as there seemed so much to do before morning, I just didn’t know where to begin. I ashamed to say, I lost it. I walked up the garden, bottom lip trembling, stumbled into the summer house and sobbed. Before I knew it, Mum arrived at my side with a large glass of wine, tissues and sympathy whilst Giles, Joolz and Dad toiled in the kitchen. After I had gained some perspective and downed half a bottle of wine, I rejoined the fray and when the lorry pulled up the following day, we were just about ready.
Giles had gathered a team of family and friends to help move our belongings onto the container and Joolz was managing the motley crew. Every time I think of Joolz, I see her walking up our drive, wearing a glam shift top, shades and her ubiquitous Crocs, standing hands on hips before giving orders like a drill sergeant. I still treasure the memory of Joolz having six grown men completely under her thumb, doing exactly as they were told without a murmur. You go girl !
I frequently stopped the inventory to glance in the direction of the container, which seemed to be filled, not with our stuff, but naughty giggles and muffled laughter. When I took out some drinks, Joolz and Andy were crying with laughter. Throughout the morning they had been breaking up massive sheets of polystyrene to reinforce the levels of packing, Giles, of course, had decided to help. Joolz and Andy watched helplessly as Giles carefully inserted a strip of polystyrene the size of his finger in between two boxes, his concentration was intense, the polystyrene was placed with precision and when he stood back to admire his handiwork, Joolz and Andy were bent double, unable to stifle the gales of laughter any longer. To this day, I wonder whether that little block of polystyrene did the trick as there were no breakages when the container arrived over here !!! (Just kidding Joolz – I know you are reading this – and thank you, thank you, thank you xxx)
I cannot write this without mentioning the awesome support of our family and friends during this period of time. It goes without saying that our parents were wonderful, my Mum was (and still is) on hand twenty four hours a day, seven days a week to support understand and listen (even if she is a slightly more virtual form than we are used to – Avatar Mum!), my Dad taught the children naughty songs and generally poured the wine/beer/champagne – delete as appropriate - and Giles’ parents, though struggling with our departure, offered encouragement and advice. It is at times like these that you realise just how much you are loved, and just how much you take that love for granted sometimes. As for friends, Princess Diana referred to Paul Burrell as her ‘rock’, well my very glamorous, very wise rock (no, make that an entire mountain) was (and is) Joolz. Unfailingly positive, generous and fabulous, she took time to share my concerns, listen to my worries and tell tales that made me laugh when I felt like crying. One in a million. Without the support of our family and friends, we wouldn’t be here now, so a huge thank you – I think – and let’s continue to see how the story pans out together …
Friday, June 25, 2010
Fate
Retracing your steps is a perilous pastime, often in reviewing the route once taken, you meet disappointment as a fellow traveller and things aren’t as wonderful as you remembered. Occasionally, you find that memories are deceptive; leading you into a world where imagination has placed a significant role, rewriting your history with a sure, steady hand. But sometimes, just sometimes, you find delight as you realise that the past has been bettered, the present becomes superimposed over what once was and it is amazing.
Wandering down the winding, sun dappled path that led (and still leads!) to Coco Shambhala, I walked in the shadow of my own footsteps, recalling the awe of the first viewing. This time though, I dropped my suitcase. I tried to ignore the ominous tinkle of broken glass (not the 50ml of Hypnotic Poison please!) and drank in my surroundings. The gardens had sprung to life in our absence, palms towered above us sheltering a chorus of squawking parrots, fragrant frangipani dipped gracefully towards the pool and riotous blooms of bougainvillea tumbled over walls. I was stood in our very own secret garden; already the children had discovered shady hiding places and alcoves for quiet meditation (not so quiet once discovered by the terrible trio!) We were the last guests of the season and I appreciated the opportunity of having this little slice of paradise to ourselves.
Inside, the houses were gorgeous. Antique furniture and unique pieces of art added interest and imagination to the interiors. I recall sitting down on the exquisite, hand finished bed in the master bedroom and grumbling to Giles that Coco Shambhala had better furniture in it than we had at home. Every room was a joy – light, shade, breeze, colour combined to provide a sense of luxury and warmth. Yet I did not feel intimidated – you know when you go into fancy boutiques or hotels, you sometimes send up a silent prayer – please don’t let me break anything/fall over/ embarrass myself – well none of that – Coco Shambhala welcomed us and I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
Unpacking completed, we headed to the pool. Deliciously cool water allowed the children to get their temperature down, whilst splashing away the tiredness of travelling. Isn’t it funny – no matter where you are or how long you have travelled, the children always want to get in the pool first? Nothing else is an issue, just that inviting slice of jade that beckons you away from exploration or food – if tiredness is the problem, pool water is the cure! As the children switched between pirates, mermaids and sharks, I relaxed on one of the ghats, built into the pool. I remember thinking – how lucky are we? How many people get to experience a place like this? How many people get to create a place like this?
