Living at the Edge of the Sea

(Written in Mandrem, March 16^th.  You will note I'm a few days behind, but I'm trying to spread out my posts instead of adding them all at once -- I didn't have internet access for a couple of days so am playing catch up.) 

Wow, I’ve gone 25 kilometres up the coast and I’ve landed in a completely different world.   Anjuna, even this late in the season, was still relatively full of people by comparison; here, in Mandrem, I sit on the porch of my tiny little bamboo hut and stare out at the dark sand.  No lights, except the moon.  No people.  No sounds except the waves and a barking dog somewhere in the distance.   

I left Anjuna Beach this morning, after breakfast overlooking the sea (food always tastes better that way).  I set out to get a rickshaw, having decided (for no logical reason) that I would pay 200 rupees for my taxi ride to Mandrem.  It isn’t well-served by public buses — getting there would involve a bus from Anjuna to Mapusa (inland), up to Arambol, and a final hop down to Mandrem — so I decided a taxi was worth the money to save myself the all-day journey. 

Well, it seems that the taxi drivers had other ideas.  The first guy I approached wanted 500 rupees to make the trip, citing the ridiculously high price of fuel and the horrendously long distance.   (Did I mention it was 25 kilometres?  Hardly the other side of the world.)  I declined graciously, and — as inevitably happens when I start to walk away — he was prepared to negotiate.  I couldn’t get him to budge below 450, though, so I thought I’d carry on and see if I could do better.

As I went further down the beach and onto the road leading inland, the prices started to drop.  I never did manage to get away with 200 rupees — but then, I didn’t really have any good reason to expect to — but I did catch a ride for 300, or about $6.50.  We wove through some lush green countryside and a few chaotic and colourful villages on the way, reaching Mandrem about 45 minutes later.

Sunset view from my front porch

At least I think it’s Mandrem.  There’s no actual village, just a scattering of huts and cafes, which sounds about right to be Mandrem Beach.  But I wasn’t quite sure, as the driver dropped me at the side of the road and pointed out the path down to the beach, speeding off as soon as I’d closed the door behind me.    (I was even more confused later in the day when I took an exploratory walk along the beach and found myself in Arambol after about half an hour’s walk.  Either they’re much closer together than I’d realized, or I’m not where I think I am.)

It looked beautiful when I got out of the cab, anyway, wherever it was, so I was prepared to stay a while whether or not it turned out to be Mandrem.  I wandered for half an hour or so from hut to hut, seeking one for 300 rupees a night or less.  (Yes, I had another arbitrary price in my head.  Well, maybe not quite so arbitrary as it was reasonable based on Anjuna prices.) 

It took a long and sweaty walk down the beach, but I finally landed in one costing only 300 rupees.  It's not the nicest one I saw (that one was 1,500 rupees), and it’s probably the flimsiest structure I’ve ever seen — I think my camping tent would stand up to high winds better than this hut!  But it’s got four walls, a door that locks, and a bathroom with running water; I have learned that these are all things you cannot take for granted in Goa cheap-hut beachland.  (If you really want to live on the cheap, you can give up luxuries like a lock or a bathroom and sleep for about 150 rupees.  I didn’t want to save money quite that badly.)  It does not have a mozzie net, which I may live to regret by tomorrow morning, particularly since the sole window has no screen or shutter to keep the little monsters out.

But for now, it’s working for me.  As I sit here on my tiny front porch, the Arabian Sea crashes into the shore about 20 metres away.  There’s hardly a sound, except for the rhythmic pounding of the surf.  There’s not a soul around; miraculously in this country of a billion people, I’m completely and utterly alone.   Getting my fix of solitude, after the constant crowds and chaos of previous weeks, ought not to be a problem here.

There’s nothing between me and the water except fine white sand, almost glowing in the clear soft moonlight.  The sun set a couple of hours ago — it’s now about 9 pm — but a hint of radiance still lingers in the sky. 

I think I’m going to like it here.

Dance to the Music in Your Head

(Written in Anjuna, March 15^th)

Goa’s had a rep for about 400 years.   Way back when, Portuguese sailors used to call into Goan ports to live it up in drunken debauchery after months at sea coming around Cape Horn.  It’s maintained that, in successive centuries.  As recently as the mid-20^th century, Calengute was a favourite watering hole of the Portuguese elite,  arriving each year in May.  In subsequent decades, it was hippie heaven in the 1960’s and 70’s, centred in and around Anjuna, giving way to the pounding trance beat of ravers in the 80’s and 90’s who took over Anjuna and Vagator.

