My 80 day trip is finally over. I have visited 19 towns and cities and have covered a satisfying 3000 miles on buses and trains:

It’s been great, there are no regrets, but it’s been hard work and I’m knackered. All that is important now is to stand with the backs of my legs gently against a radiator and move through tonight. Still, I’m surprised by how smoothly it all went really, and even more surprised by how well prepared I was. Who’d have thought? I’d like to thank the following items:

> Osprey Wayfairer 80 litre travel pack
> Berghaus washbag
> Palmers cocoa butter with built in SPF15 (oh god, this stuff is amazing)
> Hot black Victorinox penknife
> Wuthering Heights notebook
> Front bike light
> Parker Vector mechanical pencil
> Pillow nicked from outbound Jet Airways flight
> Diazepam
> Parle G biscuits

I lost a few things along the way, mind you. The companion Parker ballpoint pen for one thing. I was pissed off about that. And the Del Monte hat is gone! Man, that thing was costing me money. I only wore it when I was in transit, just in case anyone wasn’t sure about my tourist status… It has a worthy new owner in Uncle Hash who looks bloody amazing in it (properly edited photos will follow). I ditched the blister packs too: around 250 anti-malaria tablets worth £40 went into a Palolem bin. Could I have sold them on eBay or is that sick? I also lost Mel, whose very different experience of India I cannot ignore or separate from my own. She arrived home safely on Monday, I saw her yesterday. We’ll talk about it all soon I’m sure.

I laugh out loud when I think about the beach holiday in Benaulim with Gita, Hash and Devimasi – it was so much fun – and I loved being in Dandi again, it was great to get to know the family there better. I feel overwhelmed when I think of the hospitality shown to us by Nagpal and his wife in Agra, and the Varanasi to Rajasthan stretch was made so much more bearable by having Leane around – I’ll definitely see her again.

I think bits of me are stronger than before – shoulders, stomach, knees – though I currently seem to be sweating something out that doesn’t smell nice. I’m hardier than I thought and can rough it when necessary. I have a new perspective on environmental issues, particularly litter / packaging and water. I have developed closer links with various sections of the wildlife community including dogs, cows, buffalo, crabs, rats, monkeys, a scorpion and a posse of camels. I have realised that 3 hours or 4 or 6 is not a long time to visit someone you like, but that transport is prohibitively expensive in the UK and it’s outrageous. But I was also often reminded of India’s corrupt system, how money can do anything and consequently how it is the ultimate motivator. I trust easily, I’m a soft touch, there’s nothing wrong with it, but it’ll not make me rich. I was ripped off time and again by men who will happily look you in the eye and say “I am not trying to cheat you.” Lechiness and leeriness do not a profitable customer relationship make. Dudes, this is not cool.

The other mindblowing thing has been how I have taken everyone with me. I only started this blog to put Mum’s mind at rest. What must travelling have been like before the internet? Poor worried mums across the developed world! I had no idea it would become a little project / outlet that some of you would follow for 12 weeks. Thank you for taking the time to read.

And back in time for new year too… and a new decade! Wooooo!! It hadn’t occurred to me until I learned about Unskinny Bop’s noughties special. I remember the last time we had a new decade. Not 2000 because that was a millennium. I thought century did very badly out of all of that. And what about that millennium bug? I’m glad everyone fixed everything in time. No, the last new decade when 1989 went into 1990. George sang about it on Waiting For That Day, we had Freedom ’90, Fame ’90 and Soul II Soul’s Volume 2: A New Decade. I was, as usual, in the Ellora that night with the family, in charge of the tapes and making sure the Big Ben/Auld Lang Syne/New York New York medley went off at midnight correctly. Ah, misty watercolour memories…

What are you up to tonight? I will be getting drunk on optimism for sure and counting my blessings through karaoke.

Happy New Year xo

Lol!

I love watching Brits on the piss. Booze Britain, Club Reps… I can’t get enough of that stuff. Watching Booze Britain is like going out on the lash yourself except that there are no repercussions. The party at Neptune Point – just the other side of some rocks from our resort – continued with amplified music until 4am. Poor Adrian, Jane and their two daughters from Cuckfield near Haywards Heath. Staying in a much fancier hut next to mine, they were not happy. Sunny, the mildly sleazy resort owner, was also at the party as were two of the Nepali waiters, Ravi and Gelbu (both great), and a guy I met in the dentist’s surgery whose name escapes me. It was as a club ought to be: glass bottles rolling all over the place and access all areas for smokers.

