A phoren tour in India

Wandering aimlessly on the narrow stretches of the land we so love to link up to a distant Portugal, I was enjoying the tranquil charm of those winding roads. Until I felt the hunger for a virgin sultry beach, untouched by the Goa-bound crazy crowd. And here in the land of men and women, browned by the harsh sun and toil of years, surprisingly a white man showed me the way to solitude. Yes, in the land of sun, sand and beach and much more, a foreigner played the proverbial guide to me and we landed at Mirojim beach, dotted by white skin and serenity. Thanks to that shirtless man on that sleek bike.
That is one part of India where a foreigner is the best man to tell you which places to visit, which road to take, where to stay, from where to buy the cheap booze and where to unwind. I was taken aback by the ease with which they roamed the length and breadth of a territory that was not theirs.
Daredevil act, I thought, when I first saw a foreigner riding a scooter to that secluded beach on that evening when the sun was fading away fast. But then I saw a few more, and then a group heading the same way. And on the way they were everywhere, in the thatched houses, on the balconies of the newly-constructed pucca houses with modern amenities, on the half-broken railings, in the roadside cheap bars. It was a small world packaged in that small pocket of India, like an island inhabited by small nationalities, all for fun and for their share of peace with nature’s most undiluted form. Mingling with the local populace, they bring dollars and euros for the hospitality they are greeted with. Indeed it was the heady mix of the local and the global, without even the shrillest voices of protest.