The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

'The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack'
Chapter 1	Chapter 2
Chapter 3	Chapter 4
Chapter 5	Chapter 6
Chapter 7	Chapter 8
Chapter 9	Chapter 10
Chapter 11	Chapter 12
Chapter 13	Chapter 14
Chapter 15	Chapter 16
Chapter 17	Chapter 18
Chapter 19	Chapter 20
Chapter 21	Epilogue

CHAPTER FOUR - PALOLEM

(Printable version here)

We drew in to the station at Margao at 11.30 a.m. and we stood on the platform surrounded by our gear wondering who the hell had turned the furnace on.
A young couple that had been in our carriage asked us where we were heading. The man was tall and well built. He was wearing T-shirt, shorts, trainers, baseball cap and carrying a very big well-worn rucksack. The girl was about 5' 2''with a lovely fresh face and shoulder length blond hair tied back under her baseball cap. She was well wrapped up with a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, walking boots and socks, and I can remember thinking: `` Wow she must be hot.''
The rucksack she carried was almost as big as she was.

While we stood chatting an elderly couple sitting on a bench on the platform caught my eye. The lady stood up, came across and asked me if the train we had just left was the Bombay train. I replied that it was. She looked exactly as I imagine the English travellers to India would have looked 50 years ago. She was wearing a dress with a flared skirt covered in big flowers and a straw hat fastened with a string pulled tightly under her chin. Her face was very wrinkled and golden brown with mischievous blue eyes.
She asked where we were heading and without waiting for a reply told me that she and her husband had been staying near Palolem in excellent accommodation and we really must try it. She was most insistent that we go, especially to this particular hotel called Molyma. ''Just remember the name Molly, my dear, have a rickshaw take you there. We had a huge room. We could see monkeys and eagles from our balcony. Do go.''

At this point her husband joined her. He was the double of Sir Les Patterson, the alter ego of Barry Humphries aka Dame Edna Everidge. He had horrendous teeth protruding at all angles, and he was drooling saliva on to his jacket. He was wearing a suit, shirt and tie all of which were liberally stained, and his trousers were too short exposing his socks and sensible lace up shoes. A more unlikely couple standing on a railway platform in the scorching heat could not be imagined. We bade them farewell and safe journey and thanked them for their information.
The young girl asked again where we were headed and I explained my dilemma: Palolem versus Benaulim or Colva. She said they were heading towards Palolem if they could find transport and suggested that if we took a taxi together it would be cheaper, and quicker than a bus or another train.
I was so bloody confused at this point, not to mention hot, and Brian did not seem to be concerned where we went, so I agreed to go with them. We trailed behind in their wake, along the platform and up the steps and over the bridge to the road.

From the road we could see a row of taxis, recognisable only because they were parked next to a very wobbly shed that had the word ' Taxi' printed on the side. The cars were painted a multitude of colours and stood in a sea of dust. It was a motley array of vehicles which would certainly not pass any M.O.T. test.
We were quite happy to let our new acquaintances barter with the Indian in the hut and organise our journey. I certainly had the impression that they had done this all before and were not the novices we were. The deal made, we were pointed towards our rusty conveyance.

Somehow we managed to stuff ourselves into the very small car.
Two chaps over six foot, two women, four rucksacks and a great deal of hand luggage most of which ended up tied precariously to the roof.
The driver was crushed up against his steering wheel and as the journey got underway at the break-neck speed that is the norm for India, he decided he was too hot and would take his jumper off.
Clearly this involved pulling it up over his head but at no time did he deem it necessary to slow down. I tried weakly to continue the conversation with our new companions who seemed not in the least bit phased by the erratic weavings of the car. So, not death in India by starvation or dysentery but by fatal road accident.
All the car windows were open, which due to the speed created a small whirlwind inside. I was crushed in the corner desperately trying to stop my hat blowing off and prevent serious eye damage from Brian's hair which was lashing about like a cat 'o'nine tails. We had just about started to introduce ourselves when the driver decided to put his jumper back on. I was transfixed and could not continue with the conversation until he was safely wrapped up again.
We had to witness this jumper-on-jumper off scenario twice more before reaching our destination.

Our fellow adventure seekers were Dutch. Anouk was 23 and a recently qualified psychologist. Dave was 29 and worked for a large steel company in Holland. They had flown into Delhi and travelled north to Rishikesh and the source of the Ganges. They had loved the scenery but it was bitterly cold and they felt the need to warm up and so had headed for Goa. They had been travelling for six weeks and this was their final week. They had missed their train from Delhi to Bombay and had to catch the next one. Bandits held up the train they should have caught and everyone was robbed and a guard was killed. So, now I could add murder to the possible causes of death to consider on our trip. We were going to spend the next three months on and off trains; maybe we needed guns - not padlocks to protect our luggage.

The drive from Margao to Palolem was very lush and green passing palm trees and paddy fields. We saw water buffalo and cows wandering aimlessly about. We appeared to be approaching Palolem and we tried to look out for possible accommodation. There were huts with palm leaved roofs but little else. The guidebook had suggested a place called Palolem Beach Resort.

It must be made plain at this stage that words such as hotel and resort should not be confused with the accommodation bearing those descriptions in Europe. We were talking basic. A square room, with a sink if we were very lucky, electricity possibly, paintwork that looked as if it had been attacked by 50 supermarket trolleys, and a door or maybe just a curtain. A toilet facility would be unlikely, and a toilet we would want to share a room with, very doubtful.

We were deposited outside Palolem Beach Resort, which was at the end of a dusty road. The only interesting thing from the outside was the enticing aroma of food. Dave and Anouka had not eaten for some time and were drooling at the smells, but accommodation was top of the priorities.
Dave and I stood under a tree with all our baggage while Brian and Anouk went off in search of somewhere to stay. After a good 45 minutes Brian returned. He was wet through with sweat and not smiling. Not a good sign. He had decided that Anouka definitely had the edge on the bartering side and it would be for the best if they split up. Brian had walked along the beach and looked at bamboo huts and a tree house. The huts had no security at all. It would be possible to reach through the poles and steal our gear if the thief couldn't be bothered to lift the door off. The tree house was interesting but wanting to pee in the night might prove difficult if not fatal.

