Continuing on his Indian odyssey with no road map, no plans, no friends and no internet, Mark Strijbosch gets on a creaky bus ride that takes him into the hub of Goa.

The author was a little let down by the mysterious Goa.

After the luxury of having a local friend of mine as a guide and a motorbike for transport, it was now time to leave my comfort zone entirely and carry on my travels with only myself for company.

Travelling alone seemed like a daunting task at first. However, you soon warm up to yourself and realise that your journey into the unknown will split into two: a trip into the deep crevices of your mind with your physical journey into the wonders of southwest India as the backbone.

There was no road map from this point on. No plans, no friends, no internet, just this creaky bus ride taking me on a pendulum drop south from Pune into the hub of Goa.

There are no seats on the bus and you are expected to sleep as the snores of 12 men make counting sheep impossible. With my jumper as a pillow, I dreamed of what was to come and was determined not to be disappointed.

The Indian Ocean soon spread out in front of me, spilling gently onto the crisp shores of Arambol, and at next to nothing, my accommodation was set: a small beach hut with a view of the horizon. Arambol has a unique energy and everybody seems to be dancing to the same tune.

The beaches here operate on a timetable, I observed from my outpost. The morning attracts the yoga enthusiasts, who are occasionally crossed by the joggers, as the thumping of pads can be heard from the nearby boxing club. When the clock hits noon, however, the soft copper sands are deserted.

Time stands still at this hour as temperatures soar to over and above 45 degrees. The sand is now too hot to walk on, as I learnt the hard way after leaving my camera in the neighbouring hostel. That five-metre stretch was made unbearably harder without flip-flops!

As the stillness of the afternoon dries up, early joggers emerge and beach-lings slowly take over the sands once more. Life returns to the hub and it gets even more interesting at sunset and the beat of 20 bongos can be heard for miles.

Individual beachheads attract crowds who appear out of nowhere to celebrate the day’s end by playing music and chanting. Like a scene from our early ancestors, the beach is now alive with foreigners whose common language is a beat and an inaudible chant.

The less bling on this beach the better, as locals are attracted to it like bugs to a light

Nightfall welcomes a new breed of person: the entrepreneur. Hippies clad in loose, colourful garments lay out stalls on the beach looking to sell on their daily purchases from the uptown market, which opens weekly. These entrepreneurs will pitch for a far higher price but tourists do not seem put off as rupees exchange hands rapidly. Still I find myself wondering why on earth these tourists would rather purchase their souvenirs from a foreigner than a local tradesman in a local market.

Arambol seems a tricky place to master. On the one hand, the activity on the beaches seems great. However, I felt the overall impression left was a phoney one as described in the scene above.

Squashed, I found myself clinging to a rusted bar, sandwiched between two old locals. To every second, a bump was felt and the air supply was growing thin. A click of the conductor’s finger demands cash for the ticket and we were on our way. I was heading for the unknown and determined to get away from Arambol’s deceptive façade. I hitched on four bus rides, ending up in a place called Palolem.

Palolem, sadly, was not as kind as the name implies. Sure, it was warm with charm. However, that charm soon led to a tummy bug which grounded me for two of the most relaxing days of my life. When I emerged from my hut once more, I was a little let down by the mysterious Goa.

Commercialisation is the way of life here and people only talk to you if they spot your wallet. At one point, no fewer than four Indian women surrounded me as I turned my pockets inside out to show I was carrying no cash.

My tip here: leave your wallet in your hut, locked away and carry just a few rupees for that one gift that might catch your eye. The less bling on this beach the better, as locals are attracted to it like bugs to a light.

The height of sales here was reached when a 12-year-old lured me to her shop where she sold all sorts of fine fabrics. She did so by speaking no fewer than five languages, as in 30 minutes there she spoke Italian, Spanish, German English and what seemed like fluent Russian.

If that does not define over-commercialisation, I do not know what does. Frankly, I could not wait to go to a more genuine part of India, one not ruined by tourism, so I hastily booked my 17-hour train ride down south to Cochin…