Entering into the spirit of 1960’s hippie-mania, I cashed in my free yoga lesson. I was pronounced very flexible and fit - especially for someone in education, “who are usually the stiffest and most pot-bellied”, according to the firmly physiqued fifty-year old who runs the Health Club at this rather faded five-star fortress. Adrian had taken a fistful of Sherpas on a sortie to the Post Office, with the room key, so I sunbathed until it rained, only to find he’d been in the room all along. So, belatedly, we took an overpriced taxi into Panaji to a) confirm airline flight home b) because of an imminent student protest. I failed to buy silk (not much choice) and the very promising carving shop was also shut. I did buy some Kashmiri papier-mache baubles and bells for the Christmas tree though. The letter racks were boring and broken. They shrugged when I pointed out they were all in the same dull design. And this the Kashmiti Goot Emporium, with 5 male staff in one pokey room. God the government job creation schemes are a national scandal. It reminds me of the sand flingers at Agra: Person 1 (male) digs sand onto a trolley. Persons 2-7 watch. All 7 (all male) shout, run, dance, flap hands, and by a small miracle, get the trolley to 4 women. Person 2 supervising the tipping of the load. Person 8 (female) fills a round-bottomed bowl, flattish, with 3 shovels of sand. Person 8 picks it up and passes it to Person 9, putting it on her head. Person 9 walks two steps, then passes the bowl from her head to the head of Person 10 who spins it to scatter the sand on the path. Reverse process and repeat. “Ah yes,” onlookers nod. “A Government programme.”