Two boys approached us with accommodation for rent and Brian said he would go and look. I was just too hot to move.
He returned after another 30 minutes looking like a wet rag and still not smiling. He had been shown two very basic rooms, each with an old bed and a sink. He had declined to take them and had wandered farther into the village where he saw two more rooms which he said were worse.
Anouk and Dave had found a room which they said would do, so we bade them a temporary farewell.
We decided to head to the Hotel Molyma which was about 3km outside Palolem.
There were two or three auto rickshaws 100yds or so away and we waved one over. Only we could have found the one disabled driver with a speech impediment who looked as if he had been hit by a cricket bat.
Even one of the locals had difficulty in making him understand where we wanted to go. Did I care any more? Not really.

After a ride which seemed a lot longer than 3km we reached a sign off to our left saying ' Molyma Resort. Kindlebag '. We turned down a long dusty cinder track. A ¼ mile of bouncing about in the rickshaw bought us to a large building that had once been white. If we had pulled up outside a place like this in any other country we have visited I would have said: `` You have to be joking.'' As it was I think I probably said: ``This looks nice.''

It was my turn to view prospective accommodation so I half clambered, half fell out of the cab and up the steps to the tatty reception. Old posters were hanging off the walls. The reception desk looked like a film set for an old hotel in Dodge City. There were wonky wooden pigeonholes behind the desk with room keys hanging out of them like tongues. Brian waited outside in the rickshaw.Unless these rooms had rats we were going to be staying.

The Molyma was actually very big. There were three floors. Each staircase led to an enormous landing area. The rooms were accessed by a series of painted brown doors set back from the landing. It resembled a cross between a barracks and an old hacienda. The hallways were completely bare with old brown and cream tiles on the floor. It was tatty but clean.
I was given the choice of three rooms. The first I viewed was the room previously occupied by the English eccentrics at the railway station. I smiled at the large empty bottle of Chivas Regal and glasses outside the door. During our conversation at the station the lady had mentioned that originally they had intended to stay in Palolem for only a week but had stayed two. Perhaps it took that long to sober up.
The large room was divided by some very rickety garden trellis. One part was empty except for a very old ceiling fan. This was one of a pair. The other twirled menacingly over the bed, rocking on its mounting as it whirled. The bed and other luxury fittings were in the second half of the room. The wardrobe comprised two chipboard side panels and a piece nailed across the top to keep them together. There was a clothes rail with four rusty wire coat hangers and a small table with a mirror.
To the side of the bed was what had once been a shelf with a drawer space below it, which had held a radio. Unfortunately the shelf was hanging down at 45 degrees and all that remained of the radio was some cable hanging out the wall. There was a glass window and door leading to a tiny balcony and we had two plastic garden chairs inside.
The bathroom was great; it was almost as big as one of the rooms. There was a western toilet looking very lonely in the corner with the lid askew, and beside it a tap with a jug below it.
Very green at this stage, I thought this was to catch the drips from the tap.
On the wall there was a large showerhead like a giant sunflower and a big red bucket with another jug hanging on it. On the wall to the right of the door was a sink, all very clean. And as the pretty receptionist pointed out, they supplied a toilet roll too. What more could we ask for?
I thought I would look at the two other rooms anyway. They were both a third of the size of The English Eccentric Suite. Back at reception I had a half-hearted haggle over the room tariff. £3 per night, less if we stayed longer than a week. I went outside to break the news to Brian. We had arrived at the Ritz.

I was interested to see Brian's reaction. He was impressed. We weren't to know it then, but Molyma was going to be one of the best addresses we would have in the whole of our stay in India.
We unpacked and showered before making our way back in to Palolem.
I was first into the bathroom and turned on the taps to get the shower going. Looking back I have to smile. Fancy thinking anything would come out of the hot tap. In the four months we stayed in India we had accommodation with hot water only three times.
Not only was there no hot water, there wasn't really any sort of water coming out of the showerhead. This was where the big bucket apparently came in. This and the jug were the D.I.Y. shower.
I felt much better after the wash. If I cleaned the two-day build up of muck off my teeth I thought there was a chance I might begin to feel human.
I came out of the bathroom feeling clean and shiny and handed over to Brian.

The trellis was perfect for attaching our mozzy nets. Later we used it to hang the water-boiling element to cool, and it also came in useful as a washing line for my knickers.
We went down to the reception and asked them if we could rent bicycles close by. The receptionist told us the way. As it turned out, it was of course the long way round. Another indication, not to ask an Indian the way anywhere.

At a ramshackle shop set back from the tarmac we bought a bottle of drinking water and continued on our way. We decided this must be the village of Kindlebag.
The bicycle man was not about and the shed in which we supposed the bikes were stored was firmly shuttered. No one was about to ask when he might be back so we walked on. We could just make out stretches of golden sand peeping between the coconut groves. We could see no way of reaching it but decided we would try to explore another day. We turned about face and headed for Palolem.

We could see beautifully coloured birds sitting up on the branches of the palms. There were paddy fields to our right and left and a deep stream with water buffalo wallowing happily. Banks of red soil carried the railway tracks for the local train. We could just make out the sign on the platform which read: Canacona.

The three kilometre walk seemed to be taking an age and Palolem was nowhere in sight. We reached a small community with two small shops selling everything from bottled water to cooking pots but more importantly there was a row of auto rickshaws waiting for fares.
We took a rickshaw into Palolem, and the driver dropped us off at the beach. Although only about 5.30 p.m. it was beginning to turn dusky.
The road was lined with bamboo stalls and huts where it was possible to buy sarongs, hippy-type clothing, bangles and beads.
Most of these were staffed by very young Indian girls who shouted: ``Looky, looky, come look at my things, good price for you, you my friend.''
With smiles and shakes of the head we told them: `` Maybe tomorrow.'

There was a cluster of open-air restaurants all of varying degrees of desirability. There was also a tiny little fruit and veg stall. Would I dare try it tomorrow or would I need a bank loan?
On we walked, passing more huts and restaurants most of which tended to be staffed by men wearing sarongs and vests that were none too clean. Vests seemed to be a pretty big fashion statement in India it made me think of my Dad, who is never seen without one.
Eventually we reached the bicycle hire shop which we christened
' Joe's' after the cycle shop in our home village. It was dark now but we could see that none of the bicycles was fitted with lights.
`` Not necessary, not necessary'' said Joe.
We arranged to return in the morning.