But before Neptune Point, I went to midnight mass in Chaudi. St Teresa’s Church was full: well-to-do men, women and perfectly-turned-out children in suits and colourful chiffon dresses. Chairs had been set up outside with a video link up so we could see the pulpit, but alas they failed to provide any sound, so we all sat in silence unable to hear a thing. It was in Konkani anyway and not especially joyous.

I loved my beach hut in the end. I didn’t attempt to meet anyone whilst in Palolem: I was quite happy to sit on my porch, have bottles of Kingfisher delivered to me from the adjacent restaurant, and stare out to sea like Shirley Valentine. This was my Christmas Day and I couldn’t have planned it better.

This is, I expect, my last entry whilst in India and my penultimate post on this blog. I’m in Margao now, I fly from Goa to Delhi tonight and will sleep in the airport, ready to check in on my flight back to London tomorrow morning. I am not prepared for the cold.

I hadn’t planned to be in Goa for Christmas but now I’m here I will embrace it. There is some crazy dance music party tonight, though I’m more inclined to go to midnight mass in Chaudi to see Goa’s many Christians in action. I have moved to a small hut in a pretty cove at the south end of Palolem beach, which has a perfect sea view from its plywood/bamboo sit out. I figured staying in a hotel watching movies was a cop out: besides, I was seriously disturbed by Danny the Dog and couldn’t stay awake for Conan the Destroyer. I don’t think the move has been a total error, despite a big spider in the bed on arrival and the nightclub right next door. Sanjeev Bhaskar did not do this.

Palolem feels a bit like Spain by day and Brighton by night: well over half of the foreigners are Brits I reckon, all kinds of them too. It’s way pricier than other tourist hot spots, but the shopkeepers / rickshaw drivers / hoteliers aren’t nearly as aggressive, one or two seem pretty desperate. There’s a dark side too: I’ve been offered drugs countless times by waiters and a restaurant proprietor! I also found this by Angry of Goa. Are India’s youth being corrupted? If they are, it’s here.

Pop music is back in my ears, but not wholly in a good way. I’ve just returned from my third visit to the dentist: the bottom-left quartile of my face is completely numb as I type. Seven of ten fillings have now been completed (at a quarter of the UK price) by Dr Rosomond D’Souza and his nurse Sunita. Dr Rosomond likes pop of the Magic FM variety and it is piped right through his small, comfortable, air-conditioned practice. He sings along, even when his head is hanging over yours and he has a drill in your mouth. Maybe this is all to put patients at ease: Elton’s Sacrifice , Cutting Crew’s Died in Your Arms , both Richard Marx classics Right Here Waiting and Hazard… He hummed along to the first MJ song I’ve heard since arriving in India: I Just Can’t Stop Loving You (good choice, I thought) but I missed most of it thanks to Sunita’s sucky tube. It was Elton who lingered: It’s a human sign / When things go wrong… I’ll be getting the last three done on Boxing Day.

I’ll be thinking of you all tomorrow!

Merry Christmas xo

Palolem, the main resort in Goa’s deep south, is another tourist town that’s unusually quiet this year. Not that that means the sands are beautifully empty like in Benaulim: there are still a few thousand foreign and Indian tourists spilling across the beach including lots of young British meatheads in Reebok Classics. Rather than being sat here typing, I could be watching Burnley play Wolves at Molineux. (The last time I had anything to do with Molineux was when they were building it: I was 16 and doing a fortnight’s work experience at a chartered quantity surveyor’s office in Five Ways. They took me on site and everything, mistakenly thinking I would find this exciting. I would now, of course.)

I’m staying in Palolem until I fly back and I will learn to love the occasional assault of deep house from the beach shacks. But a quiet season is making the accommodation search a hassle: most places are waiting anxiously for a last-minute rush and are holding their prices at 1500Rs+ / night for the three days over Christmas. This risky strategy is also being employed by the owner of the concrete block in which I’m currently staying. But I am mighty glad I have eschewed the huts: this morning, I woke up to Sister Act on Star Movies. I really can’t see how a day can start any better than this.

