In the next beach hut, refugees from the Sixties play Fleetwood Mac, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd. Wish You Were Here? Welcome To The Machine, more like. They should look up to the sky and watch the motorized parachutes buzz the wind (our waiter calls it ‘fast air’) like mosquitoes. That’s where we all are, the privileged few. Then they should look down, to the bus station at Panaji, a Supertramp-shanty town of genuine refugees, from the Noughties.