The story continues ...

Following the spectacular unveiling of Coco Shambhala, I was now desperate for knowledge, eager to find out as much as I could about the environment surrounding our property. As we had driven, at breakneck speed, through Nerul, I had seen enough to assure me that this was a beautiful, unspoilt part of Goa. Women sat by the roadside, woven platters of seafood glistening before them, sunlight glinting off scales that had only recently known the cool caresses of the Mondovi River. Men sat in local bars, droplets of moisture running down their glasses as they pondered the world and gossiped about local events. The pace of life was slower, dictated by the temperature of the day rather than schedules or targets.

Giles, harnessing our enthusiasm, decided to take us to the local beach – Coco Beach, Shambhala’s namesake. We followed a rough path through the field, sun beating down on our heads, brittle grass scratching at our legs as we stepped surely in the footsteps of local fishermen to arrive at the beach.

At first, I was slightly dismayed by the litter strewn entrance to the beach. As there is no defined refuse collection in Goa, people tend to dump, or burn, rubbish; I wasn’t surprised though, along the road, there is often evidence of our consumer driven lifestyle and the packaging it entails. However, having said that, when our feet hit the sand, it was a completely different story. Where Coco Beach differs from many of Goa’s more recognisable beaches is that of its size, erosion and environmental factors have decreased the beach, though they haven’t diminished its simple beauty.

Whispering palms surrounded the beach, providing a soothing song as the fishermen tended their nets. Rustic beach shacks offered cool drinks, snacks and a respite from the blistering midday sun.

As we paddled in the surf, I began to appreciate the harmony of life here – tourism complemented the working life of the fishermen – they used the local shacks and enjoyed the attention of tourists eager to see the day’s catch. I scanned the beach for the usual array of worthless souvenirs and trinkets that accompany beaches all over the world, but found none, this was a place to relax, not a place of commerce. Here, the invitation was to spend take some time out, enjoy family and friends, return to your home refreshed and invigorated by the sound of the surf and sunlight on your skin.

Our two weeks stay in Goa flew by; each day was filled with colour, experience and regular visits to Coco Shambhala. We explored, tasted and had our senses filled with the textures of Goa, but still it offered more. Every expectation we had was either met or disproved; every idea was supported or turned on its head. Nothing, we found, was simple or ordinary.

For example, a visit to a local shop was (and still is) never a two minute task. Supermarkets are a relatively new concept here and self service supermarkets were only brought into being about five years ago – so I guess we will be waiting a little while longer for self service checkouts!!! So, right, you get into the supermarket, first, you have to check your bag in with the friendly security guard who insists on speaking to each of our three children individually. Then, you have to greet the shop assistants, who, again, have to speak to the children. Then, you get your basket and begin to wander around the shop, shadowed by a shop assistant who treats you like Julia Roberts in ‘Pretty Woman’ after Richard Gere has told the assistant they are going to spend ‘obscene amounts of money’. Nothing is too much trouble, a request for something simple will have the poor girl scurrying into the bowels of the shop to return anywhere within ten minutes to an hour later, holding a aloft a dusty item, grinning and grimy, like some tiny Indiana Jones back from the Storeroom of Gloom. You almost have to take the item, whether you wanted it or not, because the disappointment would probably be too much for her to bear.

There is also the language barrier – a search for curry paste resorted in an assortment of plates being brought out for inspection, a request for Fanta resulted in pants and a clock – I still don’t want to think about it.

However, all too soon, we were scooped out of our adventures, ferried to the airport and confined to the soulless, air conditioned environment of the plane destined for England, for home.