I’ve been all about the wellness today. I did an Ashtanga Vinyassa yoga class on a rooftop in the late afternoon sun looking up at the palm trees. I booked an appointment at the dentist for a check up and scrub. I searched in vain for a copy of Allen Carr’s Easyway to Stop Smoking.

I was sad to read this piece about Peter Tatchell in The Observer. I interviewed him in July at his flat for an oral history project documenting, amongst other things, the work of Galop and the relationship between the police and London’s gay community over the last 30 years. Interestingly, it was the day after the news broke about India decriminalising homosexuality, which he was delighted about. And that picture, by the way, makes his front room look spacious – it wasn’t at all. He talked to me for over two hours that evening – I was his eighth interview of the day. He was clearly tired, he stumbled over sentences and would repeatedly ask if he could restart a response to a question. I thought he was just being control-freaky until I read this. Either way, it was hard not to be impressed by him. I think we should stop giving him flak and start appreciating him a bit more.

Thanks for your lovely comments about the blog. I doubt I’ll continue though, it would surely just be lots of whingeing!

And finally, Kate Bush has wished us a Merry Christmas, which is nice of her.

It has come to my attention that this blog is being read by some who have not yet made themselves known to me. There’s a name for people like you: LURKERS. So maybe you’d like to leave me a comment or a smiley or something just so I know you’re reading. Or perhaps post a favourite joke? I’ll start:

Q: How many French people were aboard the Titanic?
A: Cinq

I made that one up myself. It is under a Creative Commons licence, so feel free to use it at the dinner table next Friday if your crackers are cheap.

And I hear it’s snowing at home! Andy M reminded me of Kate Bush’s 1980 Christmas single – it made me a little homesick for a moment. Kate just doesn’t sound the same in this intense heat.

Devimasi doesn’t understand the concept of a beach holiday, of lying around in the sun and doing nothing, of eating food in restaurants that you could’ve made yourself at home. We hired a driver on Wednesday and visited a waterfall, a temple and the old Portugese churches of Old Goa, which were all very pretty. One of the churches, the Basilica of Bom Jesus, houses the grim remains of 16th century missionary St Francis Xavier. Bits of him are missing though: over the years relic hunters have made off with an arm, grabbed a handful of intestines and bitten off a little toe. This is proper rank like. We went inside the Sé Cathedral too, just across the road. It contained over a dozen altars, including ones dedicated to Our Lady of Hope, Our Lady of Anguish and Our Lady of Three Necessities. What are these, I wondered? I’m guessing cigarettes, Diet Coke and a copy of Grazia.

Gita, Hash and Devismasi are back to Dandi tomorrow, and I’ll be making tracks too. Possibly Hampi, possibly Palolem – not sure yet.

Have you all done your shopping?

And then of course there are those uncles and aunties who aren’t actually related to you at all, in which case I’ll use the same name that Gita uses, like Kaka – an old friend of my grandad’s – even though I guess he’s more my nana than my kaka. Anyway, Kaka is 90, has lived in Canada for most of his adult life, but these days returns to Dandi each winter. He doesn’t really talk to you when you go round, but he’ll happily fetch you a beer from the the fridge before returning to his TV program.

Then there’s Mad Kaki (no relation) – my grandparents’ next door neighbour before they left for England, and she still lives in the same ramshackle house. One example of her madness: she recently set fire to a patch of land in the village where the memorials are (including my grandad’s). But it’s no wonder she’s lost it: a couple of years ago, her son got into a row with some guys at a wedding. Days (weeks?) later, they came to the village looking for him: they beat him senseless, dumped him in the sea, he died. I heard all sorts of other stories: a woman in an unhappy marriage recently killed herself. Another, they say, practices black magic. We learned that only last week Mad Kaki’s brother hanged himself, but no-one has told her yet. She came round to the house to see us a few days ago: Gita told me about it afterwards. I’m painting a rather dark picture of village life, I don’t mean to. It feels like a very tight saf community here, and I’ve been made to feel welcome by everyone. I really liked Naranbhai, a strikingly handsome man in the village who keeps buffalo and brings us milk each day, and he made sure we ate as much as possible – served us himself he did – when we wedding crashed the other day.

