Over the past ten days, I've made a sharp descent through the evolutionary shoe tree; beginning with complicated walking shoes, to shoelike leather sandals, to simple bits of velcro holding a sole together to the humble flipflop. Each pair of shoes seems to irritate my feet in different places, so the answer seems to either stick with one type and be irritiated in one spot severely, or to alternate between all of them and be irritated, less severely, pretty much everywhere. But I think, with some complicated maneuvers involving sticking plasters and selotape, I've 'fixed' one pair of shoes, not unlike the way you fix a dog or cat, so that it doesn't bite me any longer. The ants, though, still hate me.

What I like about Goa is, surprisingly, what I thought I'd dislike about it; tourists. Well, not tourists, but rather travellers like myself, who've seen bits of the country, and are resting here. Indians I've met have been friendly, but thanks to the guidebooks I'm usually thinking they're trying to either sell me something or scam or steal from me. So far, I've usually been proved right, with encounters on the train and inside monument sites being the exceptions. So it's nice to meet backbackers, especially when they've been travelling before and can offer me worldy advice, such as my Dutch next-door neighbour, Chantalla (or Chanti, like the town), who has such skills as not getting ripped off by rickshaw drivers and how to bathe topless with confidence (the last one not much use to me).

A few days ago I experienced my first Bollywood film in an Indian cinema. As far as I could tell, the plot followed a rich playboy who was sadly cursed by bursts of incredibly loud and piercing sentimental music, which afflicted him every time he saw his Beloved (who teaches deaf children netball, of course). Throughout the movie, the man suffered these attacks, eventually leading him to drink and a really quite nasty car crash. It was very long, and didn't have much singing. It also featured one scene I really didn't understand, where the kindly father of the playboy gave a widowed woman a book of cloth samples, which for some reason horrified her beyond belief. Dil Karishta is was called; watch out for it at the Oscars, providing they're still giving out that "Most Horribly Unsubtle Acting in a Motion Picture" award. Though I guess Tom Cruise would inevitably win that.

I haven't really got any excuse, but last week I bought a guitar. Wandering through the bazaar, I noticed a sign for a music shop. I climbed up the dank little back stairwell, and found the place, next door to a leprousy clinic. I had thought I could stand to go for two months without my favourite prop, but not so. I paid Rs1650 (22 pounds) for a local handmade instrument with a soft case, pretty small and very light but nonetheless as playable as a bigger instrument. I might have to dump or send home some other baggage (I have too many pairs of trousers), but I believe it's worth it, for my sanity.

I think Goa has infected me; I'm surrounded by long stayers, resting backpackers and the odd tax exile, and none of them seem all that inclined to leave this place. Most people I meet (annoying two-weekers from Germany and England aside) seem to be staying here for at least a month. I think I'd better get moving quickly, lest I end up spending the rest of my less-than-eight weeks here. Next on to Hampi, or Vijanaganar-something, providing I can get to the train station today to book a ticket. Then... maybe Calcutta.