Nitin arranged for his houseboy to accompany me to the station. Walking along the tracks in the morning it was strange to be leaving this place, I had certainly enjoyed my brief time here. However I had some time ago pinpointed the island of Diu on the coast as a potential Christmas hang out, so I needed to get get going. Arriving a few days early would give me enough time to explore an alternative should this not match expectations.


The station was almost serene in the early morning sunlight . Being a country station there was no one around expect a Sadu feeding some monkeys. He had obviously slept on the station. More monkeys started to arrive as the ticket office opened and I wondered if he knew what damage he was doing to these animals by giving them sweet biscuits. Most monkeys in India who live near humans are fed and have type 2 diabetes, yet I know from experience it is pointless trying to tell these people to stop.


By the time ticket office opened, there were more Langurs on the platform than passengers and I could hear the lazy incessant hooting of the train horn from at least a kilometre away. The country train soon spluttered its way into the station. About six wooden carriages, with a large amount of people hanging out of the doors and windows. I struggled through two with my baggage before a family took pity and squashed up so I could have a seat on the wooden benches. The next 80 km was going to take three plus hours so I settled in. The family were friendly, wanted to communicate but did not speak English, so there was little to do except smile at the kids.


By the time we arrived in Devada, I had experienced enough of this train. I climbed off with everyone else and chartered a rickshaw to take me to Diu, which was eight kilometres away. Across the bridge he drove me, past the wetlands and into the island’s bus station . Immediately it felt different here n Diu. What was striking about the island was the houses, and I mean real houses. This former Portuguese port had brick solid houses, bungalows and quite modern apartments in the old town. With solid bitumen roads, few cows and many mopeds it had a sort of Mediterranean feel to it. The harsh bright sunlight helped and I walked through the old town’s narrow maze of tiny cramped streets and found my guest house. The island is 12 kms long and 3 kms wide and was under Portuguese control for 400 years. It also has some large Indian resorts on its southern beaches, but most Western travellers head for Diu Old Town and stay well away from the Indian Revellers.


The Heranca Goesa was the best reviewed guesthouse on the island. I felt I was glad to get a booking however on arrival I soon found out I was the only guest, so I moved into one of their best rooms. It was basic with a balcony, hot water and a nice view of the old Portuguese Church (which was converted into a school - I believe). The family was very friendly and all proud of their Portuguese passports.


Unfortunately their famous kitchen was closed for Christmas, but both sons quickly recommended the O’Couqueiro restaurant, just a block away. My visit for lunch here revealed two things . Firstly O’Couqueiro was a great little restaurant ran by a man from Northern India and his wife who specialised in veg, seafood and Portuguese food. It was frequently by all the foreigners on Diu, both the short term visitors and the long term visitors. Also to get to the restaurant, you had to walk through two small narrow lanes where the most aggressive, foul tempered feral dogs lived. Soon I was carrying a large stick with me.


In the O’Couqueiro I met Stuart from Glasgow, definitely a long termer, and a visitor to India since the early eighties. You never meet any of these guys in the North East, I thought. He was very nice, a wealth of information and good company. There was also a young Kiwi girl staying inside another disused church, “just above the alter for £2 per night” she told me. She was also a long termer. There was plenty of retirees here living off their pensions. A lady from Stockholm, a couple from Paris and two ladies from Klagenfurt in Austria . “Its India’s Florida,” the Kiwi girl informed me. One thing for sure was, like the rest of India there were hardly any tourists. The following day a very nice American couple, Denis and Camille from Oregon arrived and moved in next door to me. That was really the Christmas crew and O’Couquiero became the venue. 


Diu’s seeming affluence owed much to its island status as an Alcohol area. Gujarat is a dry state and this island, due (I guess to its Portuguese heritage) is one of the few places an Indian can buy booze. The resulting back market and tourist business enabled the buildings and island to flourish. It also has its fare share of binge drinkers that descend on the island for Friday and Saturday nights from Ahmedabad and Mumbai. Nevertheless if you avoid this behaviour it has cultivated a unique calm and laid back approach that I found increasingly infectious. Jay (whom I met in Kohima) said he thought it was one of the most boring places in India - when I mentioned I was staying in Diu. To me the silence, lack of people, afternoon siestas, lack of hustle (feral dogs excluded) and climate was just what I needed and I could sense that days would eventually just start to drift by.


Quickly enough my days fell into a routine. Up at 7.00am for a stroll to O’Couqueiro for some good filter (yes filter) coffee facing off the dogs there and back plus a good hearty breakfast. A morning catching up with blogs and things on the balcony. Back for a quick lunch and a natter. A stroll around the town, back to the guesthouse to freshen up plus reading a book. Later off back to O’Couqueiro for dinner, and an early bed. Luxury. The only stress was trying to get my internet connections to work, other than that I had a much needed rest.