How times have changed. 

There are still parties to be had in Goa — Calengute and Baga are non-stop, party-central till the wee hours of the morning, with mainly European package-holiday tourists hell-bent on having a good time in their two weeks in India.  (The Portuguese aristocrats of 50 years ago must be turning over in their graves, to see what`s happened to their favourite holiday spot.)  But the rest of the beaches have quieted; locals, concerned about the effects of Western hedonism on the morals of their youth, pressured the police to put a stop to the scene.  Now, there`s a crackdown and sound is turned off early; you can still find the music for a short while, but your rave will be over by 10 pm, when it would just be getting started in other parts of the world.

I took a day trip to Vagator today, just up the coast from Anjuna, on a little local bus that cost me 10 rupees (20-odd cents) for a return trip.  Vagator was the home of monster raves in earlier decades, from the stories I’ve heard, and you can still see the evidence on the beach.  There’s a huge depression in the sand, about midway up Vagator Beach, surround by large red and orange feather-shaped banners; when I asked about it, I was told this was “Disco Valley”, where enormous outdoor parties are held.  (Well, till 10 pm anyway.)

The police turn a blind eye (or a deaf ear) to parties over the Christmas and New Year season so the music can carry on later, and Baga, for some reason, has escaped the ban year-round.  I’m guessing it’s got something to do with large amounts of baksheesh changing hands.

But this time of year, Vagator and Anjuna are pretty quiet.  You can still hear a trance beat pumping out of some of the shops in the towns, or coming out of the windows of passing cars.  But your chances of finding anywhere to dance till the wee hours of the morning are pretty slim.  You’ll be going to bed early whether you like it or not, when the speakers shut off well before midnight.

Further south, though, they’ve come up with a way around the noise ban.  Starting in Palolem and gradually spreading to other beaches, “silent parties” sprang up.  You can dance, till all hours of the night and into the next day, without anyone getting upset about the music.  That’s because you don  pair of wireless headphones, pick one of the channels of music on offer, crank it up as loud as you like and party the night away.  In outer silence, but inner bliss, as you dance to the music that only you can hear.

What a brilliant idea.  I asked around about such a thing in Anjuna or Vagator, but there’s nothing going on here yet.  So maybe I’ll have my own private party:  crank up my iPod, and dance like a madwoman, down there on the beach.  Dance, to the music in my head.

P.S.  No one will think I’m crazy, will they?

Hippie Days are Here Again

(Written in Anjuna – Mar 11^th)

Anjuna Beach. 

Hippie capital of India, former home of the Goa Freaks and trancehead ravers, and scene of countless volumes of drugs inhaled, snorted, swallowed or injected; still living on the infamous but fading glory of decades gone by and drawing travellers like a magnet to what-used-to-be.  My home for a few days, perhaps a week, as I further indulge my inner hippie (who, by the way, is never buried that far beneath the surface — my corporate-world self is only ever a veneer).

This particular beach, somewhere in the middle of the northern beaches, has probably the most colourful past of any Goan destination.  It was a mecca for young Westerners in the hippie heyday of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s — the “Goa Freaks” who lived on the beach and did a mind-altering amount of drugs on its long stretch of sand.  A couple of decades on, raves took over the scene, with a different generation doing different kinds of drugs as they danced under the moon.  (Right ... why didn’t I come here then, back in my rave days?)

Now?  Traces of its past exist, but they’re getting harder to find.  The famous flea market still runs every Wednesday, sprawled over a vast spread of land at the south end of the beach, and you could spend an entire day there without managing to visit every stall. But these days, for the most part, all those hundreds of stalls sell a hundred varieties on the same tourist things; good if you’re looking for that, but not particularly hippie any more.  There’s a little bar in the middle of the market, though, that clings to its hippie heritage; grey-haired pony-tailed musicians belt out an array of 1960’s tunes from its miniscule stage.

The drugs are still here, I think; as I walked back from the market the day I arrived, people kept calling out to me, “Smoke? Smoke?”.  And I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean cigarettes.  A British guy I met today told me that you can still find stronger stuff than marijuana; he’d managed to procure some acid and was going in search of ecstasy tomorrow.  I think I’ll pass; I have nothing against drugs in principle (and I think we might solve a lot of problems for ourselves by removing the criminal element from drugs, legalizing and standardizing their production).  But I’m not here for that; I just want to chill out in peace (and, er, not run the risk of Indian jail time).

