Chai. Chapatti. Chillum.

After spending the first two days in Arambol staring at a ceiling fan and crawling from bed to bathroom in impressive voluminous vomit, I finally escaped the room and headed for a cafe. Sitting over a cold beer, quickly warming in thick heat, a tiny wrinkly man sat across and for the next hour I sat and listened.

Juha spat out stories fast, natural, his eyes deep with honesty and twinkling with mischief. Tales weaved from meets with Bob Marley and drug deals with Jimi Hendrix and MR NICE. To sailing rough seas around the world and spending time in a Thai prison. People talk of his stories around town with a cynical raised eyebrow, but an old friend assures me that the tales are all true. One story he finished off with was easier to believe, a moment seared in a friends memory of the old drunk disappearing backwards off a balcony and landing in the street. He spent five conscious hours in hospital with doctors "pamping blad from my 'ead". He's 65 years old.

Juha shared warm greetings with passers by, offering a rough ringed hand, his skinny arms protruding from a vest that hung on his tiny frame like a rag on a scarecrow. He left Sweden decades ago to "laugh around the world". He introduced himself as "Juha, I'm an alcoholic and a drug addict" and then giggled like a child to himself.

A broad blonde man slumped down next to me, the bench tipped forward in protest. He looked a cross between rough and drunk. Red in the face and haunched over on his elbows, he ordered a strong beer and rolled himself a smoke. Balloon like cheeks heaved at cigs and sucked down beers like a beast at a waterhole. We sat for a while in easy talk, falling through stories of his home in Finland, life in India and how he'd ended up in Arambol. One magically Indian moment he'd witnessed, of a local driving a scooter up the two front steps of the cafe and pulling up at the bar to order a beer. The most Indian part being that nobody battered an eye lid. Hand shakes were shared and waiters leant on the scooter for a quick catch up like he'd not been in for a while.

Ele threw a heavy arm around my shoulders, I gave his belly a friendly pat and he stumbled off to the doctor with Juha to see to his severe flip flop wound. The beer and 'stuff' had numbed any pain as he staggered between bars for days. Now infection had set in and an open gash glowed between his toes in agony.

Arambol is a cosy little town full of life and stories. Guest houses lean over litter filled lanes that meander to the bright, nestled homes of local families. The beach sweeps down the coast in a burning blur and white waves roll long up the sand to beach hut restaurants pumping soft house music.

Days have slipped into weeks, one moment rolling to the next without notice. I roll out of bed, pull on some shorts and wander to the beach for a swim. A slight hangover washed away in an instant, I walk the streets for breakfast stopping for handshakes and little chats with faces I know. I buy some tiny bananas and a mango and drink a chai whilst watching a world of hippies plod by. I lounge in a hammock seat and read. A stranger sits next to me and offers me a lit joint and we sit for a while, exchanging travel plans and Facebook details, forging another quick friendship. At sunset I walk the beach with the rest of the town, probably with a beer and join a crowd bobbing around some bongos. Another day doing nothing has slipped by, and it was great.

Gayle works hard at a yoga retreat in a neighboring town whilst I live the life of a beam bum. She has structured days, up at sunrise for meditation before fresh fruit and all day yoga. I'm using my watch to remind me what day it is, rather than for the time. Not that it matters anyway as everyday is a Saturday. We're having a very different month.

Each beer on the beach though, is finished with the dregs of guilt knowing that I'm not here for a holiday. Eating in restaurants and sleeping in a comfy bed every night isn't what my budgets cut out for - sleeping in a bush and eating lots of bread is the travel I'm used to. On the other hand, when in my life will I have another month like this. With no job to race to, no rent to work for, doing nothing but nothing on a beautiful beach with good company and a 50p kingfisher. Perhaps I shouldn't worry too much.