I’ve already mentioned all the big, shiny new houses in the village built using foreign money: the divide between the haves and have-nots is no plainer than it is in Dandi. We have two relatives out here who still live on the poor side of that divide: my mother’s cousin, also called Devi and around the same age, and her 28-year-old son Chetan. Devi was widowed some years ago, and they rely solely on Chetan’s income. Chetan almost died in March after a motorcycle accident: he broke all sorts of bones, had a blood clot on the brain, an eye even popped out, and he was in a coma for over a fortnight. Miraculously, he’s right as rain now – money poured in from rellies on all sides to help pay his hospital bill – and he went back to work a month ago in a soap factory where they make Imperial Leather.

Devimasi has come to Goa with us at Gita’s insistence. On Sunday, the four of us caught the train to Mumbai, roughing it in the sweaty crush of second class unreserved (80p each for the 250km journey). We had hours to kill in Mumbai before our overnight train to Goa, so we got a cab to the Gateway of India just in time for sunset. Oh look, there’s the Taj Mahal Hotel – you know, that one wot got bombed. The call of a luxury loo was too much to resist, so we went in and predictably ended up eating there: Asian High Tea they called it – unlimited sandwiches, savouries, tea and cakes. Treating Devimasi to five-star luxury was all highly amusing for us, and had more than a whiff of Pretty Woman / Hannah Hauxwell about it. She found it all rather fun too, wasn’t fazed by it at all.

She is finding all the white women in bikinis a bit shocking though: she’s not seen anything quite like it before. (“Do they go to work like this?” she asked Gita). We’re in a small resort called Benaulim, it’s bloody gorgeous here. It’s about 32 degrees, the beaches are perfect, and you can get beautiful spicy seafood for pence. We’re staying in beachside huts too. Devimasi, however, is not quite sure what to do with herself…

I have just returned from Navsari station where I finally managed to book tickets to Goa for me, uncle Harshad and aunties Gita and Devi. What a fanny on! I won’t bore you with the intricacies of the rail reservation system, suffice to say that it involves filling in lots of photocopied forms, clamouring at little windows and a world of no.

I’ve had a bad experience. In fairness, it’s never been this hard before, and it’s mainly to do with the fact that the Mumbai – Goa stretch is one of India’s most popular at this time of year, and I’ve left it until the last minute.

I’ve been here a week now, and in that time I’ve eaten about seventy meals. Gita has bought her own supply of chocolate biscuits and a carrier bag full of Asda SmartPrice sweets – wine gums, dolly mixtures, foamy fruits – all of which contain beef gelatine, I pointed out to her last night. The camp bed on which I am sleeping was brought from England too. My gran was adament that Gita didn’t take it with her, went on about it for weeks apparently. “People will talk!”

And there’s been a lot of talking and gossiping, which Gita’s really getting into. In the evenings, we have to turn off the outside lights and bolt the front door if we don’t want any more women from the village wandering in with bowls of some savoury snack or other: a ruse to sit and gossip! It’s all very dull for me, of course. I nod and smile when I sense that I’m being spoken to.

Gujarat’s a dry state too. The sale of alcohol is strictly prohibited, and you need a liquor permit if you want to drink it… which explains why I’ve had more booze this week than I’ve had on the entire trip. Uncle Hash bought cheap whiskey and cans of 8% beer with him, and the other night I got tiddly at uncle Mohan’s house on this stuff made from figs I think. He’s sending his son round with two more bottles later on.

Just 18 days left and I still haven’t made it south of Mumbai yet. All the books said that you can’t hope to do the whole country in one trip. I didn’t believe them, I thought 12 weeks would be plenty. South India will clearly have to wait. It might have to wait a while.

On 4 December 2009, a 32 year-old Rasheed Rahman made the very same journey from the Sabarmati Ashram to Dandi. He vowed never to return to Ahmedabad until the whole lot had been pedestrianised. When he arrived in Dandi on 5 December 2009, he lay down on the swing seat on the veranda of his gran’s new house. “I want tea and probably could do with a shower,” he said.

You can still wander around Gandhi’s ashram, peer into his spartan living quarters, and see some of his possessions in old cabinets (wooden sandals, spinning wheel, stone plate, etc). There’s a bookshop, a small library and an exhibition too, which charts the Mahatma’s life through uncaptioned photographs and a detailed timeline in Gujarati, Hindi and English. Most of the information was straightforward:

4 September 1888 – Left for England to become a barrister, leaving his family at Rajkot.

6 November 1913 – Led the Great March consisting of 2037 men, 127 women and 57 children from Charlestown. Arrested at Palmford.

