Tirat Yatra: A 1000km Walk Along India's West Coast - Part 1

There came a time in Goa when things simply became monotonous. It was the same thing every day - waking up late, eating breakfast, going for a swim, coming back, drinking early, playing music, going to bed, and waking up the next day, only to repeat the same schedule. Eventually it became clear to Mitja and I that our time in Goa was drawing to a close, as well as our time traveling together. Not that we weren't getting along fine like always, but it was just time to exchange contact info, wish each other a prosperous journey, and return to the spirit of traveling that we had brought with us to India: adventuring alone.

I don't know how this idea came into my head, to walk from Goa to the southern tip of the Indian subcontinent in Kerala. I remember saying something to my Indian friends about wanting to do a long walk in India, but that was before I left. I thought about it while I was here but I was too overwhelmed by India to consider it. Even when the feeling of being overwhelmed left and I became comfortable, I still considered a long walk in India to be a product of the imagination that existed before I ever came here.

When things became boring in Goa, I started to look longingly at the very end of the beach that I had never explored. I didn't want to wake up, eat, swim, drink, and play at the same hotel every day. I wanted to explore, adventure, dive foolhardily into the unknown. And so, in my last few days in Goa, I started telling people that I would walk south until I got to the bottom of India. I didn't even know then that I was serious about it. The words sounded strange and foreign coming out of my mouth, like someone else was saying them, and a voice in my head echoed "What did you say? You can't be serious..."

Thus, it was with a strange sense of surreality that all my friends I had met in Goa, some of the best from the entire trip, were hugging me, shaking my hand, wishing me good luck, and retreating to the safety of their hotels, their little spots on this piece of paradise. And equally strange was the feeling of thanking Joseph, the owner of my hotel, checking out, and taking a left turn. Keeping the ocean on my right and just walking.

This is the second day of my walk. I'll tell you about the first day. Neither has been particularly encouraging, but I am still committed.

The first day was funny. Eventually I got to the end of Patnem beach, not too far from where I had already explored. You get to a place where you simply cannot walk anymore. There are rocks and things, but no more beach. I knew I had to get to the highway, so I started asking around about that. I quickly got to a road, but not the highway. "Do you know where the highway is?" I kept asking people, and they would point me in the right direction. Eventually I did get to the highway, and starting walking along it. A word about this, before I go on. This isn't "highway" in the sense you know it, in the sense of those elevated concrete marvels of engineering we have in the United States - clean, orderly, buzzing with traffic. Here, "highway" means a fairly narrow black strip, just wide enough to permit, say, two buses. It's covered with dust, and on either side of it is usually a narrow, dusty corridor that allows one person on foot. This is generally what I walk on.

So I'm walking on the highway, the artery that will transport me all the way to my destination (there is no network of trails or anything, this wouldn't be like my walk in America). The first thing I notice is that it is quite hot. I compensate for this by wrapping the top of my head in a bandana. I notice my face is starting to burn. I compensate for this by wrapping my face in a bandana, as if I were a bandit or a cowboy. To add insult to injury, I'm wearing what is basically the dress of the saddhus, the babas, the wandering holy men. It's a kind of maroon skirt, impregnated with threads of orange, embroidered in gold. This isn't just fashion - it's remarkably functional. Loose, comfortable, protecting my skin from the sun, unable to trap heat but allowing cool air to flow through.

So I'm walking along, and I suddenly look up and think "Oh no...oh no...it can't be..."

...but it was. I had walked, circuitously, for maybe 2 hours, sweating and panting, only to get to the small market of Chaudi, a 20 minute walk from my hotel. But what was there to do? This was the official highway, and I was walking south...nothing for it but to accept this defeat and keep on keeping on. I got a vegetarian plate at a dhaba (glad to have these low-cost food options available again, they don't exist on the tourist beaches) for 30 rupees, gathered up my strength, and walked on.

I walked and walked...I'm not sure what to say about this part. This was the first moment I was really out of explored territory and into the unknown, but what can I say? I feel like there's something to say about this, but the experience isn't terribly memorable. It was very surreal, very strange. I walked along the road, cars and buses sped by. The road was at times lined with just trees, no people or civilization to be seen. Other times I would walk past a row of pretty impressive houses, by Indian standards, but there would usually just be a woman sitting out front, the wife of the household I guess, looking severe, and not terribly inviting of conversation. Or hospitality, for that matter - a thought which had begun to grow on my mind. I had no idea what was ahead. I knew that I had to stay on the highway, but I didn't know my position on it. Where was I going to sleep? I hadn't given much thought to this. Would I have to approach one of these houses and ask if I can stay there? I passed small, lonely outposts where they sold simple food and drinks. Occasionally I took refuge there from the heat. Is it possible to stay in a place like this? Could I ask the owner if I had absolutely no other option? I passed people living in thatched huts, in plastic tents. What about this? Would I consider this if it was getting dark? You cannot sleep on the road, I don't think. I was carrying a stick for the aggressive dogs you sometimes come upon. They are scared of you if you have a stick. Before I got the stick, they were quite difficult to intimidate. Apparently they gather at night and are quite ferocious. I wouldn't want to be out here at night.

