The only silver lining to the dark cloud of sexual exploitation

The morning was a welcome end to the damp darkness and loud banging emanating from the UV Bar, where in our drunken wisdom we'd chosen to stay. Bea and Martin were awake and had had a worse night's sleep than us. While we were tucked up in bed trying to sleep, our comrades had noticed that the guesthouse was not all it seemed. A live sex show about 6 ft from our rooms confirmed that we were essentially staying in a brothel—and worse than that, a psy-trance brothel.

The only silver lining to the dark cloud of sexual exploitation was that Martin had used the threat of police to get the DJ to turn off the god-awful music that should have been left to die in the '90s. With the thud of 150 terrible beats per minute still ringing in our ears and cheap perfume bittering the sea air, we decided that we'd move. Immediately.

Luckily, I'd been awake early enough to have already taken a stroll and found a place I thought they'd like. At the top end of our budget, Anjuna Villa had a swimming pool, clean, mould-free rooms, and even a balcony you could get stuck on if you closed the door behind you. A sigh of relief found its way across the group, and smiles returned to our faces. We all opted for the American breakfast, about the closest thing you can get to an English breakfast, but with awful everything and chicken sausages. Yep. Chicken sausages.

The evening before, half-cut and high on life, we'd devised a plan: we'd all visit the infamous Anjuna Market, a "hippy market" that's been going since Goa's heyday. To spice things up, the girls came up with a game. One girl would pick a boy's name (that isn't their boyfriend's) out of a hat (this isn't going where you think it is), and they would have 200 rupees (£2) and 15 minutes to buy the best thing they could and present it to the group. The winners would have self-satisfaction as their prize.

The teams were as follows:

• Bea & Harry
• Suzie & Martin
• Katy & Patty
• Adams & Ginge
• Imo & Me

We walked the long stretch of the beach and reached a high wall. Along the way, at least 3,000 pushy garment peddlers tried to tempt the cash from our pockets with predictably awful T-shirts with slogans ranging from "Goa" to "Bob Marley" and "Angry Birds."

We were spotted and quickly shouted at to visit their shops. I facetiously shouted, "Have you got any T-shirts?" but the irony was lost, and the excitement in their eyes told me that yes, they had T-shirts, and I was going to be hounded for the rest of my time in the market.

We set our stopwatches, and with rules cleared and checked, ran up the steps separating the sand and sea from the touts and souvenirs. Me and Imo quickly realised that it would be very, very difficult to find anything of value. Heads rattling at 100 miles an hour, looking, searching, and trying to ignore all the requests to "just look, don't buy," we thought of something innovative to win the task.

After coming to the end of the market, Imo suggested buying a drum and making up a rap. Feeling hot, flustered, and apathetic, I really couldn't be bothered and insisted we carried on. We got to a stall with fireworks. This was definitely the winner.

Haggling commenced—a skill I have learned and perfected over the many weeks we've been here.
"How much?" I said.
"2500 rupees."
"100 rupees?" I asked.
"No," he said and walked off.

Plan B was set in motion, and Imo tried her haggling tactics for a bongo. Time ticking away quickly.
"How much?" she asked.
"1000 rupees," he said.
"100 rupees," she demanded, thrusting the note into his hand and snatching the drum. It wasn't so much haggling as stealing, but we wanted to win and had little time. We ran the last few hundred meters and made it with 5 seconds to spare.

Suzie, Martin, Bea, Ginge, Adams & Harry were waiting smugly. Ginge & Adams, Bea & Harry were both holding big black leather whips. Instant disqualification for lack of imagination and buying the same thing. Katy and Patty hadn't yet arrived. After waiting a further 3 minutes, we decided that disqualification was the only answer.

It was down to either Suzie & Martin or me & Imo. Suddenly, an Indian man who appeared to be with their team pressed his lips against a didgeridoo and started to blow. They'd hired someone to play as their purchase. Clever and cunning, and against our unplayed bongo, a worthy winner.

Gracious in defeat, I never mentioned it again and congratulated the pair on their fair and square win, never once calling into question the strict rules that stated the purchased items would be shown and judged at the end of the day.

The story of how they'd come upon the Aussie instrument player was made all the better by the fact that the musician's stall was being looked after by a South African who just happened to be walking past and offer, and also that Martin had initially asked store holders where he could buy a boy to dance for us...

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