This is Colva - or rather about 2 km up the coast from Colva proper. The town is fairly developed in that there are bars and hotels and streetside stalls etc. But this development has yet to reach this far up the beach (even if the rubbish has). I could easily spend days here just looking and listening.

My first encounter at the beach took me off guard - I'm now reasonably able to avoid being hassled by taxi drivers or stall holders but I was pretty flummoxed when one chap came up to me on the beach and started to attempt to clean my ears! After a few seconds of stunned disbelief (mine) he informed me that he was a certified ear cleaner (and produced a typed document to that effect). He then "showed" me that I had a nasty stone in my ear and explained that he would remove it for a mere Rs250. By this time I had just about recovered my senses and, concerned about the idea of someone poking about in my ear with an array of sharp metal objects, I declined his invitation by striding purposefully up the beach.

I've spent the past couple of days getting around Goa by the cheapest and most practicable means - bus. There are two types of Goan bus, the state-owned Kadamba bus company buses, which are a dull grey-blue and driven by uniformed drivers. And then there are the others, which as far as I can gather are privately owned. These tend to run between various tourist destinations - mainly beaches - Colva, Calungate, Anjuna and the like. Typically these buses are driven by a guy in shades who has confused a bus with a high performance racing car and seems completely oblivious to the limits of the machine he is actually driving. Having said that he is invariably highly skilled - this can be deduced from the way he consistently manages to miss all other road users - usually in contradiction of basic physical laws.

The driver has a colleague - the conductor. To me, the words "bus conductor" conjure up an image of a middle-aged man in a peaked cap, uniform and with a London accent and a ticket machine slung over his shoulder. Nothing could be further from the truth here in Goa. The conductor here is a young man, invariably earinged, with his shirt open to the waist. He swings up and down the bus with a fistful of rupee notes collecting fares. In the pauses between this, he hangs out of the open door either signalling to the driver with a referee's whistle that a passenger needs to get off, or shouting out the bus's ultimate destination by repeating it over and over in a rising pitch ("Margao... Margao.. Margaomargaomargao!"). The bus itself is brightly coloured - yellows, greens and reds. Garlands of flowers swing from the windscreen and radiator along with other assorted objects. Each bus has its own stereo system which pumps out the latest Goan party tunes or Bollywood hits at a volume that seeks to drown out the sound of the engine itself. It's an experience worth the Rs10, but from now on I'm sticking to trains.

Further up the coast lies Anjuna. This is where all the hippies and ravers went when things at Calungate got too commercialised and expensive. It's not as bad, but it's getting worse with beach cafés plastered with Pepsi logos and the like. The dried up paddy fields that lie back from the beach here now serve to produce an altogether more profitable crop. Each Wednesday there is a huge flea market - imagine the stalls at music festivals, student fairs or any ethnic goods shop, only bigger. Brightly coloured psychadelic sarongs, sheets and blankets adorn every stall. Trinkets and baubles abound, mixing with food stalls, the latest rave mixes and funky footwear.

Traders come from all over India just for this market which is held every Wednesday for the six-month tourist season. And with good reason - high prices are asked and often paid. Bargaining is expected and does actually work and it's all in good fun. While I was sitting on the beach looking out to sea I was approached by a 12 year-old girl who proceeded to try and sell me bits and pieces. I was reluctant and tried to show lack of interest. But I did find something I liked and bought it for Rs200. Initially she had asked Rs700 for it (£10!) but we bargained around and arrived at 200, even though it was probably worth only Rs50 at most. She was very good humoured about it all and I was staggered to discover that she had been selling every year since she was eight and that she had learnt her very colloquial English just from the beach.

I left this bizarre masala of hippies, travellers, ravers and traders to their elaborate dance and returned by bus to Margao - an altogether less strange place. Tonight I leave Goa and head up the coast to my final Indian destination: Mumbai (Bombay). Time is running out for me in India and Thailand is beckoning.