Some of it was intriguingly vague:

October 1918 – Affected by illness, condition very serious.

24 November 1925 – Fast for seven days due to moral lapses in the ashram.

There were other interesting exhibits too, like a copy the letter that he had written to Hitler in Christmas Eve, 1940 asking him to stop the war. It wasn’t that persuasive an argument, given how insane the recipent was. I left having learned that Gandhi had bad handwriting and small feet.

This is my second visit to Dandi. I was last here almost six years ago when I came with my mum, and it’s grown in that time: more ostentatious houses have sprung up, built from money made in the UK, Canada and New Zealand. When I arrived, they were celebrating the grand opening of the new temple in the village. We ate there on one of the days, and went back in the evening to watch the dancing. They’ve almost finished building a new clinic too. I think my gran has contributed to both of these new additions from her 10,000Rs/month freedom fighters’ pension, which she receives in recognition of the three months she spent in jail as a 14-year-old following a protest.

It’s all very low key and peaceful here. We’ve visited the beach a couple of times, which is crawling with tiny crabs the size of small houseflies (I’m not a fan myself). It seems that the authorities are trying to develop the village as a tourist destination, though if they can’t even keep the beach free of litter, then I can’t see it being especially good for the place.

There isn’t much to do here, so I’m trying to get through my book, Shantaram, which I’ve been lugging around for the last eight weeks. It’s 1000 pages long, and while the descriptions of India are vivid enough, I’m feeling a bit India’d up to be honest. I did manage to read To Kill a Mockingbird in Pushkar, which I hadn’t read before. It was brill, of course.

I’m missing Spotify. While there’s no shortage of music – the sound of soaring strings and warbley women is everywhere – it’s been a while since I’ve been able to singalong to anything. I can count the number of western pop songs I’ve heard on one hand: Abba’s Dancing Queen , three Tracy Chapman songs, and this load of tripe (warning – explicit lyrics), which made me realise what a Clockwork Orange-style dystopian future would sound like. Except that fuck me, we’re already there! I was disappointed to later learn that the radio-friendly version I Wanna Love You was nominated for a Grammy. Akon, Snoop: less is more, guys.

It was my last day in Udaipur today, so as usual I attempted to cram all the sights which I’d failed to visit into one day. First a boat trip on Lake Pichola from the City Palace. I’m not great with large expanses of water, I saw The Poseidon Adventure for the first time earlier this year and vowed never to board a ferry or cruise ship again. But this was only a smallish boat. It took us round the two floating palaces, and let us off to wander around one of them (the other one is a fancy pants hotel and off limits to the likes of me).

Then it was on to the Monsoon Palace, perched on the top of a hill about 5km out of town. This one featured in Octopussy quite a bit – it was where the baddie Kamal Khan lived – so the drive up the hill felt a bit glamourous for a second. The palace itself was shit, but the views were great. I was anxious to get back to town so could get a drink in a lakeside rooftop restaurant in time for sunset. What time is sunset tonight? 5.30pm? 5pm? Earlier? I asked my driver: he shrugged. I kept checking my watch. It took a whole hour before I thought to LOOK UP AT THE SKY, YOU DICK.

Finally got hold of Uncle Harshad in Dandi today, he and Gita will meet me at Navsari on Saturday afternoon. Best go and book tomorrow night’s accommodation in Ahmedabad – a huge, polluted city apparently. Fortunately, I’ll only be there for 18 hours.

You might wonder why I’m spending so much time online. Apart from a general addiction, it’s the easiest way to plan anything, plus I’m working for Tamasha this week. But I am finding time for some shopping inbetween. Anyone want anything? I’ve finally found somewhere that’s not a rip off (I think).

I spoke to mum last night, sadly Grandma didn’t make her flight as she has the flu, not swine flu though. It’s best that she’s at home in Brum though. I’ll see Aunty Gita and Uncle Hash in Dandi though, and if they’re up for it, Kerala might turn into a posher holiday. That’s if I can get hold of them. And no internet in the village…

And just spoken to Madame Melanie Evans, who had just finished a portraiture class. This cafe’s like a little office!