Opposite the bike hire was a German bakery. This unlikely addition to Palolem's culinary offerings comprised yet another shed with a very happy hippy awning, mirrored lanterns and an array of tables and chairs.
The place looked quite busy. The clientele were made up of what we later came to call Big Issue Sellers. They reminded us of the people seen in British streets selling the magazine ` The Big Issue '. Reputedly homeless and generally pretty scruffy, their clothes resemble the faded outfit of a clown, and their hair is generally matted or plaited. They have at least three features on their faces pierced, chain smoke, and are followed around by a mongrel dog often wearing a neckerchief.

The westerners that we had passed so far on our walk certainly looked like BIS people. As they were wearing less clothing we were able to see lots of other bits that they had pierced.
We decided we needed more than a German bun to eat so we walked back to the restaurants and settled for a place called Moo Moos.
It had an open-air Tandoori kitchen at the front and a regular kitchen at the back. It was very busy and we were shown to a table already occupied by one man. Being the anti-social pair we are it was not an ideal situation, but hunger overcame prejudice. This chap was dark and he looked like a Mexican as he had a black shawl wrapped around him and a dark ponytail streaked with grey. He was the double of Alan Rickman, the actor, so of course he became known to us as Alan.
We need not have worried about Alan interrupting our conversation as he mumbled `Hello,' gestured to his beer and indicated that as soon as he had finished it he was leaving. He then appeared to withdraw to another planet.

We ordered and then just watched every one and every thing going on around us. It was a good job there was lots to see as the food did not arrive for an hour and a half. We did not feel the need to complain as we had far too much fun watching everyone else do it.
At some point Alan had left us, we didn't even see him go.
We had stuck to vegetarian food feeling sure it was the best way to avoid stomach trouble. When our food arrived we were so hungry and it tasted so good that any chance of diahorrea seemed a small price to pay for demolishing everything in sight. Brian washed his food down with the local beer, Kingfisher. He said it was foul but still managed to drink two large bottles.

In theory Indians are not supposed to drink alcohol but wherever there were tourists there seemed to be a supply of it. There was not a great deal of choice, Kingfisher, whisky or vodka and a wine which I did try once but it was like strong sherry and disgusting. Alcohol was very expensive in comparison to food.

Back at the beach we found a driver who was just packing up for the evening and we persuaded him to take us back to the Molyma. The roads were pitch black and not even the moon helped.
At the Molyma the doors were closed and an old sofa had been pushed against them. We peeped in and on the sofa was the doorman fast asleep. We managed to open the doors and creep round the sofa and up to our room without waking him. Or perhaps he was awake and thought Brian far too big a burglar to challenge.
Once in our room we began the intricate task of getting into bed without pulling the mozzy net down.
I cleaned my teeth before hitting the sack but again forgot to use bottled water. I would surely die this time. We climbed into bed and put the fans on full blast. We laid back and groaned with exhaustion. I looked at the fan directly above us. It sounded like a helicopter and was rocking like a see-saw and I nodded off thinking about the likelihood of decapitation during the night.

A new day. We had slept like the dead and woke up feeling fine.
We went out on to the balcony to take in the view. The short-range outlook wasn't so good. We were at the back of the hotel and all plastic rubbish and cans had been hurled out of the back door where they made a large pile which was being closely inspected by big black crows.
The crow must be the national bird of India as there are thousands of the damn things where ever you go. I shouldn't think they have ever shown the Alfred Hitchcock film 'The Birds' in this country; no one would ever go out.

There is, to western eyes, a rather gruesome function for crows in India. In Bombay stand the Parsee Towers of Silence. Parsees hold fire, earth and water as sacred so they do not bury their dead. Instead the bodies are laid out within the towers to be picked clean by crows. Due to the construction of new high-rise accommodation in that part of the city things may have to change. The crows who are obviously scavenging very well for themselves elsewhere, are too well fed and after checking out the Tower of Silence restaurant, are dropping the less tasty morsels on to the balconies of surrounding homes.

Back to our balcony. Across a small field was a large elaborate house. Outside in the garden and field we could watch children playing, a family of dogs madly chasing each other and a battery of chickens scratching about. Despite the opulence of the building it clearly did not boast a lavatory. We saw a man and a woman [who we had decided was grandma] come out and have a squat down in the garden.

Breakfast called. Or more accurately, hunger told us to make a move.
The hotel restaurant looked a bit inhospitable so we made some enquiries at reception about a lift into Palolem. While we waited for the hotel transport we asked about laundry and were told to give it to the girl who cleaned the room .The girl turned out to be girls. They were a picture, almost twins. They both wore red check short-sleeved dresses with full skirts and old fashioned pinafores. They had very long dark hair and giggled constantly when spoken to. We gave them our laundry and hoped for the best.

The hotel truck dropped us outside the bicycle shop where we hired two brand new bicycles. They were very smart and mine even had a basket on the front. These were going to cost us about 90p a day for two. What a bargain.
We cycled off towards the beach and parked our bikes under a palm tree outside the Palolem Beach resort. We were going to have breakfast overlooking the ocean.
We sat in wicker chairs. I would like to say the waves breaking on the shore were a beautiful blue but they were more murky brown and not particularly enticing. The bay was quite stunning, a broad crescent sweep of sand edged with swaying palm trees and the odd tree house visible in the distance. But something, and I was not sure what, was making it less than idyllic. We ordered toast and tea and it arrived on, and in, a selection of assorted crockery.

Brian had seen a barber's shop on the way down to the beach so after we had eaten I stayed put and he took himself off for his first Indian shave. His absence gave me time to ponder on my feelings.

Palolem was more commercialised than I had at first thought, especially along the beachfront. What it seemed to be was a failed attempt at pleasing the foreigner, but it wasn't commercial enough for the package tourist, not quaint enough for the discerning traveller and not basic enough for the hippies. Coupled with a murky ocean and a substantial amount of litter the overall impression was one of tackiness. I did not feel relaxed nor overcome by the beauty of the place nor did I feel any sense of achievement because we had eventually arrived there. The situation clearly required a great deal more contemplation.

Brian was ages; I began to think that perhaps his throat had been cut at the barber's. He finally returned after about an hour and a half, he was full of the ecstasy of being given a traditional shave. He said it was a great experience. At 30p we could afford to let him have this much pleasure every day.
As we sat talking, a bird fell out of the tree we were sitting under. Closer inspection revealed it was a dead fish. As the sea was 50 yards away we thought this an unusual occurrence and decided to move on before it rained more dead fish.