My hotel, one of many on the shallow cliff overlooking the northern end of the beach, is very cheap at 250 rupees (about $5) a night.  It’s nothing fancy — just four walls, a fan, a bed and a tiny bathroom without hot water — but it’s enough.  And there’s a gorgeous common area overlooking the sea, with lounges to recline on as you gaze at the view, chat to the people on the next couch over, sip your Kingfisher, or whatever else strikes your fancy.

Along the cliff and down the beach, there are cafes and restaurants and cheap hotels a-plenty, interspersed with shops selling the usual tourist wares of Indian cotton dresses, Kashmiri shawls, Tibetan jewellery, and other assorted “authentic Indian handicrafts”.  The infamous Anjuna flea market is still running as it has since the 1960’s, every Wednesday over a vast area at the south end of the beach; these days, though, it sells more touristy souvenirs than anything else, with hundreds of shops offering variations on the same theme.

Away from the beach, dirt paths and twisting back roads lead to cooler haunts in among the trees, cafes where they’ll let you lounge all day for the price of a lemon soda; I’ve found a couple of perfect spots to camp out and write.  Along the main road leading away from the beach, there are more restaurants and shops, with a few travel agencies if you’re into organized day tours instead of bumming around on a scooter.  There are no ATMs, but there’s a few places that will exchange foreign cash for rupees, and one bank that will change travellers’ cheques in the most complicated way possible (more about that later). 

There’s even a grocery store — actually, two — which I haven’t seen anywhere else in India.  They sell an interesting mix of goods from pasta to spices to sunscreen; my favourite item, perhaps, is the “Barbie India”, a dark-haired (but still pretty fair-skinned) version of the infamous doll clad in a vibrantly-coloured sari.  There’s a mind-boggling array of alcohol on offer, from local beer and wine to more expensive imported stuff, some of it perplexing:  I can’t imagine there’s a huge demand for the 5700-rupee bottle of Krug champagne on offer, but you never know.  I tried Indian shiraz and cabernet sauvignon at a mere 240 rupees a half-bottle; quality was, well, about what you’d expect.

Anjuna Beach - almost sunset

All over town, cows wander the streets freely, and wind their way in among the beach chairs as they plod slowly down the sand.  Towards sunset, a group of them gather near the north end of the beach, laying down on the sand with their legs tucked neatly under their bodies.  There’s a few goats around as well (although not nearly as many as in Kochi), and a veritable army of scooters and motorbikes weaving crazily down the backroads and dirt paths (usually with a sunburned tourist or two aboard).  Walking down the street is a high-stakes obstacle course, as you attempt to evade the cows and goats while not getting mown down by the maniac drivers playing chicken with each other. 

It’s near the end of the season here, so it isn’t as overrun with people as it likely would be in December or January.  Most travellers are the solo backpacker kind, with a few package-holiday tourists wandering among them looking lost and bewildered by all the dreadlocks, piercings and tie-dye.  Some travellers come for just a night or two, but most come and stay ... and stay ... and stay.    For weeks, or months, or even years.

So, even if its hippie days are largely a memory, and whatever it might be now ... Anjuna’s still got some magic.

Goa Freak

(Written in Anjuna – Mar 9^th.  Internet access here is very sketchy, so you’re seeing this a few days late!)

So I’ve arrived in Anjuna, in the northern half of the tiny state of Goa, stepping off the night train from Kochi in Margao/Madgaon further south and getting a prepaid taxi to the end of road by Anjuna Beach.  1100 rupees (about $25) and an hour and a half to travel the 60 kilometres from the train station, such is the state of Goan roads.

Goa is Portuguese India —as recently as 1961, it was still claimed by Portugal, and only ceded to India when the Indian army marched into the state.  But the Portuguese had a pretty good run here, having first arrived at the tail end of the 15^th century, and — by the way — hanging on to their Indian territory longer than the Brits did.  There are still people living in the state who speak only Konkani (the local language) and Portuguese, with nary a word of Hindi or English (I’m guessing they don’t travel much in the rest of India).

