Arambol- I may never leave.

Greetings- so a few problems have arisen. Firstly being in Goa is having a hugely detrimental effect on this blog. The lifestyle here is not exactly conducive to writing in internet cafes. Lying on beaches, eating delicious fresh seafood, indulging my every whim and vice- yes, but not writing.

In addition to this I've received a few bits of feedback that are not entirely positive. By which I mean negative. Starting from the least offended party- Les very openly suggests that I should focus on local people more to give my blog a bit of substance and depth, rather than just embodying the facile musings of a idiot. I shall try my best to oblige you Mr Tetteh.

My mother was not a huge fan of my vivid descriptions of the Karma Sutra, especially the guy up the ladder with his (undeniably courageous) bestial endeavors, and the occasional smatterings of general potty mouth throughout my work.

This I can deal with, I've sheltered you long enough mum! What I find far more disturbing is that I'm actually causing offense to a few people.

Don't get me wrong, during the course of normal, day to day life, offending people is about as regular an occurrence as blinking for me. I've basically formed a personality out of it- but blogwise this lies so far from my intentions I'm left fairly shell shocked, like a guy who went out to walk his dog and ended up accidentally murdering a family of French hikers with the lead, over a misunderstanding about directions to the local youth hostel.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my response is not going to be one of grovelling apology. Other people's sensitivities rank pretty fucking low on an already sparse list of things I give two runny shits about, even when I do regard the people in question with some affection.

So throwing caution to the wind I'm going to echo Jay Z, and say if you don't like the lyric you can press fast forward. Except it's a computer so click the little red cross instead.

Lets start with something that my friend Neel will definitely be citing at me the next time he accuses me of latent racism. I always thought that the wobbly head gesture was a myth, a kind of urban legend that people who actually have a slight tinge of xenophobia about them adopted for impoverished impersonations. You know what I mean? The head bobbing from side to side whilst talking like it's a heavy ball balanced on a spring or something.

It's real. Not only is it real, it's the most widespead, all-encompassing gesture I've ever come across. It means literally everything- no, yes, maybe, I don't know.... Who needs four gestures when you can just wobble your head? It's mega confusing but I love it.

It's sort of reminding me of that South Park episode where they go the Planet Marklar and every Place, Person and Thing is called Marklar. Locals seem to have this innate understanding of what a certain head wobble denotes, despite their being no difference between them at all. And it's infectious- I've started bloody doing it.

It seems confined to the South though, I don't remember anyone doing this in Delhi. Oh yeah, there was something else I wanted to say about the South of India- it's the greatest place on earth.

From the second I arrived here I have been having quite literally the time of my life. I'm living in bamboo hut next to the beach, complete with shower and western toilet (hooray!).

Arriving at 9 at night by motorbike taxi, I endeavored to take the first accommodation option I stumbled across, which is when I met Jandar. Quite how I got so lucky I will never know. The man is a hero. Everything I have needed, a hut, a motorbike, a bar on the beach to hang out in, he's sorted it out for me.

You know that feeling when you wake up in the morning after a heavy night, and as you slowly and fuzzily recollect your actions from the previous evening the feeling that comes over you is not amusement or joy, but an unreserved sense of shame. I get that a bit. Two days ago I woke up and realised that having lost the key to my padlock somewhere, I had decided at 3 in the morning that the wisest course of action would be to kick the door down and pass out. The hut being Jandar's, I went and found him at the bar when I awoke, to shamefully show him my twat-like drunken act of vandalism, this time genuinely grovelling in apology. His response was a smile, a shrug and a head wobble. An hour later we had fixed the door together and I bought him a beer over a few games of pool. A true man among men. Men and silly drunken boys.

In fact it is the people around here that are making the week so special, more so than the beach or the sunshine (although that helps too.)

The next few paragraphs may be fairly boring if you don't want to read about fellow backpackers. They deserve a mention so I'm going for it, but you may better off skipping down if you're not one of them!

The Aussies came down to meet me, bringing with them a man known as "ratters." An utter fuckhead that ranks amongst the most accomplished of fuckheads that I have known, and I've built up quite a collection over the years. Unsurprisingly we're getting along pretty well, (mostly just shouting Colslaw and Aloo Gobee at people!)

There's the standard collective of traveling Israilis, though they all arrived separately. Jonathon, who is the very embodiment of the positive, laid back coolness that Israilis seem to possess when they travel, is excellent company. Along with this there are two stunning girls- Ravid who has one of the most exquisite tattoos I've ever seen (I'll get photo's for you tattoo junkies out there,) and Michal who is simply referred to as "the smoking hot one." -Sample conversation-
Do you know Michal?
No.
The smoking hot one.
Oh yeah her.

The Iraili girls are rivaled only by a Swedish dream named Sophie, who occasionally floats down to us from on high, looking like she's just walked out of a magazine. The drooling is audible. When I pointed her out to Stoopy his response was, "Ah mate, I'd swim through shit with my mouth open. I'd suck off the last guy that rooted her (sexed her)". "You reckon that'd impress her?" I asked. Unfortunately she doesn't drink so I'm out of ideas.

The porn stars may have a slightly better base of approaches. They're not actually porn stars, but I've been convincing people all week that they are, which isn't hard because it's so so so plausible! Micheal, the tall, blue eyed Dane with flowing long, blonde hair, and Miguel, who's going more for the 'Ron Jeremy with a goatee' vibe- although it has recently been pointed out to me by a nymphomanical aussie that he also looks like the human part of a centaur. Like he should be emerging from a woods holding a bow and arrow...

Jimmy and Will are Aussie's but sound so American they could have just walked out of the OC. Jimmy sort of looks like a young, shit-eatingly-happy Jim Morrison, who never changes his shirt, and Will is the proud owner of the peace pipe- a gloriously long smoking artifact that is regularly passed around the bar. Both share my slightly warped sense of humour, which has been a lot of fun for me, and terrifying for everyone within earshot.

Finally honorable mentions go to Chesty- a man so terrifyingly enormous he is known by that particularly massive part of his towering anatomy, but as so often with scary looking bastards, is actually a sweetheart, and Max my fellow Brit, who has been in India most of his life and I'm insanely jealous of him for it. Also, Rob has just informed me that he shagged my German friend Johanna after a 10 minute chat at the German Bakery. L.A.D.

The first day here was magic. I met an English girl called Michelle over breakfast who then introduced me to most of the aforementioned crew. They basically gathered here in Arambol over the last month and have haunted the local, a glorious beach bar called The Blue Seahorse, ever since.

I hired a scooter and we all drove off to some beached up cargo ship down the coast. We tend to travel in a scooter convoy like this- a kind of Muppet baby version of the Hells Angels. Climbing a rope ladder you could walk around on board, all over the crumbling, rusty deck- about as safe as shagging an elephant.

We lived to tell the tale and made it to a casino the next night. 500 rupees, all you can eat all you can drink. as long as your gambling! Now when you're a backpacker, or student that doesn't mean all that you want to eat and drink, that means however much buffet and alcoholic goodness you can fit into every available space in your body is more value for money! It got messy.

Arambol is one of those places that just sucks you in. It's near impossible to leave. You arrive intending to stay a few days and a month later you've pretty much settled down for life. The days seem to be swallowed up- you go to the bar, get a bike, sit on the beach, have a swim, climb the rocks etc, and suddenly the sun is setting and you're staying another day. It's like that film The Island, but not shit.

I'm now in Gokanna, having eventually managed to escape. It's quieter. I will write a more detailed blog when I'm less busy! Right now money is a problem. Rest assured a lot has happened that I'll try to get up in the next couple of days!