Sand Castles Of Sin

The locals are not amused. The Goan sense of humour, atrophied by long abuse, has given place to simmering resentment or, when native cunning transcends native ire, by a rapacity every bit as corrosive as the tourist industry which exploits them. The trippers are the lowest of Europe's low life. Packed like sardines into chartered jets, they spill on to the beaches like some parasitic life form engorged on sun, sex and sin. Elderly paedophiles with kindly expressions and pockets full of tenners prowl the vaddos. Packs of Caucasian nymphs, indefatigable sexual trophy hunters, scour the beach bars for native exotica. Snarling skinheads negotiate drug deals under the palms. And for those who take their pleasures where they lie, Rajasthani gypsies of uncertain gender ply an ancient trade in the mangroves along the beaches. The detritus is hazardous to one's health. The sand is booby trapped with discarded condoms and syringes. The de-tox clinics overflow and aids is the flavour of the moment.