Finding the Vegas of India in Goa

India, day 13... when Vicki learns there is no such thing as the real India

This morning we take a quick flight from Mumbai to Goa: India's smallest and richest state. We're on a food tour, and you have to get a taste of the south on a food tour. (Whether Goa counts as "the south" is up for debate, but it's as close as I'll get on this trip.)

“Goa isn’t India”

Walking out of the airport in Goa I wonder if I've arrived in Vegas. I see an abundance of ads for casinos, and billboards inviting visitors to “do things you can’t tell Mum and Dad about.” I'm starting to understand why a few Indians have told me that “Goa isn’t India.”

But if Goa isn't India, I wonder, what is? In my two weeks here I've seen a wide range of Indias: the organized chaos of old Delhi, the timeless beauty of the Taj Mahal and Udaipur's City Palace, the exuberant friendliness of traditional Rajasthani villages, the relentless touts and beggars of Agra, the ambitious modernity of Jaipur, the reclaimed colonialism of Mumbai.

What is the real India, if not the rich variety of these different places, united by some common themes: faith, colour, pride, acceptance, grit... and a love of food?

Coconuts, pineapples and lilies

Real India or not, Goa is beautiful: hilly, lush and green—with rich red earth underfoot. On the drive to our hotel I feel like I’m in Hawaii, surrounded by groves of tropical trees and towering palms. We pass small trucks overflowing with coconuts and pineapples, ponds full of lilies with upright white and pink flowers, and swamps that make me think of the mangrove forests in the Florida Everglades. Homes are painted like watercolours, in washed out yellows, purples and lime greens.

And then we arrive at our hotel in a small oceanside town in Bardez, north Goa, and I fight a feeling of disappointment. The town's natural charm is almost completely lost amidst all the bars, tourist clothing shops, tattoo parlours, and spas where fish eat the skin off your feet. I'm reminded (not fondly) of Surfers Paradise in Australia. What's the word I'm looking for....? Tacky. That's it.

Cows and clubbing at the beach

I grew up by the water, and am always happy with my toes in the sand, so I opt to spend my afternoon at the beach, which is busy but beautiful. Families play in the water and cows wander along the shore, while tourists lounge in deckchairs and drink at bars that run from one end of the beach to the other. If it weren't for the cows, I wouldn't know I was in India at all.

The sun starts to sink into the ocean, and I join my friends for Kingfishers and fish curry at one of the many beachside restaurants. I swat at mosquitoes and say yes to the local kids who want selfies, and no to all the ones trying to sell us neon bracelets and glasses.

I soon see what the neon is for: as darkness descends, the beach comes alive with flashing lights, competing DJs, and crowds of people dancing at each bar. Where am I, India or Ibiza?

Age has not quelled my love of club music, but I'm not drunk enough to go dancing alone. Common sense takes me back to the hotel, and to bed, where I dream in neon. I hope tomorrow takes me back to the real India, whatever that means.

> India travel blog - day 14 - Christianity and cooking in Goa