Passage To India

Having enthusiastically completed a module on Colonialist literature as a bushy tailed student, I saw myself as a kindred spirit with India. Together, I imagined, India and I would roam jungles, breathe in fragrant spices, roll naked in thick, silky sheets, glance at the moon through olivey mosquito nets surrounding four poster beds and enjoy all manner of adventures.



As with all fantasies based entirely in an idealistic interpretation of ‘A Passage to India’ and ‘The Moonstone’ (of which, I’m sure, there are many) I came down to earth with a bump (well more of a skid and a bump actually…onto tarmac…but more about that later).

Much to my dismay, India has changed since literature set in the 1940’s. There are McDonalds, clubs with world renowned DJ’s and more traffic than Russia and Shanghai put together. However, after a tour around Mumbai with an exuberant guide I learned that underneath this there is a strong traditional culture where lovers give each other henna tattoos (but no one else mind you) and wives send their husbands home cooked lunch to work every day. Religion is also really important and despite copies of ‘Men are from Mars, Women Are From Venus’ being thrust through car windows in traffic jams for 200 rupees, most Indians prefer to look to Lord Ganesh for relationship wisdom.

Cheered by this I ventured further afield into Goa in search of the technicolour visions of India still swimming in my head from English textbooks.



I certainly got closer to dense jungles and dusty tracks leading to certain adventure. I also, however, got closer to tarmac. Whilst taking in the colourful stalls and insane amounts of cows (they’re sacred in India and omnipresent) at 30pmh I failed to take in a small Chinese man pootling around in the road and after a hasty swerve became the owner of a fully inoperational right foot.

From henceforth my Indian Dream became less about the excitable discovery of a mysterious land and more about the boxset of Prison Break Season 1.

In Prison Break, Season 1 there is a definite lack of long, balmy nights sipping fresh cocktails and wearing khakis. There’s an awful lot of scheming, dashing around by moonlight and squirreling sharp objects up sleeves. It was the latter that kept me entertained in India from my hotel bed. Foot suspended on pillows.

Stay tuned for more Prison Break, Season 1!

Beleza Pura

Travelling the world for a living allows for a lot of WOW moments. Not the kind of WOW, but real, wind in hair, eyes wide, standing alone atop a mountain moments of WOW. Or as they say very often in Brazil (mostly when in full ‘wooing’ mode) ‘Beleza Pura.’

There is nowhere easier to have such moments than in a tropical paradise. Come on. I’m only human. Cliched or nay, paradise is WOW.



It was with this in mind that we moored on the island of Morre De Sao Paulo, Brazil’s antidote to Carnival. This is paradise of colossal proportions, which the post Carnival masses flock to on packed out ferries, catamarans and anything seaworthy which can get them there pronto. With its potent blend of white sand, clear sea and ranges of untouched space, Morre has all of the amenities a Brazilian needs to keep at the top of their ‘more aesthetically pleasing than thou’ game, including vast beaches for tanning and jogging, fresh fruit everywhere and an indigenous mud which converts scaly, Carnival parched skin into smooth loveliness.

There are no cars. Roads are made of sand and patrolled by the latest in donkey technology. Life is deliciously slow. Nightlife starts at around 12pm when everyone has had chance to let their coconuts go down and drag themselves out of the various beach huts and sandy coves that line the island. The opposite of the all day party that is Carnival, it most certainly is.

There are no cars. Roads are made of sand and patrolled by the latest in donkey technology. Life is deliciously slow. Nightlife starts at around 12pm when everyone has had chance to let their coconuts go down and drag themselves out of the various beach huts and sandy coves that line the island. The opposite of the all day party that is Carnival, it most certainly is.

Caipiroskas are the tipple of choice for the chilled masses but rather than bars, fruit toting smiley locals set up mobile stalls in every corner culminating in a in the centre of ‘Beach 2,’ (the busiest one) where beachfolk flock to kick the sand out of their sandals in front of giant speakers.

The nightlife also finds it way deep into the jungle where on Wednesdays an old theatre holds the most popular dance night as well as into the mountains where mellow parties overlook the pinky sunset from cotton hammocks.

This mix of beaches, parties and chilled hammocky lounging, of course, has all the makings of many moments of WOW. Whether it’s as arriving and seeing the crumbling arches which herald the island or when horseriding along an empty beach or even enjoying a particularly sweet coconut, Morre is WOW, WOW, WOW with the largest and most exuberant capital letters that this font can offer.

And may I add, for good measure, a further WOW.