Arrival in Goa

Fifteen hours after that first textured hiss comes the grinding squeal that signifies our destination. Through the ravaging rains that invade the platform, a taxi finds us a place to sleep. Upon first light we examine our surroundings and seek out suggested accommodation. The 'Garden Cottages' is comprised of five self contained units. Fortunately two are vacant. Each room begs the rent of 200 rupees per night (AU$6) and are simple, private, off the street and come with their own porch and a pair of cockroaches (I named ours Basil and Henry). Our viewing platforms look out onto a shared garden of pots and ferns, with draping flowers of dusty sunsets and misty sunrises, and is a delicate refrain from the saturation of all other visible colours.Beyond our fence is a hut where chickens poke at ground and a little of small black pigs suckle at their mother's belly. Further beyond that are buildings several stories high in a state of being either half built or half destroyed. But despite their rise or fall people are living inside them, a fact apparent from the clothes lines draped in fabrics, simple and complex that swirl in the hot, wet breeze.

Our things secure, we brave the rain and head for a bar. We drink well and we drink cheaply as we open ourselves to each other and share thoughts and tales of both meaning and frivolity. For the first time so far I exhale. I smile. My fear melts and I just exist. I go to hunt down a conversation with a computer while the other move onto a bar down a dark and unknown street. When the drunken conversation with the keyboard is over I walk barefoot through the rain, rocks poking at my feet, water rolling down my spine, and sand wedging itself into my nails. My heart and mind are open as they shine and I smile a smile I have not smiled before. Up to my ankles in black puddles, my faith in my path serves me well and a distant fluorescent light presents the washed out image of my friends playing pool and laughing honest laughter whilst wandering jazz emanates from behind them. Another drink is followed by more of the same and soon we find ourselves on our porch playing music and talking nonsense aided by a bottle of $4 vodka called 'White Mischief'.

White mischief indeed.