There are several things to do on the island, but of course you need the enthusiasm and drive to start with. This places saps that - which is basically its charm. On the second day, the Kiwi girl and Anna from Sweden gave me a list of things to do on the island, but now, as I type my blog awaiting my bus to leave the island, I can proudly say I have done none of them. Compared to what I had done in this country and what I was planning to do, nothing here really excited me. I was at one point looking at an excursion to Mumbai, but with the lack of availability of places on buses (due to the Christmas holidays), I had to drop the idea.


I did though manage to get out and do some photography of the old buildings and the old streets. On the last night I broke the habit of O’Couqueiro and went with Anna, Denis and Camille to another restaurant overlooking the harbour for some tandoori cuisine. It was fine, but no as good as the regular place.


On Christmas Day the Christian part of the island went to church, on Boxing Day, a Friday, the Muslims went to their mosques and the Hindus seemed in and out of their temples during my stay. I was told that the make up of the island is changing now with the Christians in the minority and many using their Portuguese passports to move abroad. Several settling in Leicester (I heard) which will probably upset Ukip. Mind you, despite the fact that my host family were Christian, the only real indication of it being a Christmas Day came in the afternoon, when the sun was setting and some loud speakers on the Church fired up with a selection of Christmas hits unfortunately dominated by Boney M. that night the chef cooked me a special dinner of King Prawns, Marsala style for my festive meal.


Following Christmas day I suddenly thought I should get organised and leave otherwise weeks could drift by, so I went and booked a sleeper bus. I knew I had vowed, “never again” but it was soon apparent that this was the only transport option. With ticket in hand, I also thought I should have a bit more of a look around Diu Old Town including the imposing Portuguese Fort.


As I got closer, what I had viewed impressively from a distance, seemed to be completely over run with Indian tourists and the paraphernalia that often accompanies them on mass. This was of course a national holiday period, so I should have expected over crowding. The fort whilst large was however, dwarfed by the number of bus tours emptying into it. Cows, aggressive dogs and huge groups of teenagers filled the entrance roads and the old bridges leading to the building. Unfortunately these were also crammed full of discarded plastic bags and other filth. This coupled with the incessant requests for photos led me in the end to walk off.


I skirted around the beach head and was suddenly alone walking to one of the remote beaches, Stuart had told me about. This was (surprisingly deserted) although it was not really warm enough at 26c for anything other than a stroll. Moreover on closer inspection the beach was full of broken glass, plastic bags and floating rubbish and I mused that this probably had more to do with its lack of popularity. It was when I was leaving that I noticed a small shrine on the rocky outcrop above the beach and assumed that this was where Denis and Camille had recommended, but again, when I climbed up to it, I found out it was filthy and this had a large population of rats. So I returned to the hotel glad that I was leaving, despite the fact that I had enjoyed my stay which was in no small part down to the Heranca Goesa Guesthouse, the O'Couqueiro and the people I met.  


As this episode was drawing to a close and I was starting to look forward to getting to Ahmedabad. I still believed this stay in Diu was most certainly the rest that I needed and all I wanted to do now, was to survive the bus journey.


I arrived at the bus station some 30 minutes before departure, only to find the bus was already full. I had treated myself to a double bed in the back of the bus to try and avoid the feeling of travelling in a mobile coffin, but as I opened the sliding doors I was depressed to find out there were no curtains and annoyed to find it stank of urine. I tried to get moved to a different coffin but all the others were full of teenagers (that should have had the alarm bells ringing) and the bus driver spoke no English. Having established the coffin was not wet I resolved to braving the smell.


I moved my gear into the coffin and placed it away from where I felt the smell was coming, only to realise quickly that all the teenagers were intoxicated. I shut myself in this double coffin and tried to think of something else, not the smell. Unfortunately after some ten minutes, one of the other passengers was audibly ill in the coffin above me, and the vomit started trickling down the windows next to where I was lying. It was at this moment that I realised that, as with the first sleeper bus, the windows did not shut properly and it started dripping into my coffin. I hurried moved around my double sized coffin, urine on one side, vomit on the other - dodging the repulsive drips. As we drove over potholes and speed ramps, I could hear others vomiting around me. The results of non drinkers partying for the first time.


As the stench became over powering I opened my coffin’s sliding door to find some of the other teen agers were smoking. It was just one thing after another and with ten hours still to go I was livid. However all in all this was the worst it got. By 11.00 pm they were all sleep. I however, did not get any sleep, but I had to leave the coffin door open due to the offensive smell. Lucky, whilst they were asleep, they could not smoke. Actually the smoke was the last offensive odour I had to deal with that night.


When we reached Ahmedabad I was relived, but extremely tired. This time I assured myself it was the last sleeper bus.