Helloa from Goa - Arambol, Goa

Goa is the final resting place for hippies. It's also filled with people "finding themselves," tourists with Om tattoos, Westerners that forget to bathe, Israelis fresh from the army, Europeans in speedos...

It's not really a place where you "do."

If you have been to a sandy beach, with salty, wavy water (the ocean), sunshine and coconut trees swaying in the nonexistent wind, then you can probably figure out what the state of Goa is all about.

Not quite.

Add in holy cows, scrappy dogs, trash, more trash, hawkers more persistent than the zit on your forehead, women doing laundry in the stagnant creek filled with animal fecal matter and more trash, 2 roving holy men with a cow jumping on their heads, corrupt police officers, horrendous traffic, a small colony of wild pigs foraging in heaps of even more garbage, backsheesh, more Royal Enfields than you can shake a fist at, and you have Goa.

Traveling has been taxing and difficult. For example getting my laundry done by other people, choosing what to have for breakfast, lunch and dinner, deciding whether or not to have pineapple juice or orange juice, being in 30+ weather... All these decisions really make it difficult for me to relax on the sandy beach, while Indian versions of Cabana boys bring me water. I was busy doing nothing and then something happened while in Goa.

Richard and I bought a beast. She's big. Like 163kg big. She's cumbersome, and graceful isn't really an adjective I'd use to describe her. But boy, is she one hell of a machine. She's a 1992 Royal Enfield Bullet. Her name is Betsy and I don't think she knows what's in fore her...

-T.Sallard-

Arrivals - Mumbai, India

I was prepared to enter into a war zone, or at least what I thought a war zone might look like. This is after all, India. I'm not sure what I thought was going to happen when I got off the plane, however, the general consensus was comparing one's arrival into India like childbirth - painful. So with an ounce of gusto and a smirk on my face I left the confines of the airport into Mumbai.

I was shocked.

I was expecting uniformed officers to be beating men with sticks, bullet holes in the walls, taxi wallahs vying for my attention, limbless beggars grabbing at my legs and hands, and a full on assault of the senses. Instead, Richard and I left the airport seamlessly, we found a place to stay with relative ease and I discovered that squat toilets aren't the worst thing in the world.

I spent three days in Mumbai, and I liked it.

The city is dirty, but not grimy. Public transport is relatively efficient and easy to use. Food is good. It was crowded, but I didn't feel squished. There were slums, families of five sleeping, eating and living on the pavement, settlements directly beside the railway tracks, dead rats in the small lanes of Bandra Bazaar, and many, many people with curious eyes. People, however, wherever we were, went out of their way to help.

Yes, I liked Mumbai, and that surprised me.

-Tossed Sallard-