“Careful. Watch yourself with that – it’s heavy,” I suggested. The porter had grabbed my large suitcase to place it in the boot of the ‘free service’ courtesy bus that would transfer us from Terminal 1 to Terminal 2 of Mumbai airport.

Our three-flight schedule back to Scotland had been altered and we were now faced with a ten-hour stopover at Mumbai airport. Almost one hour would be taken up getting through the traffic to our outgoing-flight terminal.

(Mumbai airport is amazing in many respects, but what fascinated me was that when you exit Terminal 1, you are effectively disgorged into a city-centre environment. There is no quick route between the airport buildings and the free bus we were to board, would have to negotiate the 6 pm traffic.)

The porter surreptitiously looked over his shoulder to check his bosses were not watching him as he heaved the bag off the trolley.

“You have a tip?” he whispered.
“Sorry, what?”
“You have a tip for me, please?”
“Yeah, bend your knees, and keep your back straight as you lift,” I offered with a smile.

The porter humored me and smiled back, the gaps between his yellowing teeth becoming more obvious.

You see, he must have known he’d soon have the last laugh.

We arrived at Terminal 2 around 7 pm – nine hours before our flight to Dubai was due to leave. We had already spent one and a half hours in a taxi to get to the ‘new’ airport in Goa; waited two hours before our flight to Mumbai and then forty-five minutes flying time. The plan was to check-in our luggage and then get some rest, peace and quiet in the airport hotel.

But you know what they of the best laid plans and all that!

“You’re too early.” You cannot get in the airport building more than six hours before your flight, said the stoical soldier from the Indian army. “Go away.”

We weren’t prepared for this. Our flight operators made no mention when they changed our original plans with a two-hour stopover to ten.

“Maybe he’s just a ‘jobsworth'” I suggested to my wife. “We’ll try the entrance two gates away.”
(All entrances to airports in India that we’ve been to are patrolled by soldiers who check every minute detail to ensure you have a valid reason for entering the building. I’m certainly not complaining. India has sadly experienced its share of terrorist atrocities through the years.)

Nope. No joy.
“Come back in three and a half hours.”
“Where can we go?” we rather pathetically asked, pointing to our large, heavy suitcases.
“Anywhere … but not here.”

Good answer. I suppose I deserved that, having joked earlier with the luggage porter who would by now have been laughing his flip-flops off had he been present.

The next three and a half hours were spent on a surprisingly chilly pavement outside a Burger King, trying hard to stagger our minimal purchases so we couldn’t be kicked out for simply loitering.

Fortunately, we got chatting and sharing photos of our respective cats with a lovely young couple from Russia who had been living the last year in Kazakhstan. They were ‘travelling’ and had next to no luggage compared to us. They very kindly delved into their rucksack and gave us a big bar of Kazakhstan chocolate for being so friendly with them.

Such simple things make bad situations seem so much better, don’t they?

Anyway – that’s Goa done and dusted for another year. Twelve times we’ve visited, and it never fails to excite us.

The people; the weather; the food; the wildlife. All perfect. And yet Goa is not all ‘perfect.’ It’s no glitzy Dubai-type haven. To enjoy Goa and indeed India, you must be prepared to take the rough with the smooth: parts may look untidy and messy; life can become embroiled in bureaucratic red tape; the cities can appear chaotic and the driving is just plain crazy.

And yet it all works.

We’re already counting the days until we can return.