(After trundling along for almost two weeks in ricketty old trucks which moved at 30kmph, the dusty trail brings to the edge of my final destination...)

...The journey was coming to an end and in the twelve days since leaving the mountains, I’d been on the move so much that I’d not really considered what would happen when I arrived. Goa  is the place where people go, to run away from India! It’s cleaner, more ordered and is probably less challenging in a cultural context than any other place in India

Until 1961 it was a Portugese colony and it’s full of Latin architecture and glorious white churches that prove that something can stay clean in India. After the Portugese left the Goans sat around wishing they’d come back, until the first few freaks arrived in 1965–one old Goan lady said at the time:

"Thank God you’ve come–now we have someone to talk to!" Not only did life become more entertaining for the locals, the Western drop-outs brought in welcome revenue as they began to rent rooms and buy fruit and fish to cook on the beaches that were almost completely empty A beach is a pretty easy place to live on as most of the essentials of life are within reach. The natural beauty of the place was a perfect setting for the freaks to party and let all hang loose

These beaches that were only of importance to the Goans for the good fishing and coconut trees that were the basis of their livelihood, soon became precious landholdings that families fought over. The natural panorama of the place was in many parts hideously marred as they built as many houses and hotels as they could. Now Goa draws over a million charter tourists a year as podgy beer-drinking European tourists arrive each winter to brave it in this tamed outlet of India. They sit in huge hotels with swimming pools that usurp much of the scarce water supply and bring the foreign currency that fuels the greed and ambition of the locals, polluting their peace of mind. The fishermen now have motorised boats instead of oars and every Goan family has televisions, radios and motorbikes that are good on acceleration, bad on brakes. They no longer smile very much

If that has been the fate of the locals then a similar change has occurred amongst the freaks themselves, who are not any longer so freakish. Whereas they used to eat and live communally and regularly take acid to expand their minds to live each day a-fresh–now most sit back on their stories and whinge and complain about the decay of their paradise, like old folks anywhere in the world: ‘Oh, it’s not like it used to be!’ they cry–and they’re right

In fact a while ago, it was even better.  Techno music came to Goa in the 80’s and added a new dimension to the traditional thriving scene where a few hundred people would take acid from a free punch and dance through the night on personal journeys, that all came together in the mornings. With the approach of daylight you could suddenly see just who you had been dancing with as colour returned to the world and it was delightful to be in amongst palm trees, a sparkling sea and unspoilt beaches There existed something of a psychedelic community where everyone took care of each other’s trip and there was a kind of support network of understanding, that made it easier for people to integrate their voyages into the unknown back into the continuity of day-to-day life

I arrived at the tail-end of this as the whole scene became corrupted by over-exposure, the greed of Goan and Indian business and all of the nasties that came with it. Parties still do happen but the police receive up to a thousand pounds baksheesh for each one for permission to be given and they’re staged at locations centred around a bar serving alcohol rather than in remote idylls in Nature. It’s no fun to be trying to hold your head together on acid and turn to find a beggar thrusting their poverty in your face–especially if they look like they’re having a better time than you!

However, there survives a kind of precious beauty to the place and it holds a special magic of its own that may survive all the crassness that descends upon the area. There are still many, many interesting people who spend up to six months living here and there’s still a kind of international village feeling, existing within certain strongholds of freakdom in hidden-away spots. It’s not always immediately obvious to outsiders though: Onemorning, whilst sitting on the part of the beach where characters of twenty or thirty years standing hung out, three Brits on holiday turned up, a little lost and, after ordering three beers in the midday sun, asked me if I knew where the ‘hippie camp’ was!

McDonalds hasn’t arrived yet and certain areas hold an ambience that can’t be beat. It’s quaint to stroll through dirt tracks in the shade of palm trees whilst pigs, chickens and cows roam about and there's the space to do your thing without interference from others. It gets harder and harder to maintain a peaceful space but for now its the best that I’ve found

I arrived in Panaji on Saint Xavier’s day and the Goans were in full festive mode. There were lots of guys in suits bombing around on their scooters and respectable Catholic girls who milled about in vaguely content crowds. I weaved my way through and stretched my memory by taking various backroads to avoid the traffic generated by the flea market

It all got easier by the moment as I came across the little turnings and places that I knew so well. My final ride was in the back of a three-wheeled pick-up truck

Standing like a proud charioteer, we rode into the sunset and I ran the final two hundred metres across the rice paddies and down to the sea

The moon hung in three day-old virginity and glints of phosphorescence played at the water’s edge

The thump of techno resounded behind me and everyone had come out to play for as long as the stars held session

I had come a long way. I still had my health, my sanity and thirty rupees in my pocket

Did this mean that the journey was over?

It still wasn’t going to be easy but is it ever?

I ambled down the beach, away from the music and lay down to gaze at the sky, with my head a few metres away from the sea’s edge

I listened to the lapping water and smiled as I heard each arriving wave bring the message, that there is no ending