We made our way along the bay. It was approaching mid-day, not the ideal time to be stripping off and exposing yourself to the sun's rays. But Brian was undaunted and off came the shorts and T-shirt. We had pitched ourselves quite close to a thatched shack cum bar called Ciarans. [a good Irish name.] It was part of a small commune of bamboo huts which were rented as accommodation.
The huts were set on a large square area of sand with a row of washbasins standing in the centre. There was also a small toilet block which housed four extremely clean sit-down lavatories. From the outside it looked like the Portaloos you see at football matches.

Ciarans was one of many places, which at this stage of our journey caused us to raise an eyebrow in a slightly derogatory fashion. It was also one of the places we thought of often, later on the trip, wishing we could find accommodation as inviting as those huts and washing facilities.
A plus factor to sitting on the sand in the proximity of Cairans was the availability of those loos. Also it was a quick sprint up the molten beach for a cup of 'chai'. The down side was the sporadic bursts of music of dubious quality and the fact it was as old as me.
The Eagles, Santana, Bob Dylan the most recent tapes being the Human League of 20 years ago. It was like being back in Ibiza in the Seventies. As the day wore on, and presumably the hangovers wore off, younger people started to drift into Ciarans.

There was a large Israeli contingent, both boys and girls. It was quite easy to imagine the girls doing their National Service, wielding machine guns and so forth, but the boys had earrings and braids and beads in their hair, and spent most of the days juggling and wafting around ribbons on sticks. They seemed a nice crowd and in such a small place we bumped into them constantly. They always smiled and said hello.
The British and German patrons were something else. The younger set were either scruffy, pierced everywhere, hung over or drugged up. The older people were grossly overweight, tattooed, scruffy, and also hung over.
As these people hadn't arrived on package holidays and therefore had used their initiative to arrive at Palolem, signifying they had a brain, this meant they might be dangerous. We thought that there was a strong possibility that they would not be averse to robbery if they ran out of money.
It certainly was not very New Age or Hippy in this part of Goa. More Old Age and mucky.

Before our skin began to bubble in the heat we packed our belongings, collected our bikes and made for the German Bakery. The bread and cakes were in an ancient cabinet which had a glass front and mesh doors on the back. The Nepalese boys who staffed the place did not understand the function of the mesh and glass and had perfected a technique of keeping the flies in the cabinet instead of out. We were unable to tell which was currant cake and which a resting place for flies. We settled for tea.
As we sat drinking our tea we were looking around and eaves- dropping on as many conversations as possible. Sitting almost next to us were identical Irish twin girls. They were about 5'2'' with black hair in shoulder length bobs, very pale complexions and round bottle bottomed lens glasses. Their dresses were the same style but different patterns and they would have been mid-twenties.
A tall thin slightly balding chap, possibly German, managed to strike up a conversation with the girls. He then slid himself across to a seat on their table. He sounded a bit of a smart arse out to impress.
They were all getting on quite well and having a deep conversation about literature when the poor sod was stupid enough to disagree with them over an issue. They systematically tore him apart. They were like two very bossy unsmiling dolls. After this initial disagreement it did not seem to matter what this chap had to say. They were going for the kill. No raised voices, just death by verbal acid. He fairly slithered out of the place, and when he left it was as if he had never been there. The girls uttered not one syllable in reference to him but just carried on eating. We thought they were very spooky and christened them the Spooky twins.

As we were about to pedal back to the Molyma we saw Dave and Anouk coming along the road. They asked us if we wanted to go with them in the morning to see the dolphins. They had inquired about hiring a big canoe and paddling off early to have a look at the wildlife. How could we tell such a lovely pair who were clearly crackers about wildlife that we would find dolphin watching about as interesting as soggy toast.
So of course we agreed to go. We didn't want to look like Philistines, did we?

Back at the Molyma while I was showering, I heard excited yells from our balcony. I paddled out to see Brian pointing at loads of monkeys swinging from the trees. They were big, probably about 4ft tall, skinny with goldy beige fur, black hands, feet and faces, and black tips on their very long tails. We sat and watched them for a little while but I was conscious of the time. It became dark early and very quickly and by seven o'clock it was pitch black. We were going to cycle into town and I wanted to go while it was still light. I had just gone back to the bathroom when Brian started yelling again, this time: ``Eagle, eagle!'' There was indeed an eagle and it was beautiful. Chestnut brown with white wing tips and head.
We watched it each day during our stay, wheeling and diving, but surprisingly he was unable to fight off the army of crows when it came to tasty tit bits. They won every time.

During our two weeks at Molyma we had our money's worth out of our balcony. Morning and evening we watched the monkeys and eagle. We watched the children from the big house playing cricket in the paddy fields with their mum standing in for the bowler.
We watched the children going off to school and the water buffalo searching the rubbish below for food. And of course we kept a check on the bowel movements of the family opposite. It was different from Holmfirth.

We just about made it back to Palolem before dusk fell and we went to Moo Moos again. After dinner we spotted a telephone shop.
Throughout India there are hordes of booths, shops, front rooms and shops within shops that offer telephone facilities. Only the major cities have coin box telephones. We assumed that there was such a huge requirement for this type of enterprise because few homes have phones.
The majority don't have water or electricity.
As the call is made the number dialled shows up on a display screen. If it is an international call the shopkeeper smiles widely as he knows he is going to make a load of cash. After the call is made a machine clicks into action and churns out enough paper to print out the National Debt and bring on a heart attack while waiting for the total cost.
As I walked past the phone booth I had an overwhelming desire to phone home. I explained to Brian, feeling rather pathetic, and he said:' ``Well, if it will make you feel better.''
So I called. Mum was really surprised to hear me and in the age-old cliché said ``The line is so clear you sound as if you are just down the road.''
Mum and Dad were both well and that was about it. I promised we would keep in touch and rang off feeling much happier.

It was now very dark but there were bicycles flying about, all without lights. The odd vehicle with headlights and a few mopeds and scooters were on the roads. But it was pitch dark 500 yds out of the village.
Brian was not the best cyclist in the world; he wobbled and swerved to avoid potholes, regardless of who or what was behind him. As he pedalled along with a torch in his hand while holding on to the handlebars and more importantly the brakes, he produced an erratic beam of torchlight that would have better served a landing aircraft than cyclist. Brian was cycling in front and we decided the best place for the torch was his mouth. This meant I could nag and moan incessantly and he could not say a thing. The few Indian pedestrians we passed either stared in disbelief or screamed with laughter.

