To what nice brand do you belong sir?

From the cosy bay of Palolem, fish vindaloo and happy hours we whizzed up, up and up, northwards, into another amalgamation. On Anjuna Beach the party starts at sunset as topless dreaded ravers daubed in garish pink paint jerk to pumping trance music with toddlers on their shoulders. Excitedly we join the party but the evening rave is brief. Extinguished early like a candle in the wind we move to the sands.

“To which nice country do you belong sir?”

“What brand do you smoke?”

“What is your good name friend?”

“Have you ever felt the touch of an Indian chick's skin? You can find a chick on cupids.com”

Close the circle and hide.

“I am down a peg or two myself old chap.”

A nonsensical barrage of insistent questioning from inebriated Mumbai weekend trippers. The interrogation cuts through our current limits of social decorum.

“Ou est ta femme?”

My wife is a man. Circle closed and removed. Departure to a disco with scary monsters in a concealed sauna. The toilet's in the kitchen and the spring rolls are going spare.

“OMELETTE, OMELETTE, OMELETTE”

The Omelette Lady Brigade is at the ready. Ready to swoop in with tables on their heads and an artillery of eggs to ring all the psychedelic trance parties and terrorise the ravers. But we can command luscious moist egg mayonnaise rolls when we want, everything has a price.

We recline on sunbeds in disarray with our moon glasses on and enjoy the final minutes of the full moon extravaganza. A shining spectacle plays out in front of our beds with a glistening moon and a golden channel of light sparkling magically off the ocean. The aroma of dirty oil drifting in from the busy shipping lane invades my slumber. I blink and its dawn. Depressed I see the dirty Arabian Sea and the beach littered with bottles and blackened by oil.

“Yessss....ma'am....look at my shop...come....look!”

Anjuna Beach traders plying their wares. You can always hide a shop up your sari. Or hide behind a luminous orange palm. One glance and you're got.

“Massage....look in my book....just thinking!”

And I do contemplate the massage...and the negotiation...and contemplate trying to limit the massage prior to price spiralling.

“Baba, baba”

Ten dolphins leaping. Twelve thick jawed Russians drinking. Four ravers resting.

“Coconut, watermelon, pineapple, coconut, wmlnapapcnut”

Return to source, 110 km today back to our Palolem, fish tandoori and the silence of the disco. Lazy afternoons relaxing amongst the cocohuts with fruit tables and Kingfisher from Samson's Kiosk.

The strange state of Goa. In 1961 the Indian troops crossed the border to bring it back to Mother India from the Portuguese. Then came the hippies, the ravers, the backpackers, the package holidays, the Russians, the Mumbaikarans. Its uniqueness continues and the kitsch Catholic Jesus protects our Sea View home.