Mask of a man

Until the other morning I'd never heard the patter of rain in Goa. It was around 6 am and the first thing that happened is the animal noises changed suddenly they went all gurgling and amphibian

Until the other morning I'd never heard the patter of rain in Goa. It was around 6 am and the first thing that happened is the animal noises changed suddenly they went all gurgling and amphibian.

I imagined fat frogs rolling about in glee and chucking mud at each other with burps of satisfaction. The air was cleansed of dust and the smell of red earth wafted up my nose. Then a mosquito bit me. I smacked my neck a few times but it had gone.

This is my first mosquito bite on this trip and naturally I think I've got malaria. Help is at hand though the book I'm reading tells me the monsoon is considered by some to be something of a cure-all. "I hear it's good for the bones," I tell Akash my physiotherapist. "It's not scientific but some Ayurvedic practitioners do say that," he says. I don't ask him about malaria as he kneads expertly at my wrist smacking my right thumb on the space bar has taken its toll and put me at risk of developing Carpal Tunnel syndrome. I haven't looked this up on Wikipedia but I'm sure it involves worms boring into your bone marrow, something I hope the rains will prevent.

Two weeks ago, when I arrived in Mumbai, the passengers who stepped off my flight from London were greeted by a row of officials wearing swine flu masks. Their job was to determine whether any us were carrying the disease. I had expected patches or syringes or a bacon sandwich to be passed under my nose but nothing. The clerk barely took a look at me and stamped a piece of paper. "Are you ok?" I said to him. He looked at me quizzically. "They're making you wear that mask. I wondered if you were ok."

"OK, OK," he said.

On the way to passport control I stopped off to wash my hands. The loo attendant was wearing a mask. Yesterday a friend of mine told me that pigs discharge a noxious gas that makes swine flu airborne. Did the mosquito that bit me have swine flue as well as malaria?

"Perhaps you should look it up on Piggipedia," says Akash.

At the baggage carousel, precautions had dropped no one was wearing a flu mask. Then, a customs officer pulled me up on the alcohol I was carrying a habit from travelling to the US, it helps persuade them you are not a Muslim. My one bottle of whiskey and three bottles of wine exceeded the two-litre duty-free limit. I immediately withdrew the whiskey and one bottle of wine offering to leave the rest there. The customs man chuckled "No, no,". "It doesn't work like that." He asked me the value of the three bottles of wine. Naively, stupidly, I told him the truth and ended up paying Rs 1,500 for the two bottles that had to be taxed at 150%.

The payment, however, could not be made in rupees because I am not an Indian national. What if I left the bottles? "Then you'd have to pay a penalty." So I had to cough up a princely sum of US$34 "1,500 rupees is thirty-four dollars?" I said to the cashier. "Sometimes," he said with a wry smile. Had I gone to the nice customs man voluntarily instead of being called over, however, I could have got a way with simply forfeiting the booze.

What I ended up paying for the wine was more than its actual value and represented the second time I had paid for the same product. I consoled myself that if this were Iran, I'd probably be under arrest and subject to a beating before being rearrested and subject to another beating. I avoided sharing this thought with the customs man, though. You don't joke with petty bureaucrats. A couple of months ago I was stopped entering the US from Canada. While US Customs & Border Protection officials took away a number of my personal effects, including my toothbrush, to ascertain whether I am a terrorist, a stocky, thuggish looking one Gomez said his badge was assigned to watch over me. He chewed gum and talked like he was inches away from cleverly exposing me as a mass killer.

"Have you ever been involved in terrorist activities?" he said.

"No Peanut-brain Man With Gun, I haven't and if I had I would tell you," I wanted to say but I didn't because he could have killed me. Normally in this situation there's a picture of George Bush on the wall, which makes you feel rather helpless and imagine life in an orange boiler suit. This time there was a picture of Obama. "Brother Hussein, aleikom salaam, can you help a brother out?" I whispered. But all he did was smile.

"Does the monsoon heal sore pockets?" is what I should have asked the customs man in Mumbai. But wisdom prevailed. Now, in Goa, it's hot and my fan's gone off. I don't think I've got a fever so malaria's out of the question but I may well be growing a curly, pink tail. Do monsoons cure hypochondria? I don't know but bring on the rains, if nothing else the frogs'll be happy.

Iranian-born Peyvand Khorsandi is a journalist and stand-up comic based in London. He is in Goa writing his first collection of short stories.