We left Molyma early in the morning to meet David and Anouk. We passed the e-mail place, and for once there wasn't a queue so we dived in hoping to send a message home.
I am the e-mail typist and Brian is the technical support so sending e-mail is very much a joint effort. I typed the letter and then Brian tried to send it, but it was taking an age to get on line so I pedalled off down the road to meet David and Anouk.
When everyone arrived Anouk was dispatched to locate the captain of our canoe. Duly mustered we assembled on the beach to board our craft. It was a large piece of hollowed out wood with what appeared to be bicycle stabilizers sticking out of either side and an outboard engine strapped to the back.

Alongside was a similar vessel. On board were a Japanese man and his wife and in true Japanese fashion he was loaded down with an arsenal of camera equipment. And who climbed in behind them?
The Spooky Twins. They sat together in the bow, hands clasped in their laps, faces unsmiling and glasses glinting in the early morning sunlight.
We headed out to sea. Everyone on board was straining their eyes to catch a glimpse of the dolphins, except Brian and me. But we were trying very hard to look interested.
`` Dolphins! Dolphins!'' shouted the skipper.
We both had our eyes glued to the Japanese chap waiting for him to drop one of his cameras into the sea. After a very uninteresting 20 minutes in which we spotted the odd dolphin's back disappearing under the waves, we chugged off to a little place called Butterfly Cove. This sounded more like it; a little bit of deserted beach with lots of butterflies. Lovely.

As we approached this very small sandy inlet with a scrubby bit of woodland behind it, we were not upset that Anouk had requested that we be picked up in an hour as she was suffering with sunburn. Not only did it look a rather a grotty grotto but, unbelievably there were big black clouds in the sky. Both canoes dropped their passengers off and we waded to the beach. Butterfly Cove. Ha! More like Ravens' Retreat.
We huddled up on a towel on the beach watching the crows dive-bomb the masses of rubbish strewn everywhere. They must have eaten the butterflies. The Spooky sisters sat together and looked out to sea and Mr. and Mrs. Japan carried on taking pictures of everything and anything. We were glad to see the boats return.

We spent the rest of the day on the beach at Palolem chatting to David and Anouk. They were both really nice. As is the case in this type of situation you swap life histories and I always feel so uncomfortable afterwards. It is a feeling that you have said far too much or more than you intended to.
We spent a pleasant afternoon and arranged to meet them for dinner at an Italian restaurant in the village recommended by an Italian. He said he had never eaten such good pasta outside Rome.
We arrived promptly but David and Anouk had not yet arrived. We declined a drink but did ask to see the menu. It was most confusing. The sign outside said 'Italian' but the menu didn't contain a hint of pasta. We pointed this out to the waiter who then told us the Italian restaurant was round the back.
We made our way through the undergrowth and there were our dining companions. Anouk was very slim yet had the capacity to eat for Holland. She did, however, have a problem that evening which was evident from the roll of toilet paper she had brought with her. It was amazing how quickly we were able to accept a toilet roll as the centrepiece of a table setting.

Indian lavatories do not come with a supply of toilet paper. Indians prefer to use a hand, one reserved for the purpose; the other is exclusively for eating. A tap is usually positioned next to the lavatory at knee level. One can only assume that if a toilet has neither paper nor water, which is not uncommon, the Indians as well as everyone else really are in the shit.

Back to dinner. Despite her problem Anouk , rather than giving her stomach a chance of recovery, ate as much as she could and awaited the consequences. It was like reversed bulimia.
The food really did taste excellent. Fresh bread, home-made pasta but it was swimming in oil.
We paid the bill and departed for the German bakery to sample cakes and rice pudding.
Anouk fell by the wayside after half a sticky bun [with either a currant or fly topping,] and five minutes later both she and David hastily departed for their room and toilet, which thankfully were close by.
Brian cleared up any remaining sweetmeats.

I was awoken the next morning with a cup of tea, which impressed me greatly. Despite my lavish compliments and wishes for it to continue throughout the trip, it never happened again unless I suggested it.
We decided on an alternative route into Palolem which would hopefully take us to Canacona, also known as Chaudi, the nearby village. We had certainly chosen the right day to visit as it turned out to be market day.
Chaudi resembled a shantytown. Ramshackle buildings in various states of repair with bicycles, rubbish, and cows everywhere. The place was fairly teaming with life. Wizened little old ladies in saris sat together in groups. They had wide flat circular dishes in front of them, piled high with a multitude of different produce, chilli peppers, spices, jasmine flowers and garlands, onions and green vegetables. Surprisingly the fruit looked terrible. Oranges were crinkly and discoloured and the apples were not really recognisable.
There was a profusion of grapes, my favourite fruit, but I was not going to risk eating them. I was not prepared to sit and peel a kilo of the things or soak them in iodine solution to make them safe. We decided on a coconut and purchased one from a fellow who seemed to have bought his entire family to the market with him. Wife, mum, and children were all sitting on the floor surrounded by their merchandise. This really was a farmers' market and we could tell it was the big event of the week. Everyone came into town with their produce and then bought the things they needed from the shops and other traders round about.

We located a tiny shop selling fabric and bought quite a few metres of brightly coloured cotton to make some trousers for both Brian and me. We asked the owner how much it would cost us to have them made and he said less than £1. We became so excited we bought the fabric for two long jackets as well. The manager of the shop summoned the tailor who duly arrived on a bicycle; we later found his shop, which was a small wooden garden shed behind the bus stand.

Pushing our bikes we walked up to the main road and into the part of the market selling pots and pans, knickers, hair ornaments and anything else we could think of. I bought a steel teapot so we didn't have to brew up in our tin mugs, and two steel plates for our beach picnics. The teapot lasted the duration of the trip but the plates were short lived as they went rusty when Brian constantly scoured them with the outrageously expensive Boy Scout knife he had received as a Christmas present. After the excitement of the shopping frenzy we asked directions to the post office.

We were just about to pedal off when we were hailed by a western man standing at the side of the road. He was very tall and thin with fair hair. He had a nice face but if he had not been a lovely golden brown I suspect he would have looked in need of a good meal.
His clothes were clean but. His old brown brogues had numerous patches. He had the air of a seasoned traveller, a Lawrence of Arabia type.
He asked us if we knew the way to the post office. We explained we were on our way there and he asked us if we would post his cards. We said we would be happy to. This, of course, enabled me to sit outside the post office and read them all. Nosey cow, aren't I?
We learned that he had been travelling for years. He had sent a note of thanks to one friend acknowledging receipt of £30. Heaven knows how he was surviving, and some of the cards were quite sad.

