Goan Days

Goa is cocooned from the rest of India and if it wasn't for the Indian menus in the restaurants then you could forget you're in India at all. The arched beach of Palolem sweeps around from Island at one end to rocky outcrop on the other and palm trees fringe the golden sand leaning in towards the bronzing bodies as if to provide some shade from the intense sun. Huts on stilts fashioned from coconut palm trees nestle into the trees and music billows gently from the beachfront restaurants with enticing smells of fresh mango, watermelons and papaya. Ten, maybe twenty, fishing boats line the beach with their nets stretching wide to dry from the morning's catch. The handsome Goans are used to foreigners invading paradise and their gazes are not as penetrating and uncomfortably long as in the rest of India. The sea itself is so warm that little relief is found from the tropical heat of off-season Goa but the cooling sea breeze is blissful and we floated on our backs for hours squinting up at the waving palms silhouetted by the sun.

The package holiday resorts are further north up the Goan coast and Palolem is more of a backpackers place. The coco huts are only 1.80GBP a night and very basic - a bed, fan, mosquito net if you're lucky and a hose in an outhouse for a shower - but most people spend more time on the beach and in the bars anyway.

On Sundays Indian families arrive by the busload to enjoy the paradise of Palolem. Groups of children play tag; adults play a version of our 'pass the parcel' in time to the banging of a drum and shrieks of laughter ring out when the object stops with one of them. Boys play cricket and football on the sand whilst others form human pyramids in the sea waiting for the next wave to wash over them in a jumble of arms and legs. We didn't wear bathing suits that day, feeling conscious of our scantily clad bodies next to the women bathing in sarees but we were sorry to see them go and missed the unselfconscious laughter that contrasts so sharply to some of the drug-euphoria seeking, sun worshiping westerners.

As the evenings draw in, people play Frisbee and handball under the pink and violet stained sky. Catches of the day are promoted in the beachfront restaurants; kingfish, red snapper, lobster, tiger prawns and the smell of grilled, sizzled and tandoori fish lace the sultry air. We ate the fish, drank like fish, supped cold kingfisher beer (spotting a theme here?) and watched the surf thunder against the beach.

The monsoon nights are just as fantastical as Goan days. The sky darkens dramatically and the air becomes oppressive, heavy and close. The wind whips the sand into frenzied whirlwinds and rain lashes the dried palm leaf roofs. Forked lightening splits the sky and blots out the twinkling stars as ominous thunder rumbles behind the clouds. Sheltered in our beach hut we were spectators of an angry mother nature demonstrating her awesome force in the shape of a Goan storm.

We treated our time on Palolem like a holiday; little budgeting (no shopping around for everything from mosquito spray to the cheapest place for dinner); no lugging our increasingly heavy backpacks daily from one place to another; no denying ourselves anything within reason. We had a couple of nights out at the 'Laughing Buddha' bar just behind 'Blue Juice' coco huts where we stayed. According to the English guy who runs the place, the nights have a "blend of ambient music and trance with a fusion of house, hiphop and live lyricists". We had absolutely no idea what that meant but we had some great nights there listening to live MCs, although when we requested a bit of Abba and Kylie we were met with blank faces and some very determined jungle music as if to cleanse themselves of the very idea! The late night parties were seriously loud though and after a while we moved to the more sedate 'Brandon's' coco huts that overlooked the sea for the ultimate in relaxation. Unfortunately we had a room mate for our three nights there - a gusset-munching rat who lived in the rafters and ate through three pairs of Beth's knickers, two skirts and bikini bottoms. Its daily offerings of rat poo were not appreciated either but our standards must have dropped so much that we opted to live with it until we caught the train, reluctantly, to India's southern state of Kerala.

The train to the south was pretty much full so we had to pay extra for the air-conditioned sleeper class. As we lay in the luxury of cool air and more comfortable benches we raised the tiny spiral shells, collected as souvenirs from the beach, to our ears hoping to recapture the sound of the surf breaking onto the golden sands of Palolem once more.