Picture this: a fiery sun setting over the Arabian Sea, silhouetted fishermen casting nets from bobbing canoes; a wide, rangy beach; hundreds of Indians bathing and praying in the surf. Further on, Europeans soaking up the vestiges of the sun’s rays, body-boarding, relaxing. Behind them a green-bearded teracotta cliff, coconut trees sprouting angularly along its ridge providing shade for the early evening strollers. Bamboo bars and juice shacks line the cliff. We find ourselves, predictably, in one of these bars, drinking beer from tea-cups (to subvert some obscure licensing laws), taking in the whole scene, listening to the waves crash against the Keralan coast. The sound of bongo drums approaches…

“Hey you – YOU – you want buy bongo drum?” The spell is broken.
“Why not you want bongo drum?”
“‘Cos it won’t fit in my backpack!” I tell him this at least once a day.
“Ah but this veeery good bongo drum. I-give-you-good-price.”

Varkala Beach

But, actually, this is India-lite. The police actively keep beggars and hawkers at bay and the harassment is minimal. We know that we’re being spoiled, and when we leave our little hippy enclave we’ll be hit with India’s full frontal assault.

Life’s a beach

But for now we’ll just enjoy life on eeeeasy street. Drinking by night, relaxing by day, living almost exclusively on fruit shakes, curry and beer; lazing around on the beach or in our hammock, trying not to laugh at the proselytising hippies with their yogic pretensions. Amy has bought some baggy hippy pants so she can cover up in more sensitive parts of the country. I have decided to grow dreadlocks to go with my ‘Free Tibet’ T-shirt.

…

Nothing much else to report. We made some friends – Emma, Pete, Olly and Mel – the latter two of whom we are going to travel on to Allepey with, where we may or may not rent a house-boat and laze about for a bit longer. Tough old life.

New Years Eve…pre-drinks at our place.

The beach again.

If we weren’t bathin’, we was boozin’