If Delhi is the embodiment of chaos, then Goa, with its long tracts of sandy beaches, balmy weather and hospitable locals is its foil, the necessary angelic opposite to Delhi's evil twin. Thinking on Goa conjures images of beach bums enjoying a cooling beverage beaded with condensation under strategically placed parasols while being waited on hand and foot by attentive staff. Party town, chill zone, and Hedonist's paradise, Goa is quite unlike anywhere else I've been to in India. Once the preserve of drug addled hippy Brits, the beaches have given way to invading Russians in too tight speedos whose bibulous ways have put a serious dent into Goan rum supplies.

And indeed alcohol is the reason to come to Goa -or at least a good reason to stay- for unlike most Indian states, alcohol here flows freely with minimal taxes. Whereas a quart of Kingfisher in the rest of India runs for R180-200 and sometimes requires surreptitious imbibing in teapots, this social lubricant can be had in Goa for as little as R60, making my father one of the happiest men in India.

Upon landing the man wastes no time, and within moments of clearing customs he is already stockpiling his weapons of mass intoxication; going deep on several bottles of off-brand whiskey (VAT 69, Black & White, Old Oak, wut?) and amassing an impressive armament in our wardrobe-cum-makeshift liquor cabinet. For the next ten days we are amply supplied and supplement our stash of "Fat Men" and "Little Boys" with King Fisher chasers.

Goa can be roughly categorized into two parts, Bagah/Calingute where the action happens, and "the rest", where old souls like yours truly go to drink in peace away from the mobs of callow Russian youths dancing to bad Psy Trance (fun fact: there is no such thing as good Psy Trance). We spend three days in Tito's lane, the throbbing heart of Bagah, and the remaining seven in the relative quiet and solitude of Benaulim, a short but bumpy drive an hour away.

Tito's Lane, and indeed most of Bagah, is exactly like the beaches of Krabi in Thailand, and if one were to swap out the slanted eyes and yellow skinned locals for "round and brown" there is very little distinguishing them. Both are replete with sandy beaches, throwaway tourist tat, bad music and plenty of alcohol. In other words, this is my Dad's scene. In between tots of whiskey and marathon sessions of "Cookie Jam" ("this game is bullshit" is a familiar refrain) we peruse the stalls where Dad finally manages to buy his long coveted Alibaba pant -a loose fitting trouser with the crotch six inches off the ground, capacious legroom and an elastic waistband. When the stall owner keeps pushing goods on us (apparently its been a tough year and the Russians are even stingier than the British) Dad feigns a mosquito panic, slapping his arm wildly before running out of the store leaving the vendor completely bewildered; clutching a rolled newspaper, swatting at nothing and calling for us to come back. The old man still has a few tricks up his sleeve.

I can't help but think that there's massive potential for this number with the Bloods/Crips of south central LA looking to rock the low slung look without exposing soiled briefs but I'll leave that opportunity for a more enterprising individual

When it comes time for dinner, we are tempted by the reappearance of beef on the menu (many Indians here are Christian, a legacy of the Portuguese, and therefore beef is fair game) but given that Goa rests along the coast, it has to be seafood. After two months on a diet of unleavened bread and saucy curries -broken only by an ill-advised visit to Pizza Hut (Dad) and a curiously good serving of street chow mien in Amritsar- it is an understatement to say that we are thoroughly curried out. Thankfully the seafood in Goa is fresh, cheap and plentiful and after walking the length of Tito's lane for the sixth time we settle on an open-air food court patronized mostly by domestic tourists enjoying lollipop chicken and beer.

Fresh fish (and shark too if that's your thing)

Pops quickly makes short work of his well-meaning but young and inexperienced negotiating opponent and we land a half-dozen tiger prawns, a two kilo red snapper, an appetizer of papri chat and as much beer as we can guzzle for R600 per person, tremendous value. The seafood is prepared simply -with plenty of garlic and butter- allowing the natural taste of the fish and prawns to remain the centre of our palette's attention. We are so thoroughly pleased by this meal -fit enough for a king- that we have it again the following day after a hard day of whiskey drinking and aligning candy confections into exploding columns of vacuous but embarrassingly satisfying fun.

When we transfer to the Royal Goan in Benaulim, a lovely little place that forms part of my parents' RCI time-share scheme, I'm ready to quit Goa's pulsating night life for a slower pace of poolside lounging, reading Arthur C. Clarke (in preparation for my trip to Sri Lanka), and a bit of electronic correspondence to far flung friends. The days blend together into a plodding pace of food, drink, beaches, drink, pools swims and more drink. From a productivity standpoint I accomplish nothing, barely touching my camera, which accounts for the lack of photographic evidence that I ever visited this place.

Parents enjoying a home-cooked meal

We do make one trip into Benaulim's town centre however, and spend an hour walking the stalls before finding it much too hectic for our liking and beat a hasty retreat back to the comforts of cushioned recliners and chlorine waters. Before we depart however, we load up on fish, chilies, flour, chicken and of course whiskey. Our room comes equipped with two hot plates and my father, who hasn't been able to cook since departing Canada, feels the familiar itch of idle chef hands and plans a meal of chicken, chili and fish croquettes (all separate, not mashed together in some grotesque surf'n'turf). Served piping hot, with a side of satini (Mauritian salsa), mint sauce and ice cold King Fishers, it makes for an unbeatable combination of crispy, spicy, cool and fresh. Eaten by the pool in this setting, it's as close to paradise as it gets.

This whole stay in Goa was meant to recharge depleted batteries after weeks of "hard" traveling. After the past ten days it's safe to say we're back on good form and reinvigorated for the travels ahead. The second last day in Goa sees JL arrive all the way from Oz and we depart Goa's sandy beaches to catch a plane to Kerala, our first true foray into the South of India.

Vignette

Growing up a visible minority in North America, the phrase "where are you really from?" is a familiar question. In India, this is doubly true with every curious local wanting to know your point of origin. I've taken to responding with "China" for the sake of my own sanity as I've heard "Canada? But you looking Chinese!" more times than I can count. Conforming my answer in a way that makes sense to people saves everyone time and needless hassle. So it was with some amusement that I responded in the negative when asked by two not unattractive Russian girls "Where are you from? Kazakhstan? Do you speak Russian?"

Now I don't think I look like Borat, but given that Kazakhstan borders many oriental countries I could see the logic in the question. People from their part of the world are undoubtedly used to seeing people like me speaking a Slavic tongue. Most places where different ethnicities cross national borders have such unusual pairings of blood, religion and culture. In fact, the north west of India's states -Nagaland and Assam among others- border Tibet, Bhutan, Nepal and Myanmar and its denizens look more east Asian than south. These peripheral places have always fascinated me and I hope to one day travel to meet these oriental Indians as well as the Slavic Asians of China's north west.

Freshly caught off the shores of Goa

Sausage curtains. These Goan sausages are intensely flavourful and have a lovely sweetness

Killer keeps the thieves at bay

Pinch pinch pinch