The cultural influence of the Portuguese is still apparent here, giving Goa a flavour that’s very different from the rest of the country.  The food is much more meat-oriented, and the chicken cafreal, a local specialty, is mouth-wateringly good.  Some of the drinks appearing on menus are things I haven’t seen since Brazil (caipirinha, anyone?) with a few local twists:  feni, the Goan specialty, is fermented from coconuts or cashews, and packs a lethal punch. 

Some of the architecture dates back to the Portuguese arrival, most noticeably so in the towns of Old Goa and Panaji (the capital).  Away from the beach towns, crumbling heritage mansions still linger, reminders of the lost glory of the Portuguese empire.

Here on the beach, however, it’s a different Goa yet again.  And it depends very much which beach you’re on, which particular flavour of the Goan experience you’ll get.  Head to Calengute and Baga (where I first went on my way down south), and it’s package-holiday central, overrun by European tourists on two- or three-week vacations and with the facilities to cater to these crowds.  Oh, I had a good time there (a couple of very late nights out), but it could have been anywhere in the world; there wasn’t anything, particularly, to distinguish it as “India” instead of any other anonymous beach resort anywhere else.

In the south half of Goa, there’s a few beaches like that, too, I hear; Palolem gets referred to dismissively as “Palaga”, a reference to the hordes of lager-swilling British tourists who invade each year (and to the resort town in the south of Spain that has the same experience).  There’s some quieter beaches as well, where you can kick back and relax without the throngs of people; a Vancouverite I met in Kochi especially liked off-the-beaten-track Agonda (except for the sea-bound stream which doubled as a sewer and cut directly across the beach).

Here, in the north half of Goa, it’s a mix; there are quiet beaches like Mandrem where travellers go to do a lot of yoga and gaze meditatively at the sea, and others (like Arambol or Vagator) that cater more to travellers seeking the non-stop party that used to be Goa.  There’s a scattering of old Portuguese forts and churches in among the beach shacks, and a few high-end yoga resorts catering to moneyed people seeking enlightenment (or at least an improvement to their downward dog). 

Anjuna, somewhere in the middle of the northern stretch of beaches, has probably the most storied history in recent memory of all the Goan beaches.  It was a major destination for hippie travellers in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, who became known as the “Goa Freaks” and did a mind-altering amount of drugs on the long stretch of sand.  In later decades, it became famous for its raves, particularly around the full moon, with a new generation of travellers doing different kinds of drugs as they danced till dawn.

That’s where I’ve landed for at least a few days.  The season is winding down here, as it is in other Goan beaches, so it’s pretty quiet.  There are hints of its hippie and raver pasts, but the present is a tamer, faded version of those.  There are still tie-dye-wearing, dreadlocked travellers around, with a scattering of package-holiday tourists, and you could, if you wanted, still find drugs from hippie pot to raver ecstasy.  Trance music still pumps out of some of the beach shacks (if I closed my eyes, I’d think I was back at a rave), and there’s a stage or two where you can hear musicians playing 1960’s rock.

But it’s not what it was, I don’t think.  I still like it, and I can see the odd glimmer of the hippie past that I find so fascinating.  But there are more cafes, more restaurants, more hotels, more shops ... and more tourists, period, than would have ever existed in Anjuna’s hippie heyday.  Everyone’s a wanna-be (including me); few remain of the original “Goa Freaks” (although I think I may have spotted a few).

But I still like it, even if I can’t quite live out my hippie dream.  I think it will be a good little home for a week or so.   After that, though, I think I’ll head further north; I like what I’ve heard about Mandrem in particular, a quiet and peaceful little beach with a lot of simple huts to sleep in and an abundance of yoga classes to occupy your days.  Last chance to soak up some serenity before heading back to the airport for my marathon journey to Delhi and then Toronto, and then the madness that is called the working world.

Real life.  Huh.  Not sure I remember what that is, but it seems to be starting to intrude.  I had a message from my boss the other day, with information about a job opening he thought I might be interested in; I can’t even conceive yet of going back to work at all, never mind whether or not I’d want this particular one!  So I might just have to think about it for a while.

In the meantime, I think I’ll have another Kingfisher, and write some more of the Great Canadian Novel, while I listen to the sound of the waves.

Midnight Train to Goa

(Written in Anjuna – Mar 9^th.  Internet access here is very sketchy, so you’re seeing this a few days late!)

