Not possible, said the travel agent. Train? Plane? Boat? The answer was the same. All routes to Goa were full. Full to choking. What makes Goa such a hot destination for people wanting to celebrate the ushering in of the new year? Year after year? In recent times the beautiful coastal state that was a magnet for the more adventurous back-packing westerner in the past has been drawing hordes of young Indians, not just from neighbouring Mumbai but all over the country. Remember Dil Chahta Hai and where the mobile-toting, continent-hopping trio congregated at the end? It is difficult to define Goa’s enduring attraction. Perhaps the fact that there’s something for everyone has something to do with it. In Mumbai, the talk was about splashy Goa parties where it could take a whole day just to transport the booze from the gate to the bar. In Baga, the local taxi driver gushed about the hilltop discotheque where “the best djs in the world” were expected to do their thing. At midnight, the skies over the sea burned up with fireworks for the beach bums. And in Panaji the newspapers said the local dances went off as planned. And the visitors stayed on, filling the bars, the beaches, the roads. Even a couple of days into the new year, the road leading to the Saturday night market in Anjuna was packed tight with vehicles of every description. And inside it was difficult to move. All around one could see streaks,locks, tints, all-red, all-blond. A friend who has set himself up as a hairdresser in New York looked around appreciatively and said “nice, very nice”. The digeroo played a wistful tune and people feasted on humus, momos and washed down slices of real Italian pizza with chilled Sangria. And all around the scalps underneath the glorious hairdos could have been any colour: brown, black, yellow, white. One could have said hello to an Indian executive from Brussels, a Danish trader of aromas from Chapora, a Russian wanderer who had decided never to go back home, an American turned Indian restaurateur, an Indian advertising honcho from Delhi, a British journalist from Mumbai, an Indian social activist from Panaji. And, what’s more, have a hard time telling the difference! True globalisation with a little help from the cosmetics industry. Down the sides were rows of stalls where the enterprising had put out their wares. Kashmiri shawls, Gujarati mirror-work, Tibetan silver, Brazilian charms, acupressure slippers, rock salt, bottles of feni, Goan art, palm leaf scrolls, antique photographs, swimming trunks, vodka shots and clay chillums. Shopper’s paradise! Goa continues to be the kind of place where one travels miles to access an ATM machine only to find it out of service. Yet, out there in Calangute and Kandolim the high-end shops have proliferated: James Fereira, Malini Ramani, Rust. A week later, a festival was scheduled to open to showcase old Portuguese houses in Panaji with music and local cuisine. The state government talks of turning Goa into another Cannes. Locals complain about the environmental degradation caused by tourism — the bonfires of plastic thrown out by the beachside shacks at the end of the season. Others cherish dreams of migrating to Portugal. Restaurant managers practise welcome lines for white skinned tourists hopping off the ever increasing charter flights. The aging freak still hangs out at a street corner juice stall, downing a chikoo shake and searching the local paper for news of home. And local gangs raise cudgels against foreigners doing business on their land. Fashions change. Already the buzz is about verdant Kerala and how God’s Own Country is set to overtake Goa on the popularity stakes. Maharashtra Tourism is developing new sites along the coast. And soon, perhaps the party will move on creating its own ripples of good and bad. This week thousands of people from all over the world will congregate in Mumbai for the World Social Forum; to discuss ways in which the world could be a better place in the time of globalisation. There was a time when Goa, to many — the aimless, the seeker and the smoker — held out the promise of a place where the ideal life could be carved out, where the real world with its hectic rush, competitiveness and blood-thirst did not intrude, where one’s needs could be met by the simple gifts of nature. In Alex Garland’s The Beach, a similar seeking ends in bloody disaster as basic human tendencies surface, unguarded and untamed by city rules and institutions. In the more mundane world, utopias just shape themselves to new demands.
