25 October, 2020

Sand Castles Of Sin

Sand Castles Of Sin
This diary begins and ends with a fishy story. The one that got away and the one that dropped in for a bite. The black pomfret destined never to grace my table was a perfect specimen. Caught that very morning, huge, plump with the promise of a roe the size of my fist. At Rs 300 for the privilege resolute self-denial won over the prospect of a splendid lunch. A Birmingham twang over my shoulder. "How much?" Goan fisherwomen know their Brits. "400." "Done." The tripper had triumphed yet again.

The locals are not amused. The Goan sense of humour, atrophied by long abuse, has given place to simmering resentment or, when native cunning transcends native ire, by a rapacity every bit as corrosive as the tourist industry which exploits them. The trippers are the lowest of Europe's low life. Packed like sardines into chartered jets, they spill on to the beaches like some parasitic life form engorged on sun, sex and sin. Elderly paedophiles with kindly expressions and pockets full of tenners prowl the vaddos. Packs of Caucasian nymphs, indefatigable sexual trophy hunters, scour...



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