I love travelling by train.  I have been known, while in a foreign destination, to decide my next port of call solely based on the fact that the train goes there.  I love the whole experience of trains, from the cheapest economy version to the most deluxe sleeper train, from the retro elegance of Via Rail to the humble and practical GO Train in Canada, from plush faster-than-a-speeding-bullet trains in northern Europe to the crowded cattle cars of the south.  The only thing that begins to compare to train travel, for me, is riding a cama bus in Argentina; but even there, I’d take the train if it was an option (which it isn’t, except for suburban trains in BA).

And then there’s Indian Railways.  It’s an enormous system, covering most of the country; it employs something like 1.5 million people, and an estimated 20 million passengers ride the rails on average each day.   Train journeys can take you pretty much anywhere and can cover vast distances in this huge country; going from the south to Kashmir in the very north will take you about 66 hours, if everything runs on time.

But running on time is definitely not guaranteed.  I’ve waited in train stations and listened to announcements of trains delayed by 5, 10, 15 hours; a couple of backpackers I met in Kochi had taken a train to Goa from the north that was delayed by EIGHTEEN hours.  It’s not something to be undertaken if you’re on a fixed schedule; to get back to Delhi for my flight back home, I’m opting to fly from Goa instead of taking the train (getting there a day after my flight had already left would be a real downer). 

But, despite the haphazard schedules, if you come to India, whatever else you choose to do you MUST take the train.  Riding the rails in this country is fascinating; not only do you get to see something of the countryside, it also puts to up close and personal with Indian daily life in a way that is hard to find elsewhere (when you often just become a source of potential income, or — if you’re female — an object of pursuit).

So I decided to take the train to Goa instead of flying; I hate flying and avoid it where possible, and there are no direct flights from Kochi to Goa anyway so it’s not particularly convenient.  Far better, I think, to hop a night train; just be prepared to be flexible about when you leave and when you get there, as night trains often sell out well ahead of time and, as previously mentioned, may not run exactly on schedule.

I got lucky with my train to Goa, though.  I’d bought a ticket on the Rajdhani Express, a slightly more expensive train with only air-conditioned carriages and with breakfast included in the ticket price.  It also has fewer stops en route to Goa so gets there in just under 12 hours instead of the 15 it takes other trains.  And, at about 1,000 rupees for my ticket, it still didn’t cost much more than $20, far cheaper than flying and much more fun.

I’m getting the hang of how trains work here, so I knew more or less what to expect.  You have a choice of classes on Indian trains:  day trains will usually offer second-class or AC chair cars, and night trains have the various options of sleeper, 3AC, 2AC and first-class AC.  Second-class is basically a free-for-all, with no reserved seats and as many people squeezing into a carriage as it can physically hold; AC chair cars give you a reserved seat in a air-conditioned carriage.

On night trains, “sleeper” is the cheapest class, with berths arranged in groups of six perpendicular ot the train, and two berths across the aisle running parallel; there’s no air-condtioning, just pane-less windows with bars across them that let in the night air (and the mosquitoes, probably).  The “AC” classes are in air-conditioned cars, and go upwards in price from 3AC to first-class.  “3AC” berths are arranged similarly to sleeper-class carriages (berths in tiers of 3) but with sealed windows and air-conditioning in the cars.  2AC is a similar configuration, but with two-tier berths instead of 3, and first-class AC having just two berths per compartment (no upper bunks).  You get a pillow, blanket and sheets in any of the AC classes, but nothing in sleeper.

When buying a ticket, or getting on a train, I learned to forget every polite Canadian instinct that I have; if you don’t push your way to the front of the line or into a carriage you’ll never get anywhere.  There’s no point at all waiting your turn; everyone else will just keep shoving ahead of you.  And trains might only stop for a minute or two in a station, depending where you get on, so if you aren’t prepared to put your elbows to work in muscling your way onto the train you’re going to be left behind.  If you’re buying an AC ticket, you get to jump the head of the queue; this felt very rude to me, but it’s normal and expected.

I bought a 3AC ticket for my trip to Goa, reserving the upper bunk in a tier of 3.  This, I reasoned, was safer as a solo woman; less likely that I would wake up (as happened to another sole female traveller I met) to find a strange man’s hands groping me.  I got to the station in Kochi (in the Ernakulam district) in plenty of time for my 10:30 (pm) departure, but had to wait around a while before I could get the information I needed about where to board the train.