Eventually I came to a place that seemed to have a bit more civilization. It was just a stretch of no more than maybe 200 meters, but there was a large, colorful Hindu temple, as well as a place to get simple food. I went into the place to get some food. The man didn't speak English, and it was clear that you wouldn't really get meals here, just simple street-style food. I got some spiced, breaded potatoes and thanked him. I saw that his sign said "Hotel." "Do you have rooms?" I asked him. He looked at me blankly. "Umm..." I said. I was searching my mind for something that might make sense in Hindi. "Kam-ra..." I began uneasily. "Tomb kamra pas hey?" I said fully, painfully self-conscious of how bad my Hindi was. "Nehi, nehi" he said, and pointed me out the door, to a woman talking on a telephone. I guess I was supposed to talk to her. Oh, before I forget - I now know that "Hotel" means nothing of the sort here, for some odd reason. If you can get food or drink someplace, it's a "Hotel." Don't ask me why.

So I speak to the woman, who points me towards the temple. To make a long story short, I end up getting a room at the temple. I'm not sure if these rooms are for priests or pilgrims or what, but it actually wasn't bad accommodation, considering it was free. A bed, and a bathroom that even had a western style toilet. I've decided to go veg for this trip, not to be puritanical or anything, just to try it, for fun. Besides, that's mostly what is available in these small places anyway. The priest came to the door, concerned, and asked me if I had any money, because if I didn't have any, he could give me some. It broke my heart to hear that...me with so much money, and the offer to give me more from someone who lives in a place with so little.

I was feeling so out of place, so uncomfortable. I had a sense of dread that I couldn't extinguish, no matter how I tried. I laid down on my bed and felt terribly lost and lonely, and slipped into a fitful sleep, as the tiny bugs living in the thin bed mat crawled out of it and over me...

Day Two

Today I woke up and felt a little nauseous. I ate a bit at the place across the street, where I had eaten before, but I didn't really want much. I set off walking, eager to make more headway into this journey.

I have been abstaining, up until this point in this journal, from telling you about the sun. Let me tell you about the sun. The sun, on this walk from Goa to Kerala, heading due south on the highway and straight into that searing light, is absolutely unrelenting. I have never experienced anything like it in my life. I thought, coming out, that less clothes were better in this heat. Not true. You have to cover your skin. Sunscreen does nothing. Ever see those pictures of people walking in the desert in National Geographic? There's a reason why they're all covered from head to toe in white clothing. Trying to escape the sun while walking all day down highway NH-17 is like trying to live in the desert without sand getting everywhere, or like trying to swim in the ocean without everything getting wet. The heat is almost tangible, almost like a liquid, I can imagine it getting everywhere, snaking around every fold of clothing, pouring into the sleeves of my shirt, wave after wave of it washing over my body. Yesterday I got sunburned...on my face (hence the need to wear two bandanas and leave only my eyes exposed), on my hands and arms, and on my neck. Yesterday my feet were spared, but today even they are being burned. Even when I go into the shade, they still burn. The skin tingles, it feels as though the sun is on it at all times, even when indoors. Again, sunscreen does nothing. Yes, on either side of the street is generally a kind of jungly forest, but with the sun almost always directly ahead, due south, it provides absolutely no shade. You walk straight into that oppressive heat, almost as if you can feel yourself getting closer to it, closer to that celestial body, and you think about it more, as if in a delirium. The sun - the source of life on the planet, hanging there in space, that giant rolling chemical reaction that does nothing but burn and burn and burn...ejecting an arc of fiery flares from time to time, protected by that angelic corona...like seraphim...how is it able to hurt me this much, so many millions of miles away? Such thoughts you will ponder as you walk, head swimming, down this highway, taking the odd misstep left or right, and another corrective step in the opposite direction, stumbling in this heat as if drunk.

I picked up a new state, crossing the border from Goa into Karnataka. The only thing I know about Karnataka is that it has many universities, including the one my friend Vivek attended in Mangalore, in south Karnataka. It felt a little like crossing into a new state on the Appalachian Trail. I was going somewhere! But still, that blistering, sweltering heat...

At 1:30pm, I couldn't take it anymore. I had tried to protect my hands and arms with my towel, which I retrieved from my bag, but it didn't fully work. I couldn't take the heat anymore. My feet were beginning to burn. I hurt all over. I had to stop in a dhaba, get shade, eat, drink, relax. I did this for 4 hours, until the sun was low enough to keep walking...into Karwar, the city I had been seeing signs for since I left Palolem. I had been ticking down the kilometers on the signs until I reached this mysterious city. It's nothing terribly exciting, really. Just an average Indian town I guess. It has a bus station, a few hotels. I'm sure I could employ the temple accommodation route again, but I'm not yet ready for that again after last night. I got a 150 rupee room which seems quite clean and nice. Surprisingly, this is the best Internet place I've ever been to in India, both in terms of the computer and the connection. Maybe it's not so surprising, seeing that Karnataka (the state I'm in now) contains Bangalore, the capital of India's burgeoning IT industry.

Tomorrow I am going to try and deal with this heat problem before I set off. I may stay here another day to let me skin heal. I may try to carry an umbrella so I can carry constant shade with me. I will try to get a long-sleeved shirt. I may consider only walking in the early morning and dusk. I do want to try and keep going. I know this trip might sound terribly dangerous to some of you, but honestly, it's not. India is simply safe. At least, I've never seen any evidence to the contrary. That might sound funny coming on the heels of the Mumbai attack, but things like that are simply too rare (and almost always occur in Mumbai and Delhi anyway) to be concerned about. And I'm not worried about running out of food or water or anything - there's always something along the road not too far away. It's like walking down a country road. Except I'm doing it for a long distance. The speeding buses are a little worrying, but I haven't had any close calls yet.

"Tirat yatra" means pilgrimage in Hindi. Stay tuned - I'll fill you in with more later.

Crossing the Karnatakan border - the sign behind me reads "Welcome to Karnataka"