Day 90- New Year's Day: Goa.

And then two days worth of travelling down the west coast to Goa: the party place of India. Where in the north one can watch the hedonistic hippies swing their foisty locks freely on the sands and the hardcore Israelis thumping and pumping the night away around fluorescent painted palm trees; or take a trip south to witness the loud, staggering, belching English folk drink their way through the holiday. And then there are the people in-between like us: just having a nice time. We did read these kinds of descriptions about the state before we stepped off our train and a few of the people and places we came across certainly did live up to the books.

We (the nice timers) took our chance with a quiet option and made our way to a peaceful and tucked away village, set behind a delightful beach, called Agonda. The houses and shops (there were very few) are generally made from either bamboo or cow dung and surround the centre piece of the village which is a rather imposing Christian church. After spending so long surrounded by Hindus and their everlasting, three-or-four-times-a-month-occurring festivals, it was very strange to witness and stay amongst a strong Christian community but still be on Indian soil. Scraggy tinsel, Santa effigies looking a little more like daylight robbers and masses of bright, paper stars adorned people's homes, trees, backyards and the palm trees which surrounded us. On Christmas Eve whilst sipping our cocktails (out of coconuts of course) we were made audience to some of the village's youngsters as they traipsed from bar to bar singing carols. I have to say that they did a pretty poor job and the Santa mask which one of them wore was really quite frightening but we paid up and thanked them. And on passing the church one afternoon we saw a bride in the full white, fairy cake dress making her way into the church with her father.

Our home for the first week was a delightful bamboo hut on stilts at Sami's Place and the tiny little resort (made up of only thirteen huts around a small bar and restaurant) proved to be as tranquil and peaceful as our guidebook suggested. We spent the days frolicking in the sea (frolicking= Jonny dive bombing me, Jonny dunking me and Jonny dragging me along the sea bed by my feet leaving me with salt water up my nose and sand in my pants) and playing on the beach (playing= burying Jonny in the sand so that he became only a nodding head).

Ten kilometers south lay the next resort of Palolem and it's here that literally thousands gather during peak season to drink, dance and worship the sun on Palolem's famous palm tree lined picture-perfect beach. Although it's actually rather difficult to appreciate the beauty of the place as people, huts, shops and bars are literally squeezed and crammed into every available space and after an afternoon there it began to feel a little more like a concentration camp than an Indian beauty spot. Saying that, the couple of evenings we spent in the restaurants and bars there were great, fun-fueled with Goan port and seriously tasty mussels, each the size of a small crab.

Palolem was also the setting for our Christmas dinner. We arrived brushed, scrubbed and polished (it has been quite difficult to keep on top of personal hygiene and clothes washing whilst being on the move. Many nights have been spent racing through India on trains with only a communal sink and tap to wash at) and dressed in our new Indian garments. Jonny in a smart blue and white checked shirt ordered and made at one of the many tailors in Kolkata; and me in a red sari suit I had made in the market place there. We enjoyed a really delicious three course meal (with cocktails and nibbles on arrival) at Ciarans restaurant right on the beach front.

It was a set dinner and everybody sat down around sixish to eat which gave the day the shared celebratory feel it deserved. The owners had made a startling effort with the set-up and our candlelit table was in the middle of the garden by a finely decorated Christmas tree overlooking the fairy lit bar and the sea beyond. Frank Sinatra poured warm honey into our ears as we slowly and delicately made our way through pumpkin and blue cheese crepes and chiili and ginger prawns followed by a mixed seafood platter comprised of squid stuffed with spicy leaves, mini creamy coconut fishcakes, a few of those memorable mussels, a small dressed crab, lobster and potato salad and a portion of nutty saffron rice. Yes, it was bloody good and no, the turkey wasn't missed. Christmas pudding and a slice of a traditional Goan rice cake made up our desert and by the time we left at nine o'clock Jonny had grown a small snout and I a curly tail: Two Little Piggies. Needless to say we then drank far too much and after doing so well over the last few months with managing to keep hold of all wallets, cameras, cards and phones, I lost my sandals. Very boring.

After a week in Agonda we'd just about had our fill of quietness so we packed our bags once more and headed to the far north to a village called Arambol, described as the alternative side of Goa where many of the long-term hippies congregate for months at a time.