We spent a ridiculous 20 minutes trying to stick stamps on our postcards without actually licking them. We used a couple of methods; spitting in our hand and dunking the stamp or spitting at the stamp. Football had qualified Brian to be far better at spitting than me. The stamps' cheap glue and thin paper could not cope with the vast amount of moisture we were directing at them and we rendered half the stamps useless.
This postal pastime was later dispensed with as I decided we were far more likely to die from a number of other factors before death by stamp glue.

Loaded down with our purchases we merrily pedalled off to Palolem and on the way came across David and Anouk on a motor scooter. Their primary destination was a wild life sanctuary about half an hour away. Now there was a surprise! Guess who won't be pedalling off there, then?
Brian was going to have another shave and so I thought I would make a few purchases from the fruit and veg shop. A young boy was serving and to his right sat an old man using the top of a small table as the till. He was the cashier.
Behind him lurked an enormous Indian woman. Mountains of bare wobbling midriff protruded between her sari top and skirt, long greasy hair was scraped back roughly into a hair clip, and her big bovine eyes stared out from a face that was predominantly gums and a few teeth. She looked a little crazy. I bought bananas and a pineapple, and as I went to pay for them Mrs Mad noticed my earring.

Before I left home I had an earring made by a jeweller friend. As I am a lover of dragons and Star Trek it was fashioned both after a dragon which circled my ear and then protruded on to my cheek and also in the style of a facial decoration worn by Seven of Nine, a Borg character in Star Trek. This earpiece had already created interest and it had been great fun watching people's reaction to it.
Mrs Mad was in love with it. She called every member of her family within hailing distance to look. Fortunately she turned out to be the only gummy and dribbly one; otherwise it would have been quite a frightening experience. I was offered all manner of exchanges for it, manky oranges, pineapples, and my weight in bananas. Each time I visited from then on she came out to look, beckoning me to come closer and pointing madly at her ear. It proved beneficial as soon I was being given discount on purchases and eventually was allowed to go into an adjoining room to the shop, which housed fruit waiting to ripen, and the family beds. From this privileged position I was allowed to pick the best fruit.

On one visit, as I stood waiting to be served, feeling very much at home, I watched and listened to the gentleman being served in front of me. He was perhaps 6ft tall and wearing a white dhoti and clean white shirt. He was balding but the hair that remained was silver. He was perhaps mid sixties and very brown like an Indian. He seemed to be speaking Hindi to the amusement of the mad clan and it was evident that this fellow was neither impressed by the quality of the merchandise nor the prices he was being charged. I leaned against the side of the stall smiling stupidly but as this man picked up his purchases he rounded on me with such a tirade of rhetoric that my jaw was left swinging open. As he delivered a lecture to me it became evident from his accented English that he was German.
He told me that it was fine for me, coming along paying these stupid prices. I hadn't got a clue what I was doing. I was buying poor goods, paying far too much for them, and I thought it was a big joke. Had I any idea how difficult I made it for people who lived there? Laughing and joking with these people was not the done thing. Show them who is boss. Do not let them make idiots of us all.
Well, there we had it then. A bad tempered German who thought all Indians were thieving peasants and I was an idiot. But how we came to remember his words and reflect on the truth of them.

I made my way down to the beach as Brian and I were going to meet at Ciarans . I pushed the bike and thought I could do a bit of shack gazing and look at the wares for sale along the roadside. It was inevitable that I would be hassled and encouraged to visit each and every stall. We had shouted at all the stallholders from the safety of our bicycles, saying we would visit their stalls 'tomorrow, tomorrow.' So today was the day.

One persistent young lady took my arm and all but dragged me into her hut. There was nothing I wanted but the sales pitch went from: ``Just look at my lovely things'' to ``I make good price for you, you are my friend'' to `` please buy, you must buy, I have no money, I have no food'' and so on. I escaped eventually, but not before I had sat down cross-legged on the floor and listened to her life story.

Her name was Ranouka and she was thirteen. She was spindly and slightly built. She had a pretty face and the customary dangly earrings and adornments. She wore a brightly coloured sari top and knee-length full skirt and several toe rings.
Ranouka had travelled from a neighbouring state. She had lodgings quite a distance from the town and each day she walked to her stall carrying her merchandise on her head.
The story went on to encompass wicked uncles, arranged marriages and, having forgotten that she had previously mentioned her parents, she now added that she was an orphan. The tale grew ever more fantastic and while I had been full of wonder and admiration at the start I was becoming bored and insulted that she thought I might believe this load of drivel.
Poor Ranuka seemed astounded when I got up to leave, but she had nothing I liked enough to carry around in my luggage for the next three months, regardless of her personal problems.

We lazed about on the beach for the rest of the day. I was conscious of the leisure time we had, and the inadequate amount of reading material I had been able to bring with me, so I limited the amount I read each day.
I had taken a copy of a book called ``End the struggle and Dance with Life'' to the beach. It claimed to show the way to build yourself up when the world gets you down.
I would read it out to Brian and then we would have discussions or arguments on the contents. It was a great book and there were certainly some excellent points made in it and good advice given. One particular story inspired me every day.

A Tibetan lama once crossed the Himalayas on foot during the Chinese occupation of his country. When asked how he managed such a difficult journey, he answered: ''That's simple. One step at a time.''

When I cycled back to the Molyma I thought of the monk as I started to pedal up the last hill. Most people got off their bikes and walked but when I pedalled up and it became really hard going I just kept thinking, one more push, and another, and before I knew it I would be at the top.
Another saying was: All his life a man struggles to reach the top of the ladder, and finally he does - only to discover it's leaning against the wrong wall. Ain't that the truth? We thoroughly enjoyed reading the book and we made it last for the duration of the trip.
We had also taken along a pack of Tarot cards. We had never had the time to study them, but now we had.

After reading, discussion and analysis followed by a snooze, we packed up our towels and left over snacks, and headed back to the town. When we returned to our bikes mine had a flat tyre, so Brian cycled ahead and sat in the German Bakery while I walked to Joe's cycle shop for a tyre change. Such a gent.
Joe, two of his workers and several locals had a great deal of discussion over the tyre. I was given a chair in the middle of the yard until a conclusion to the problem could be reached. The town's specialist tyre fitter arrived, more discussion ensued, and after about an hour I had a new tyre, inflated and ready to go.

