Konkan Railway - as seen on TV (where's Chris Tarrant?)

St. Valentine's Day, Thursday 14 February

The idea for this trip came from watching Chris Tarrant's "Great Railway Journeys" television programme about the Konkan Railway, broadcast December 2012.  The Konkan line was built 20 years ago and follows the coastline south from Mumbai to Mangalore, a major engineering feat because of its hilly terrain with many estuaries to span.

Thanks to the globalisation of popular culture, the media (Bombay Times, Times of India) are full of "lurve" today - 35% off diamond studded bracelets, mobile 'phones wrapped in pink heart ribbons, and a feature on how to choose your "V-day tattoo". (The passionate embrace tattoo illustrated is surpringly raunchy). My mobile keeps bleating at me with irritating messages saying "Love me, love me not" followed by something incomprehensible in Hindi which apparently costs just Rs. 3 (even in India I doubt if you can buy much passion for that.) I switch it/her/him off. Not that any of this disturbs the consciousness of the street sleepers (just a few) I step round on my way to the station to catch the 06.55 Mandova express to Goa. CST Station, the biggest in Asia, transports 3 m. passengers every day (many of them arriving at about the same time as me) with over 130 suburban and mainline train departures every day. Some Slumdog Millionaire scenes were filmed her, Despite the enormous potential for chaos, it's surprisingly orderly and disciplined.

Preparing to board. Note time.

I have the compartment (First Class) to  myself, but just as I'm planning to stretch out and seek my own oblivion, we stop in the suburb of Dadar where two retired gents (brothers, improbably named Alex and Kevin) take their seats in "my" compartment  This is not the fastest (or newest) of trains, but the air-con is super efficient and I have to dig out my sweatshirt. Goa is said to be THE place to chill out, so the train gives me practice. I watch the morning commuter trains heading back into the city. It's true, people really do hang out of the open doors. Thousands are killed every year from falling out of trains. (Further down the line, to warm up and better admire the scenery, I open our carriage door and "hang out" myself. It's exhilarating, and I'm just starting to get the hang of holding on when a guard comes along, tells me off and closes the door again. He couldn't do that on a suburban train as they don't have doors. I'm not sure if his concern was for my safety or the effect of an open door on the aircon.)

This train is moving !

It is almost 8.30 am before we finally leave the outskirts of mega-Mumbai (pop. 16 m.) behind and emerge into green and hilly open country. By which time I have read the papers from cover to cover. Just as well. I learn that there is to be a general strike - or bharat bandh - next week on 20/21 Feb which may affect train services. Meanwhile, from today (allegedly) passengers on the Konkan Railway on which I'm travelling "will enjoy the pleasure of shopping right from their train seat during their journey." Apparently, travellers who have missed an opportunity to purchase "essentials" before setting out will be able to buy - wait for it - lifestyle watches, portable music systems and MP3 players, car inverters, designer sunglasses, trendy toys and "spy pens with video recorder." Not all passengers are over moon. Some say they'd rather the railways gave them cleaner toilets or better food, or maybe they don't want to be spied on. Another nugget - Police Commissioner Satyan Pal Singh has complained that "criminals no longer fear the police. Because of human rights activists, we can no loger beat them up in public." The implication of the last two words is chilling. 

Railway lunch. Note tiffin tins.

1 pm. I have already consumed several cups of steamy liquid from the "car fee" and chai-wallas. Now our pre-ordered lunches arrive (not included in the ticket price) on time, unlike the train, which is over an hour behind schedule. Tasty egg and chicken biryani delivered to the compartment in a tiffin tin, followed by slices of mixed fresh fruits. Hard on the heels of lunch comes the man with the pad of complaints/suggestions forms, which he urges us all to write up. I praise the food but suggest they turn down the A/C. My Indian companions claim to have seen a cockroach and say "they should really tighten up on hygiene, especially in first class." By this time, we are half way there. If you saw the Chris Tarrant programme, this is the stretch with the deep river valleys, long viaducts, and tunnels up to 6 kms long. It's pretty impressive, but would be better appreciated from an open door. Tarrant got away with it - why not me? At Ratnagiri, I open the door once more when no-one's looking to photograph the lorries loaded on to trucks at the platform, but there's no time to jump into a cab for a chat with the driver, as Tarrant did.

Loaded lorry. Time for a touch-up

6 pm. The train is now running over two hours late. It will be dark when we arrive in Margao, so I change plan, 'phone the La Flo.r Hotel as recommended in the Footprint Guide and book myself in for a night in town. I'll leave the beach for later. The tuk-tuk from the station is Rs. 80, only half what the tout on the platform quoted, and I can't at first believe my good fortune when I get there. It looks and feels like a proper hotel, complete with uniformed staff, bar and restaurant, but the rate is a modest Rs. 1050 (£13), not the 1500 I thought he said. Even the room appears clean, moderately spacious, with AC and a generous squirt of mozzie-spray from a man with a can. There has to be a catch. There is. As I take a much-needed shower I hear a very loud and familiar claxon hooting outside the window. Yes, the railway line is right outside my window just across the car park. Hope I don't sleep walk or I'll become a statistic. Pity I forgot the Ian Allen train spotters' guide to S. India as I can see the engine numbers even without my glasses. . Then my eye is caught by a movement on my room's marble floor. A very large cockroach is scuttling steadily from the bathroom, where I must have disturbed its lair. It is chocolate brown, shiny, and every bit as big as the largest of its ruddy-hued East African cousins with which I used to do battle. I squash it under foot, push its corpse into the corridor, and point it out to the can man. My chicken tikka, however, is excellent, but much spicier than the stuff from the jars at home. But beer is 40p a pint, and a double Honey Bee (oh elixir!) brandy is just Rs. 20 (24 p.) Maybe I have landed on my feet after all.