Our stay was perfect. Every morning, the bread boy delivered fresh warm rolls to our villa and we sat upstairs, eating our breakfast whilst the delicate rhythms of life outside were lost amidst the breeze. We shopped, explored and splashed to our heart’s content, though I must admit most days I found it hard to peel myself away from the sun lounger and my latest book to go adventuring. Two weeks passed in a flash, as I look back at the pictures now, I am hit by a barrage of memories, but what strikes me the most is that in every single one of the photos taken during that holiday, we are all smiling – not the cheesy ‘take this picture now!’ smiles – but genuine smiles that reach your eyes and tickle your toes. That is what Coco Shambhala taps into – spirit – it nourishes, revives and restores the joy we all have inside; it removes the stress and allows us to sample the simplicity of life. It was wonderful and a place I had to enjoy several more times before fate showed her hand and, once again, our life was to take an unexpected turn …
Wandering down the winding, sun dappled path that led (and still leads!) to Coco Shambhala, I walked in the shadow of my own footsteps, recalling the awe of the first viewing. This time though, I dropped my suitcase. I tried to ignore the ominous tinkle of broken glass (not the 50ml of Hypnotic Poison please!) and drank in my surroundings. The gardens had sprung to life in our absence, palms towered above us sheltering a chorus of squawking parrots, fragrant frangipani dipped gracefully towards the pool and riotous blooms of bougainvillea tumbled over walls. I was stood in our very own secret garden; already the children had discovered shady hiding places and alcoves for quiet meditation (not so quiet once discovered by the terrible trio!) We were the last guests of the season and I appreciated the opportunity of having this little slice of paradise to ourselves.
Inside, the houses were gorgeous. Antique furniture and unique pieces of art added interest and imagination to the interiors. I recall sitting down on the exquisite, hand finished bed in the master bedroom and grumbling to Giles that Coco Shambhala had better furniture in it than we had at home. Every room was a joy – light, shade, breeze, colour combined to provide a sense of luxury and warmth. Yet I did not feel intimidated – you know when you go into fancy boutiques or hotels, you sometimes send up a silent prayer – please don’t let me break anything/fall over/ embarrass myself – well none of that – Coco Shambhala welcomed us and I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
Unpacking completed, we headed to the pool. Deliciously cool water allowed the children to get their temperature down, whilst splashing away the tiredness of travelling. Isn’t it funny – no matter where you are or how long you have travelled, the children always want to get in the pool first? Nothing else is an issue, just that inviting slice of jade that beckons you away from exploration or food – if tiredness is the problem, pool water is the cure! As the children switched between pirates, mermaids and sharks, I relaxed on one of the ghats, built into the pool. I remember thinking – how lucky are we? How many people get to experience a place like this? How many people get to create a place like this?
Our stay was perfect. Every morning, the bread boy delivered fresh warm rolls to our villa and we sat upstairs, eating our breakfast whilst the delicate rhythms of life outside were lost amidst the breeze. We shopped, explored and splashed to our heart’s content, though I must admit most days I found it hard to peel myself away from the sun lounger and my latest book to go adventuring. Two weeks passed in a flash, as I look back at the pictures now, I am hit by a barrage of memories, but what strikes me the most is that in every single one of the photos taken during that holiday, we are all smiling – not the cheesy ‘take this picture now!’ smiles – but genuine smiles that reach your eyes and tickle your toes. That is what Coco Shambhala taps into – spirit – it nourishes, revives and restores the joy we all have inside; it removes the stress and allows us to sample the simplicity of life. It was wonderful and a place I had to enjoy several more times before fate showed her hand and, once again, our life was to take an unexpected turn …
The X Factor
Our return to England was heralded with drizzly rain and misty skies, although this may sound depressing, it wasn’t; it was a welcome respite from the heat wave that had accompanied our first visit to Goa. As we sped towards Caistor, cruising the motorway, I watched the landscape, marvelling at the world of contrasts we live in. Previous experience of travelling and living away from home had always provoked a longing in me, a desire to touch base whenever possible to surround myself with the people and place I loved most. One of my most treasured memories is returning home from Cambridge for the holidays - as soon as the train rounded the bend and Lincoln Cathedral rose majestically into view, my heart would brim with joy – I was home (well, a thirty minute drive away!) However, our return this time was different, the happiness was there, obviously, but there was a clarity to my perception, almost as if India had lifted some veil from my eyes.