Finally, after about an hour, someone wrote my train’s details on the whiteboard near the Information counter (the electronic signboard being broken); I’d be leaving from platform #1, and my train carriage would stop at position #9 on the platform.  (Indian trains can be immensely long, and don’t necessarily give you much time to find your spot before they pull out again, so it’s a good idea to wait near where your carriage will stop so you can jump on board immediately.)

Train arrived just half an hour late — pretty much on time by Indian standards — and I got on without much difficulty (I have sharp elbows to shove my way on).  I found my berth easily, at the top of a tier at one end of the carriage.  I climbed awkwardly up to my bunk on what passed for a ladder (really, just a few tiny footholds) and hoisted up my bags; there was no room to put them under the bunks below as the other travellers in my compartment appeared to have several bags apiece.  This made the bunk a little too short to stretch out comfortably, with my backpack wedged at one end, but at least I could go to sleep without worrying about it disappearing in the night.

My bunk was comfortable enough, but location was a bit of an issue; located right at the end of the carriage, the door leading out to the washroom was right next door.  So every time it opened, it would catch the curtain closing off my compartment and pull it open again, letting light spill in from the hallway directly into my eyes.  One of my compartment-mates snored, too, so I don’t think I actually slept much all night.

I did get breakfast on the train, though, with a choice of “veg” or “non-veg”; I asked for “veg”, but realized after I’d eaten my omelette and bread that I’d actually received the other.  (For some reason, eggs aren’t considered “vegetarian” here.  But butter and other dairy is, so go figure.)  At least half a dozen train workers scuttled around the carriage, collecting breakfast trays and sheets and sweeping up litter; with that many people working on board and tickets still being very cheap, I can`t imagine they get paid very much.

So I was prepared to tip, if that was appropriate, and it seemed to be as I looked around at other passengers.  I refused to tip one guy, though, after he stuck his hand in my face and demanded a tip — not just asked, which would have been fine, but demanded, rudely and imperiously.  He got my back up, in a big way; I resent the implication that just because I’m white and foreign that I therefore automatically owe everybody money.  He got very incensed when I refused, and berated me vociferously, pointing out with gestures all the work he’d done collecting the sheets; an Indian man travelling with his wife finally intervened, telling him not to “compel” me to tip, as he received a wage for his job and the service was included in the price of the ticket. 

Fortunately we arrived at Madgaon station (my destination) shortly after that, and I could jump off and escape.  The irony is that I’d have tipped him well enough, had he just been less rude in his demand; had he said politely that it was customary to tip, and did I want to contribute anything, I’d have handed something over happily enough.  I’m sure he’s probably paid peanuts, so I wouldn’t have minded chipping in a bit.  (Except for the surly attitude of entitlement.)

At any rate, I got there in the end, and hopped in a prepaid taxi to Anjuna, where I am writing this now in a little cafe on one of the back roads.  I’ll tell you all about the place in my next post.  Till then, I think I’ll go lay on the beach for a while.

Goa Trance

Many Kingfisher beers later ...

(Written in Goa – February 7th)

Goa has quite the reputation. Everyone knows that it was a hippie mecca in the 1960’s and 1970’s, and more recently (1990’s) a haven for trance-heads and ravers of all descriptions. (I should really have come here then, when I was still into raves. There’s apparently a bit of that left now, with a few underground parties around, but the scene has largely died out.) But it’s had a reputation for partying and general debauchery as far back as the 16th century, when Portuguese sailors used to head for Goa for a good time. Maintaining your party rep for 400 years: now that’s quite a feat.

Goa these days is quieter in some spots, and package-holiday central in others. You’ll find a few leftover hippies (some of the originals are still kicking around, with a sprinkling of younger wanna-bes), but there’s nary a Portuguese sailor in sight. Mostly it’s English-speaking tourists, here for sun, sand and drinking for a couple of weeks; they seem to aim to find a little bit of tropical paradise without actually having to feel like they’re in India. (I don't get that at all; if all you want is a beach, just head for the one closest to home and spare the planet the extra flight miles -- does it really matter if you're in India, or Cuba, or Tenerife, if all you want to do is drink and sleep on the sand?)

I’ve been in Goa for two nights, getting here after one night in Mumbai; it's a short flight (under an hour) but a long taxi ride from the airport (an hour and a half), as there's only one tiny airport that serves all of Goa. I leave later this afternoon on a flight south to Kochi in the state of Kerala. I like Goa, and I’ve had a blast here (although my liver will take a while to recover), but I haven’t particularly felt like I’m in India: this could be any beach, anywhere in the world (except for the occasional sari-clad woman selling goods in a souvenir shop).