Now, I like to think of myself and Jonny as open-minded, free-thinking individuals with the ability to mix, mingle and understand most people. But, my god, was I to be proved wrong. The people of Arambol and the place itself we just couldn't get. Both categories ticked the dirty, seedy and dark boxes and both categories had stale and stagnant auras (I think the people of Arambol would be pleased with me for using the word aura). Hippies- real, full-on hippies with weathered faces and glazed eyes descend upon Arambol from all around the globe, filling its rather beautiful beach around October time and then drifting off again towards the end of March. Some practice yoga in embarrassingly skimpy briefs; some seem to spend their days juggling and throwing fire; some lie around naked (I felt really uncomfortable seeing this in India- the arrogance of it!); and a lot literally spend their time on another planet. At a few of the shacks we called in on when looking for a place to stay, the people there were so out of it they didn't understand what we were saying and just pointed and waved their arms around with frightened eyes. I've never felt so straight and normal in my life.

As we walked down the beach, Jonny dressed in his practical, khaki, knee-length shorts with their many zip pockets, his oxford blue, short-sleeved shirt, his sturdy, velcro-fastening walking sandals and carrying his Berghaus rucksack looked like Mr Palin reporting on some lost and forgotten civilisation. Tie-dyed bits of cloth and scarves, beads, floaty strips of silk, glittering sandals, hessian sacks, tattoos, piercings, knitted items, scruffy rags, massive hair (all colours) and a drifty, no rush attitude made up the people of Arambol. Anything else just didn't fit. Posters sellotaped to the walls of the numerous dingy shacks advertised meetings held by people like 'Reena' (from her photograph she looked about sixty) where you could go to enjoy a supportive atmosphere whilst finding your inner being and discovering self-realisation. The meetings were held each Tuesday under the swaying palms (which swaying palms?) or if you wanted a one-on-one session with Reena you could find her in her hut on top of the cliff. We just couldn't get it. So, instead of spending the four days there as planned including New Year, we wearily picked up the book once more in order to try and find somewhere suitable.

Well, suitable is the wrong word. We both knew that staying anywhere along the coast wasn't going to be ideal. Although we had a lovely and relaxing Christmas, we did find it hard to really relish the 'holiday atmosphere'. After seeing all we have, I found it quite difficult to suddenly stop in a beach resort and slip into care-free mode. The poverty still surrounded us, it was just better hidden. This way the consciences of the holidaying Westerners are kept clean and they keep returning to spend their money. But you only have to take a look behind the bars and holiday huts lining each beach to see the cramped and dirty conditions most of the locals live in. People try to do their best with regards to litter-disposal but with no real waste system, a good deal of the thousands of plastic and glass bottles used each day find their way into these people's living areas. And really they have no choice but to grit their teeth and watch their once quiet and undisturbed villages become second homes to lots of white faces who really know how to fling their money about. Most of the locals have turned to tourism; nearly every home has an attached guesthouse or a room to rent. Many people sell food, clothes and jewellery on the beach; we even saw the pitiful sight of small children dancing for money. It’s awkward and difficult to justify any sort of excess. Due to the sheer economic imbalance of the world and the geographical lottery that has landed me in the West, I'm the one who can laze on a sun bed and spend more in one week than the women trawling the beach all day desperate for buyers of their clothes will earn in a year. But, awkwardness aside, the Goan resorts are still interesting and elp to inform our whole collective outlook on India. Watching the locals, the holidaying Indians and Westerners' behaviour in these hotchpotch resorts is anything but banal.

‘Banging Baga’ was our next stop. Jonny's written about this particular place so I shall leave it to him- apart from a quick word about New Year (I don't think he's got round to writing about it). We managed to escape the hoards and booked a meal at 'La Terrace', a wonderfully camp but classy, top-notch roofless French restaurant run by Thierry and Guillaume- a super-stylish gay ex-pat couple from Paris. The tables, the decor and the building itself were slick black and white; water flowing down tall black slabs into pools of floating petals; and tall trees dripping with fairy lights growing from between smooth grey paving, giving the whole place a sort of magical forest feel. The food was great, the owners charming (I received a complimentary red rose before the first course- oh la la!) and, as the icing on the cake, the perfectionist pair had invited one of their French friends to come along and sing in the style of Edith Piaf. Perfect.

Midnight was spent on the beach with the other couple of thousand people watching the fireworks. They don't have firework 'displays' in India, people simply buy their own and let them off. It was interesting trying to keep an eye on our backsides for wayward rockets whilst trying to enjoy the enormous amount of explosions occuring right above our heads.