I was astonished at the lack of colour in a place I had always found fantastically vibrant, I relished the changing hues of each season. Stepping back into England from India made me realise how subtle we English are, we prefer restraint in our palette, choosing to bend in with the environment around us rather than announce our presence with fluorescent paint! In Goa there is no escape from colour; the fertile deep red of the earth, the myriad greens on every plant, the splashes of blue on the birdlife – it is as if the Maker himself, and us mortals, have had access to a heavenly paint box and run riot! Houses are daubed in every colour of the rainbow, saris drape forms in a jewelled array of colour, there is just no room for understated neutrals in Goa. I felt like Dorothy in ‘The Wizard of Oz’ – I was back in Kansas after the Technicolor dream of Oz! (I do really wish that I had a pair of those ruby slippers!)
Another difference I noticed was the noise. India is a symphony of sound, nature competes with calls to prayer, car horns and the early morning (5 am!) shouts of the bread boy. Everyone talks at a mile a minute, conversations weave through and over people, all are encompassed by opinion, discussion is invited whether you had a part in the original dialogue or not. Bhangra beats, Euro pop anthems and Bollywood songs provide an intoxicating melody that has you unconsciously shimmying around the streets. Even rest is accompanied by the cheerful chirp of crickets as they fill the velvety darkness until dawn.
In spite of these differences, I acknowledged that although my heart belonged to England, a small section had now been grabbed by Goa. The spell that had captured Giles so many moons before had now turned its charm on me. Although entranced by all I had seen and heard on my visit, I was also aware of the less positive sides to Goa – the rubbish, the dust, the arrogance of some of the tourists, the tacky/superficial erasing the original spirit of a country which absorbed culture, nationality and spirituality like nectar, the commercial industries overtaking the cottage crafts and the desire of some people to change, to develop, what merely needed improving.
After a few months, I was eager to return, to see if my recollections were as accurate as I believed them to be. This time would be different of course, for we would be staying at the completed Coco Shambhala. We had seen Shambhala’s infancy, now we would experience the completed transition from dream to experience. Coco Shambhala had already welcomed its first guests to great reviews and acclaim. What I couldn’t wait to sample was the special atmosphere that so many people commented on. I had already sensed the magic on our visit to the site – but this aspect of Shambhala was as important as the architecture, gardens and furnishings – it was Coco Shambhala’s ‘X –Factor’ if you will, that would make our place successful, a place where memories would be made and cherished for years to come.
I was astonished at the lack of colour in a place I had always found fantastically vibrant, I relished the changing hues of each season. Stepping back into England from India made me realise how subtle we English are, we prefer restraint in our palette, choosing to bend in with the environment around us rather than announce our presence with fluorescent paint! In Goa there is no escape from colour; the fertile deep red of the earth, the myriad greens on every plant, the splashes of blue on the birdlife – it is as if the Maker himself, and us mortals, have had access to a heavenly paint box and run riot! Houses are daubed in every colour of the rainbow, saris drape forms in a jewelled array of colour, there is just no room for understated neutrals in Goa. I felt like Dorothy in ‘The Wizard of Oz’ – I was back in Kansas after the Technicolor dream of Oz! (I do really wish that I had a pair of those ruby slippers!)
Another difference I noticed was the noise. India is a symphony of sound, nature competes with calls to prayer, car horns and the early morning (5 am!) shouts of the bread boy. Everyone talks at a mile a minute, conversations weave through and over people, all are encompassed by opinion, discussion is invited whether you had a part in the original dialogue or not. Bhangra beats, Euro pop anthems and Bollywood songs provide an intoxicating melody that has you unconsciously shimmying around the streets. Even rest is accompanied by the cheerful chirp of crickets as they fill the velvety darkness until dawn.
In spite of these differences, I acknowledged that although my heart belonged to England, a small section had now been grabbed by Goa. The spell that had captured Giles so many moons before had now turned its charm on me. Although entranced by all I had seen and heard on my visit, I was also aware of the less positive sides to Goa – the rubbish, the dust, the arrogance of some of the tourists, the tacky/superficial erasing the original spirit of a country which absorbed culture, nationality and spirituality like nectar, the commercial industries overtaking the cottage crafts and the desire of some people to change, to develop, what merely needed improving.
After a few months, I was eager to return, to see if my recollections were as accurate as I believed them to be. This time would be different of course, for we would be staying at the completed Coco Shambhala. We had seen Shambhala’s infancy, now we would experience the completed transition from dream to experience. Coco Shambhala had already welcomed its first guests to great reviews and acclaim. What I couldn’t wait to sample was the special atmosphere that so many people commented on. I had already sensed the magic on our visit to the site – but this aspect of Shambhala was as important as the architecture, gardens and furnishings – it was Coco Shambhala’s ‘X –Factor’ if you will, that would make our place successful, a place where memories would be made and cherished for years to come.
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