I stayed in Calengute, towards the north of Goa — it’s definitely the “party” beach catering to the beach-vacation crowd. To find a bit of hippie Goa, I think I’ll have to head further north, to Anjuna or Arambol; I might do that on my way back from the south, before I fly home. (I’ll see what I think of the south, and then decide; I have just under 6 weeks after my tour ends before my flight back from Delhi, so I have some time to linger if I want.)

Calengute has been fun, though, although going out for two late nights in a row definitely makes me remember that I’m not actually 22 any more. (But I did manage to keep up with the 22-year-olds in the group, and outlasted some of them, so I’m pretty chuffed about that. Years of practice, baby, I can party with the best of them.) The mornings after also remind me of my age; at 22 I could wake up after copious amounts of alcohol and little or no sleep, and still be fresh-faced and dewy-skinned. At my age now? Well, let’s just say it takes a bit more effort to look presentable before emerging into the world. (But don’t get me wrong, I still don’t actually LOOK my age. Or so I like to tell myself.)

But I had a good time, which is all that matters. There’s a strip of bars in Baga, just south of Calengute that pump out music till the wee hours of the morning; I can’t remember the last time I stayed out past 3 a.m.! (Two nights in a row, in fact.) There are even late-night snack shops so you can get your fix of pizza or other assorted junk foods late at night, and restaurants a-plenty that even have cow on the menu. It’s a complete departure from elsewhere in India; you’d hardly know which country you were in at all.

Unless, of course, you try to shop. Mostly sellers here aren’t terribly pushy; oh, they will call out to you as you pass their shops and remind you that “looking is free, madam”, but they don’t swarm you or stalk you down the street as they do in Jaipur or Agra. Once you enter a shop, though, and display a little bit of interest, the hard sell starts; I felt like telling a few of the shopowners that they’d stand a much better chance of making a sale with me if they’d just let me look around in peace for a few minutes instead of thrusting a bewildering array of articles under my nose from the instant I entered. I did tell them, finally, to stop showing me pink things; for some reason, this is what they all wanted to sell me. (And you have no idea just how terrible I look in pink, or how little I like it. Show me a nice green, or rust, or red anyday.)

I think I finally got the knack of haggling, though; I started out cruising the shops with a vague idea of buying myself an appropriately hippie-esque dress, but I wasn’t terribly bothered if I didn’t find anything. So when the first price I was quoted was outrageously high, I countered with something much lower that I was willing to pay, and then stuck to it — and when I started to walk out without purchasing, I got things for the price I wanted. So I have a very practical long-sleeved cotton shirt (red) that will let me cover up in the south and still stay cool, and a pretty tie-dye hippie dress that I probably won’t be able to wear anywhere else in India but Goa. (But I made good use of it here, where you can show a bit more flesh and not get hassled or gawked at. You can show shoulders! And knees!).

It’s been a good two days, anyway. I did get away from the beach (not being that much of a sun-worshipper, with this pale Celtic skin!), to check out some of the sights in the town of Old Goa; there are some gorgeous old Catholic churches and ruins of a convent dating back to the early 16th century, when the Portuguese controlled this part of the world. It’s a unique little corner of India, quite different from the north; much more laid-back and speaking entirely different languages. There are people living in Goa, apparently, that speak only Konkani (the state language) and Portuguese, with not a word of Hindi or English.

I wish I had a bit more time here, although I’d head to a quiet beach that wasn’t so resort-intensive and overrun with tourists. I might take a couple of weeks to chill out here before I head back home; I like the idea of Anjuna Beach, an old hippie stalwart that is apparently pretty relaxed and undeveloped still.

Some of our group is leaving after Goa, but eight of us carry on to the south (Kochi and beyond), and a few new people will join us there. One more week of travelling in Kerala with a group, then I’m on my own; it’ll be quite strange to go back to solo travel after three weeks in the constant company of other people. But I think it’ll be very nice to have time to relax, and read, and write; and I don’t think it’ll be hard to meet other people to hang out with if I so choose.
Oops, they’re calling us for our flight, so I’ll have to leave you for now. Flying to Bangalore (Bengaluru) first then on to Kochi, so a long travel day. More from the south!