At the Molyma we washed and changed and set off back to Palolem in the dusky light, Brian in the lead. We had experienced a number of power cuts already. They were not total blackouts, a restaurant may lose its lighting and the shop across the road may not or vice versa.
Molyma had cuts quite early in the morning, which affected the brew up, and early evening, which meant we had no fan and the room soon became stifling. On this particular evening we had no road lights.
We took an alternative route running through a paddy field. It was picturesque during the day, but at night there were swarms of midges and mozzies. Keeping them out of our face and eyes was a major problem. The new route was a little hilly but we felt that the added exercise would do us no harm.

On the crest of the final hill stood a small hotel. Outside it displayed a bulletin board and menu and Brian stopped to have a look. I on the other hand, having finally made it to the top, didn't feel inclined to stop and carried on pedalling, calling out to him as I passed by.
Over the crest was a small settlement of houses and as I reached the bottom of the decline my attention was drawn to the opposite side of the road where I could just make out a group of youths. At that instant a motor scooter rounded the bend towards me. I was momentarily distracted by the headlight and decided for some strange reason to swerve to the left. I had not taken into consideration the largest tree in Goa which, as they say in all the best insurance claims, jumped out and hit me. I went headfirst into the trunk of the tree, my teeth actually rattled in my mouth as my head collided with the bark. I didn't fall off. I just sort of parked the bike in the tree roots.
I was a bit dazed and as I put my hand to my face was unable to believe my nose was not broken nor was my forehead pouring with blood. I was so amazed I was euphoric. By the time Brian came down the hill and saw what had happened I was just standing there saying: I can't believe it. I can't believe I am O.K.''

We remounted the bikes and pedalled slowly into Palolem and by the time we arrived I had quite a lump growing on my head. We went straight to the restaurant where I sat in slight shock. I still could not believe it was possible to hit something so hard and come away with so little damage. Brian decided I should have a glass of wine, which was the second experience of the night I could have done without. Goan wine was dreadful, instant headache material, although the tree could have had something to do with it.

Understandably I was not keen to cycle home but we did not have much alternative. We didn't go in search of Double Dutch on their last night but we felt confident we would find them the next day to say goodbye.
The next morning I awoke to a greenish-purple lump on the forehead and stiff grazed fingers which I must have caught on the tree. Other than that I was fine. I was so pleased it had happened to me and not to Brian. If he had knocked himself out I don't know what I would have done out there in the dark.

We set off early to look for Dave and Anouk. We met them on our way for breakfast and they agreed to find us at Ciarans when they had finished their packing.
We had breakfast of tea and toast overlooking the sea and were soon joined by Dave and Anouk. We did all the things folk do in that situation, exchanged addresses and so on. In this age of the e-mail promises to keep in touch are more likely to be kept. Brian insisted there was a tear in my eye when they left, and God knows why, but he was right.
We spent the rest of the day discussing the sense of delaying our return home. We seemed to have a great deal to see and do, and a lot of land to cover in the remaining ten weeks. We had been in India a fortnight already.

We decided to e-mail Odette at Bridge the World in London, and ask her if she could change our flight tickets from Madras to Delhi for a later departure. Odette had been our contact at Bridge the World, a specialist travel agency. We were introduced to them when we visited an independent Travellers Exhibition at the G. Mex centre in Manchester. They seemed to offer excellent prices on worldwide flights and all their staff, none of whom looked more than 20 years old, were a mine of information. We later found out that in order to be employed by this company you must have travelled around the world at least twice. Odette had a Sloane Ranger accent and her conversations were liberally sprinkled with lovies and darlings. She was very down to earth and had an excellent sense of humour. It was Odette who said: ``If you can master and survive India, darlings, the rest of the world is a piece of cake''
Odette must have had an off day when we e-mailed her. Instead of changing the dates on our tickets she had reserved a further two tickets on the dates we had requested.

We eventually tried the 'travel hut' on the main street in Palolem. Unfortunately the agent could not help us as our tickets would need to be taken in to Margao to be altered and the process took three days.
We did not think we would be in Palolem that long.
We had stayed longer than we had originally expected but lethargy and the great unknown had weakened our resolve. The agent assured us, however that we would be able to change our air tickets at the next major town we visited.

Palolem was becoming quieter and the trades people and restaurants were none too happy. The Millennium had not brought hordes of revellers or even the normal amount of travellers. It was our good fortune in terms of available accommodation and prices.
We had walked along to the far end of the bay during the afternoon and were amused to find a small band of westerners performing Yoga exercises. They were so affected and they were really funny to watch.
Thousands of tiny crabs joined this assortment of folk on the beach. Walking through them was a strange experience. They avoided us. We did not avoid them.

Unusually for us, our spirit of adventure and curiosity had deserted us. Normally we would walk the length of a beach and then climb rocks and scramble around headlands in search of a secluded spot. We hadn't been tempted on this bay. I blamed the heat. The thought of the effort and finding no shade along the way was all too much. When we finally packed up after a hard day of crab and people watching, we headed for the German Bakery and one or another of their strange brews.

The Spooky Twins were in residence eating enough for six, a Dutch chap had joined them and we happily sat and eaves-dropped on their conversation yet again.
They were leaving for Ireland the next day and moaning incessantly about India, even complaining that they missed the stress of everyday life at home. The brave fellow in their company finally stood up and told them in no uncertain terms that ' life is what you make it '.

That night we had a change from our usual eating-place and went to a place recommended by our Dutch friends. No wonder they became ill. The glasses were dirty, and we were able to watch the chef wipe his work surface with a cloth the colour of coal dust. For good measure he gave a good hawk and a spit to the side of his cooking range. I went to wash my hands and found that the lavatory was unusable and the sink was blocked with filthy water.
We had already ordered and the place was really busy, so we sat tight and I prayed. The meal arrived and my throat just did not want to swallow my food. Brian troughed on regardless.
I watched a couple on the next table. The man looked the worse for drink, unless it was the onset of terminal food poisoning that was causing him to slur and hang his face two inches from his plate. His companion had a mountain of rice on one plate and something else on another. She was shovelling it in like a high-speed train eating up rail track, so clearly did not have the hygiene concerns that I did.

