A Trek to Paradise

Petra used to live in Arambol BC (Before Cellphones) in 2005 but moved when it morphed into a Club Med Resort and the beach was reduced to a sidewalk. In search of quiet,Petra and her group of travellers moved to the jungles of Arambol,near the sweet water lake. Unfortunately,the lake has turned into one of Goas latest popular attractions. Shops have sprung up and the once secluded spot is now a site for new hotels. It is time, says Maggie,a 21-year-old from Britain,to move again.

Maggie is a yoga freak,who dropped out of university and her philosophy degree to find out the meaning of life for herself. And now,with 29 members of her group,she is drawing up a plan to move to Paradise Beach in Gokarna,Karnataka. In that isolated bay,12 hours from Mangalore,perhaps lies the undisturbed idyll that they are looking for. Almost all the members of this straggly community of foreigners are in the pursuit of a slow-paced neon- free life. Except,the trappings of tourism often break in on the quiet. They are not hippies,says Adam from Amsterdam,a physics student. Not new-age,not bohemian,but global nomads.

They set off along the NH17,looking for lifts from Tata trucks and the odd car; their luggage is meagre and the rides are almost always undertaken at night. It is not a journey that will cost them much. The emigres pride themselves in living cheap. The maximum they spend in a day is around Rs 100; they eat fresh vegetables,they fish themselves and cook over an open fire. This is not for everyone, says leggy Californian Taryn,31,a former dentist. On the way,they climb slopes,skid along dirt paths,and balance on perilous ledges. The walk from Gokarna is a tedious six-hour trek past paddy fields and the unforgiving mesh of twigs and branches. This better be worth it, mumbles Avi,27,from Israel. If I wanted to die,I would have joined the Israeli army, he says,

tripping often.

Its been almost 24 hours since they started their journey. And finally,Paradise is on them. This is the antithesis of the crowded Goan beach. Not a cement building stands on the beach,nor does a road lead you to shops selling identical wares. Not a stall is in sight. There are no hotels either; 52 shacks are the only accommodation. Perched on cliffs overlooking the Arabian Sea,they offer postcard views. There is plenty of space to live. Simply tie your hammock to a palm tree,and call it home.

Adrian,a 28-year-old from France who has travelled with Maggie from Arambol,points out gleefully that the average tourist,even if he reaches here with his picnic hamper,wont be persuaded to stay the night. When the dark sets in,its just you,the stars and the unknown. Most city folk need light. This life isnt for everyone.

Despite their desire to live in a rural commune,away from the commercialisation,there is a tendency to opt for the easy way out. Many members of the group,familiar with Hindi,coax the locals into allotting them rooms before others. Others wait until one clears; and the adventurous and capable build. Marcus,42,from Germany,an architect,guides members in basic construction using sticks and leaves.

Anil works at the shacks found on the edge of the bay. He doesnt need to clean up much,for the firangs have mandatory cleaning hours,and cooking is not taxing either. We get along just fine,but its tense for the five hours when the other tourists come. The two groups dont get along.

Visitors come in many shapes and sizes from the sea. For a Rs 1,000 boat ride,the odd traveller pops in and departs on the sunset boat,unconvinced by the extreme hedonism on display.

Bangalore IT professionals come with their blow-up tents and boom boxes,they refuse to clean up. Following the crowd is the odd boy and girl,walking along the beach with beads and necklaces to sell. Three years ago,there were three of them in a week selling wares,now its two or three a day. The foreigners living here are getting annoyed. They never buy anything anyway, says Raju,28,a fisherman.

As the sun sets,Adrian stands against the crimson sun playing the flute to departing tourists. Other residents of Paradise beach are there too,perched on the black rocks,watching boat after boat carrying the curious tourists out. As the last boat pulls out and Adrians flute solo nears to an end,they get out fire pouys and fire hula hoops,illuminating the dark with fire. Francoise,a Frenchman in his 30s,sits back with a map. Hes one of the first foreigners to have reached the beach in 2005. He says he wants to be one of the first ones out when it is discovered entirely. When it is time to move again.