Nowhere in the world is a group of girls a vision of terror except Goa

Accidental tourist Siyabonga Dennis makes a dash for the beach between packs of growling dogs and determined local hustlers

I don't know why we were surprised that Goa was hot. Our entire trip had been sweltering but for some reason I had expected a climate similar to Durban - but we got Durban to the power of 10.

You know when it's really hot and the glare of the sun covers everything in a blinding white light, which makes you think you've been staring at limestone for hours? This is what greeted us almost every time we walked to the beach.

This time seemed worse than ever. In search of sanctuary, we had camped down at a restaurant that appeared to have been modelled on a Greek island (gentrification!) and was also the scene for a battle between rival packs of stray dogs.

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Obviously, only we tourists were fazed by this canine campaign happening on the shore. Some local people threw stones at the dogs but I think they were more bored than annoyed. For a good 30 minutes, the dogs growled and barked at each other, steadily advancing upon each other.

Eventually, it came to a rather anti-climatic end: they simply turned around and barked intermittently at each other as they retreated.

We decamped, ostensibly to make our way back to our room but then spied in the distance, determinedly making their way towards us, a group of girls.

Now perhaps nowhere in the world is a group of girls a vision of terror except Goa. You see, these girls are not only mere children but also probably the most determined hustlers in the world. We had passed different groups of girls throughout our stay in the tourist hot spot, and so by now were well acquainted with their intensity.

We hastily decided to forgo a romantic walk on the beach and escaped round the back of the restaurant. Fumbling past the rubbish bins, we spooked a dog deserter hiding from the battle on the beach. Hearing it growl behind us, we moved as quickly as the heat would allow us.

Then: "Madam! Sir!" Someone was calling us. Our hearts began beating like jungle drums. We stopped and therein lay our first mistake - we showed fear, and the girls, long skilled in exploiting weakness, fell upon us in a flash.

"Sir, why don't you buy a bracelet for your wife?"

"Um, this is my girlfriend."

"Oh? You must marry her, sir! Here, I have many nice things she will like!"

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They flanked and separated us in a movement of which King Shaka would've been proud. My girlfriend, a softer target, couldn't stand it any longer and cried out: "Please! I don't want anything! Leave me alone!"

The girls who were probably aged between seven and 12, disregarded this cheerfully. "Don't worry, madam," they said, "you'll feel much better after you buy".

They followed us for a little while longer, making small talk, asking me about my hair and my girlfriend about her complexion, but any answer would end with, "Buy this!" or "Buy this for your mother/father/brother/sister/child".

Finally, my girlfriend snapped and, in as many words, yelled at the hustlers that no, we weren't going to buy anything for our mothers-fathers-brothers-sisters-children. We fled. Well, we weren't actually running but we were as close to it without actually running.

"Madam, you a bastard girl!" shouted one of the would-be salesgirls. "You a dirty liar woman!" screamed another. The insults rained down on our heads. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The girls had spied another tourist.

We walked home in seething silence. As we arrived at the guesthouse, my girlfriend turned to me and hissed. "Why me?" she said. "Why didn't they call you a bastard boy?"

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