We took a stroll through the village and one little place seemed busy, probably something to do with a television set sitting in the middle of the yard. There were empty seats within viewing distance so we went in.
A boy in the usual uniform of dirty vest and skirt gave us a menu, but he seemed pleasant enough. Brian had a beer and I had tea. I glanced around at an assortment of men of different ages and nationalities, all glued to the television. I don't know what it is, but when we go away I become a T.V. addict. Brian, who would watch television at home all day, is totally uninterested in it while travelling.
This little T.V. haven was next door to the e-mail hut; the proprietor even served coffee or tea to the people who were queuing to use the computers. This was perfect. Brian sat himself down with the people waiting to go on line, and I sat mouth hanging open, staring intently at the screen, watching an adventure film about an impossibly huge crocodile that was eating up half of America.

We both made new acquaintances. I chatted with a strange little man from Switzerland. He was about 5ft tall, with few teeth and sparse but long straggly hair. He was quite pale although he had been in India for three months. We sat in front of the telly and commiserated with each other when there was a power cut or the picture was not too good or when the film was terrible, but none of these things stopped us avidly staring at the screen.
Brian and I would have our main meal in Moo Moos and then head off for tea, a beer and a chocolate and coconut pancake in front of the T.V. Immediately the pancake was dispatched Brian would go next-door leaving me to sip my tea and enjoy.

It was my new friend, the Swiss man, who gave us yet another truism although we were not aware of his wisdom at the time. He said he had travelled around most of India in his lifetime and, although Palolem had its faults, it was better than just about anywhere he had visited. He said: `` Don't go so far that you can't get back here.''
We were a little concerned to think that this was as good as it was going to get on our trip, and the route we were set on taking meant we couldn't go back.
Brian's new friend, found at the e-mail queue, he was about 6ft 4ins, slim and tanned, and had long flowing grey hair, a gaunt face and kind eyes. He wore the typical Indian pilgrim outfit of long linen shirt and baggy trousers and traditional sandals, and topped it all off with a staff in his hand.
We had seen him walking along the beach like a prophet and I had said to Brian: ``There's you in another 20 years' or ``Here's your dad.'' He turned out to be another Dutch Physiologist. Why were we attracting these analyst types?

Brian would recount the stories that Johan [The Prophet] had told him and the in-depth discussions the two of them had while waiting for their turn on the computer. They seemed to enjoy themselves sitting on the little bench drinking coffee in the yard of the email shack. I wasn't sure whether their liaison came to an end because Johan gave us poor information with regard to the full moon [big event in Goa] or because in true social worker fashion he thought it time to share with Brian the fact he was gay. Either way Brian seemed to show a renewed interest in watching yet another re-run of Mel Gibson in Brave Heart.

We had intended to leave Palolem within the next couple of days but Johan had told Brian that it was The Full Moon in two days' time. He said it was not to be missed as the waves were huge and came crashing on to the shore, and that the fishing boats would be pulled high up on the beach to avoid them being damaged. He also said it would be wonderful to sit out at one of the bars at the furthermost reaches of the bay and watch the sea and the moon. We had no doubt he would also be smoking a joint. Well, we weren't too bothered about smoking anything strange. We were having enough experiences drinking tea and water, but we did like the sound of his suggestion.

The Full Moon also explained why everything had gone quiet in Palolem. It seemed that the old hands had migrated farther north to Anjuna where the really heavy Full Moon rave parties took place. Sex, drugs and rock and roll - or more likely sand and vomit. I was definitely over the hill for that type of carry-on and even Brian, when he gave it some thought, decided that imagining what it may be like could be more exciting than being there. We decided we would wait for the full moon in Palolem and then take ourselves off to our next port of call, which was to be Gokarna.

During the next couple of days we busied ourselves with visiting the tailor's shop in Chaudi to collect our clothes and making sure the two giggling room maids had returned all our laundry.
{They had been brilliant during our stay. Items were washed and returned for 10p each. The room was kept clean and we always had clean towels, bedding and a supply of toilet rolls.]

I had managed a further bike incident on the way home one evening.
It was an Isadora Duncan variation. I had worn a wrap round skirt which had tangled itself in the cycle chain. The bike ground to a halt with a ripping noise. Brian came back from the lead as he heard my yells back in the distance. I returned to Molyma in a very revealing mini skirt.
We cycled home on yet another evening via Chaudi, which did not turn out to be one of our better moves, all the dogs in the town chased us and it certainly made for our quickest cycling time from Palolem to Molyma.

The day before the full moon, Palolem was really quiet. This was, I am sure, one of the reasons that the first complete prat of our trip approached us.
We were drinking tea in Ciarans at lunchtime when the chap we had seen in the lousy restaurant, the one who had been worse for wear, decided he wanted to chat. He was an Australian plumber and bored us with the biggest load of twaddle. He tried to convince us he had lived in Thailand where he taught the Thais kickboxing. He even implied that he had represented Thailand at competition level. By the looks of him, that seemed about as likely as saying that Ivana Trump always shopped at Oxfam. We named him Jean Claude van Dope and did our best to avoid him from then on.

We went to Moo Moos that night and the waiter mentioned he had wanted to go to Anjuna for the full moon party that night but his boss wouldn't let him.
That night? It was supposed to be tomorrow surely? Not so. Brian had made a booby.
As a full moon in an open-air restaurant is something you can't really fail to see, we enjoyed it while we ate and then rushed to the beach to see the crashing waves. They must have had the wrong night, too.
The breakers we saw would have looked big only to something very small, such as an ant. Johan must have been taking drugs.

The next evening, our last in Palolem, I made Brian pay the price for his cock-up. We went on to the roof of the Molyma where we were alone apart from half a mile of washing line, and I made Brian Moon the Moon. I declared it a special Irish Full Moon Party; those were the parties you held the day after a Full Moon. He had his revenge.
The photo I took of him didn't come out.

The next morning we had to be up early. The bus we needed to catch left Chaudi at 7.30 a.m. We were travelling to Gokarna, town of the temples and chanting pilgrims, via God alone knew where.
Goodbye Palolem. Goodbye Molyma.

(Printable version here)

'The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack'
Chapter 1	Chapter 2
Chapter 3	Chapter 4
Chapter 5	Chapter 6
Chapter 7	Chapter 8
Chapter 9	Chapter 10
Chapter 11	Chapter 12
Chapter 13	Chapter 14
Chapter 15	Chapter 16
Chapter 17	Chapter 18
Chapter 19	Chapter 20
Chapter 21	Epilogue