Enthused by the epic proportions of England’s ‘victory’ over India, we took the bus into Margao to buy tickets for the ODI, which were supposed to be on sale from 10.30. We arrived at 11.00 and were pleasantly surprised at the modest numbers waiting patiently outside the Syndicate Bank’s – the sole outlet – door, where a uniformed guard, sporting a polished twelve bore rifle, stood to attention.

After waiting five minutes, we learned that tickets weren’t actually going to start being sold until 3.00. 10.30 was when the bank opened and official queueing could start!

Enthusiasm to watch the match drained away and we headed off to a tranquil spot for some lunch.

We haven’t been back to Palolem, yet. Too many things to do, too little time, most of my books still unread. 

Well, we finally got to Palolem, where as it turns out there are 150 rupee a night ‘tents’ – ie, huts on stilts – all over the shop. It’s not too crowded and the sea is calmer than we’ve been used to so we’ll probably move here in a day or two. 

Concerning the sitting room fire: remember to empty the ash pan underneath – spread the ash over the garlic plantation – and scrape every last fragment out of the ash pan socket or it won;t fit back inside.

We would willingly swap some of your cold for our excess of heat. Last night was horrendous. A pool of sweat gathered in the hollow of my breast bone and then overflowed to dribble in all directions. We’re continually blasted by the sun!

We just ate lunch watching Pieterson throw his wicket away wantonly. Good old Shah, is all I can say, whoever he is.

What did this ‘real’ dodman say about me, the fake one?

We’ve found an agreable lodging place at two quid a night with a verandah on the first floor overlooking a small square so we can spend plenty of time watching the world drift pass as we scoop dribbling chunks of juicy papaya into our gaping maws. Vaddy beach is just down the road and the beach shacks go on for miles in each direction. We got seriously blasted by the sun on our first day, but apart from that are settling in nicely. My favourite thing to do is rent a bike and just pedal in any direction. Within minutes rural Goa manifests itself with wonderful backyard scenes of water boiling in large ceramic pots on wood fires, families of pigs rootling amongst the rubbish and sad eyed water buffalo chewing the cud. We’re currently in Margoa, buying fruit. The bus here had five foot headroom, which was a pain to stand up in. Word is that Palolam is now ovecrowded and overpriced. We’ll see,. I just stopped at a jeweller’s shop to listen to the cricket and was told that England were sliding to almost certain defeat.

Dodgy shorts, questionable stomach

Neil in St Pol

Bouledoux at St Ceb

The long and winding road to the beach

Paul Twitchell, an ordinary looking, almost ominously clean-cut American, having learned the art of soul travel, claims he is able to meet, while in his soul body, the soul body of Sudar Singh, in the astral realm known as Sach Khand; he is also able to pay visits to a five hundred year old man in a hut high up in the Himalayas, without ever leaving his Connecticut home.

“After extensive exploration of Sach Khand (Fifth spiritual plane), Sudar Singh granted me permission to proceed on my own through the spiritual worlds. It was through Sudar Singh while travelling in the Soul body, that I met Rebazar Tarzs and intensified the study of the world called The Far Country, during a lengthy visit with him in the Himalayas above Darjeeling.

Later, with Gail, my wife, I came to know Rebazar Tarzs better. He talked several times to us. I began to leave the body at night and meet with him at his mud and brick hut in the Himalayas.

Rebazar Tarzs is a man who looks to be in his middle thirties, but many, including Yaubl Sacabi (another explorer of The Far Country), say that he is well over five hundred years old in his physical body.

Tarzs’ black hair is cropped closely, and is curly enough not to bother him in the fierce winds from the icy mountains. His beard is coal black and trimmed close. His eyes are shining coals of dark fire, his lips purple and his speech a clipped style as he barks words to emphasise points he is making. His flesh is dark, swarthy from the hot sun and winds. His feet are large, generally encased in sandals, but he often goes barefooted through the rocks and sand. They are as dark as walnut stain.

Rebazar Tarzs lives alone in his little, mud-brick hut high on a cliff above a torrential blue river, roaring out of the high glaciers across the valley into the plains to feed the teeming millions, six hundred miles to the south in the vast sweltering midlands.

Often leaving his physical body on the rude cot inside the hut, Rabazar Tarzs goes to the Tuza who needs his help, or to teach in one of the temples of the Far Country.”

A most invigorating game of badmington last night, where Jacques and I in the first two games were 10-5 down, fought back to 14-14, and went on to win both. We then lost focus and the third game went against us 15-5. A rushed fourth game which we were winning had to be abandoned as time was running out.

I like to think it would have been just as much fun if the scores had been reversed, which they easily could have been.
Despite sarcastic comments along the lines of ‘should be in an antique shop’, I have no complaints about my trusty wooden racquet, from whose frame many a winning shot has come.