Christmare

It's Christmas Eve and we're off to find a party. It's a jungle rave on a hill top. I’m in Goa. I'm excited. We bundle into a taxi, cowering under the deafening early '90s pop the driver kindly blares out for us, and wait for the journey to end so the dreadful music will stop. We approach a police blockade on the road ahead. A quick torchlight into the car, a few skipped heartbeats and we're back on track, apparently safe because the taxi driver has paid him off, though we see no money change hands. Relief washes over everyone.

A month in India on my own and now I have company. Out here on holiday are my brothers Dan and Josh, friends Sam and Justin, and Josh's girlfriend Sarah. Tonight is going to be big.

We arrive, and look at the entrance fee sign, jaws dropping. 1000 rupees! I do the calculations. Twelve English pounds. That’s four nights’ accommodation for two people. Or ten expensive dinners, 100 beaded bracelets, 3 journeys from Mumbai to Goa. Enough. I look around - we aren't the only shocked ones. Bedraggled hippies are revving their engines and jumping back on their motorbikes to leave. We feel cheated, tricked. We send Josh and Sarah off to the nearest town to get cash.

The police have reigned in most of the parties in Goa, supposedly because of the terrorist threat here. The Israelis, for the most part, have given up and gone elsewhere. This hilltop party is one of very few which still continues, and it's certainly not what I had in mind. In my head the same phrase ticks over and over: for all that money, it better be good it better be good.

Eventually we pay, get through security and we're almost in. There are panicky shouts in Hindu and a herd of people rush past us as a man is thrown out, a bundle of limbs and long hair as he kicks and shouts while being beaten by several security men. It's not a pretty sight, and my heart sinks. Sam smiles one of his desperate, fake smiles. “What are we going in to?” he asks nobody in particular through gritted teeth.

Thankfully, it’s beautiful inside. It's a jungle clearing where the trees have been painted with luminous psychedelic swirls, and a complex arrangement of colourful lights dangle overhead, behind which you can see the open sky and the bright stars. Around the central clearing hang rich paintings of images of gods and women and Indian landscapes, and the DJ is raised up in a bright white egg shaped dome. They've certainly put the effort in. Bizarrely, around the outskirts of the dance area rows upon rows of women in full saris are selling food and ‘chai’ (tea) at little stalls all with identical items, and there are eggs everywhere. Omelettes: evidently a popular party food here. The DJ obviously took note.

We have a dance for a while, taking in this strange place. It isn’t long before a scuffle breaks out and again someone is violently herded outside, followed by several men in full rage. This is the last place I'd expect to see fights. ‘But this is Goa’, Josh whines, stating the obvious. He has a point though. Goa used to be home of hippies and LSD, psychedelic trance and parties parties parties and... Well, not any more. We definitely missed the boat on this one. It's a hard concept to swallow.

The cold welcome and the ensuing fights leave Sarah in a vulnerable, uptight state. A couple of loutish Brits park themselves next to us; they are out of control, they don't see that we'd rather stab ourselves in the eye than have to humour their mindless chit-chat. “Twelve quid to get in, that’s just nuffin’! The people here, it’s amazing!” That doesn’t even make sense. Sam is worried about Justin, who we haven't seen for ages. We've given up on dancing for the moment. The chai lady forces us to buy chai or leave the mat where we are sitting. But there's nobody else around – we aren't in her way and we aren’t stealing her chai business. I can smell omelette. This is not my idea of fun.

But we find Justin, happily dancing away by the stage, and Sarah emerges smiling and comfortable again; there are no more fights and the Brits have gone and there are different substances at work inside us and things have changed.

At dawn we go outside to watch a spectacular sun rise. Dan looks at me, grinning. “How long has it been since you chased someone as fast as you can?” he asks. He gives me a split second and we’re off, playing tag and stuck in the mud while the dawn light spills out over the hills. It is exhilarating, if ridiculous. A little man with bandy legs cycles up to us and offers water, just what we need. We give him a vastly inflated price for it and he cycles off.

Off down the hill, round a corner and out of site. We realise our stupidity. What a con! Get a bunch of wasted tourists to believe you'll get them water for some silly price, take the money and you're laughing.

Five minutes later, much to our surprise and delight, a dot appears at the bottom of the hill. Slowly the little man toddles back, a bottle of water balanced in the basket of his rickety bike. We are overwhelmed with love for humanity, possibly slightly more than necessary, and wish him a merry Christmas a hundred times. He looks happy.

We trundle home Christmas Day morning, slowly making our way back round the cliff side of the town of Arambol to our secluded beach huts. We pass the girls who daily try and try and try again to sell us shawls, blankets and jewellery; they welcome us home while laughing at Dan as he attempts to climb the rocks with Sarah on his back, failing miserably. The sellers don't try and sell me anything, for the first (and last) time. The beach is deserted, the sun is shining and our friendly foolish waiters greet us warmly. It feels good to be home.