‘Avois aizui sogle tourist mure’ (Oh God, today also tourists!) is a common refrain when you gaze at the average Goan during peak monsoon. Having just traversed a rainy sojourn in Goa, I realised the unfettered freedom each one embraces, not bound by conventions. Even the valet or attired driver, roadside eatery cooks or chef or any sundry worker goes about his job in a carefree manner. The hippies have long deserted its coastline from Arambol in the North to Palolem in the South, with domestic tourists thronging the beaches to relish its monsoons. For many, Goa may be a melting pot of pleasure seekers but for most crisscrossing the state during the wet months, it is an intense proximity to nature. On a hired scooter or a bicycle, there is every possibility of being stuck in a downpour with only a bamboo shade between you and the skies.
If you want to unravel Goa in the rains, avoid the plush beach resorts and their paraphernalia. Stay at a quaint homestay off the main beaches in some secluded alley and there are plenty to dwell in, widely advertised on brick walls as you venture out. Run barefoot on the shoreline with a drizzle above and fishing nets gnawed into the sand. When Cannes awardee actor Anasuya Sengupta, who lives in a century-old Portuguese villa in Siolim, recently expressed her feelings, "…the Goa monsoon proverbially washed over me, making me desperately honest with myself. They pushed me into wet, lonely corners where I had no choice but to come face to face with myself, with only thunder and lightning as my companions," she was stating the obvious.
The usual binge that struck me, when I landed at Dabolim airport, was the flurry of tourists from Karnataka and Maharashtra, both states adjoining Goa. Though they share the same Konkan coastline at either brim, the distinctive allure of Majorda, Colva, Palolem, Benaulim and Varca – all southern beaches – has traditionally captivated leisure hunters from these adjacent states. Now that Goa has two airports, Mopa in the North and Dabolim in the South, the bifurcation of travellers heading towards their geographies is more distinct. Those more interested in club-hopping, nightlife and calorie mopping at higher adrenaline levels head North after embarking, be it Vagator, Anjuna, Baga-Calangute or Condolim.
Though everything was geared to appease the tourist’s sensibility, at restaurants and bars, crooners were still belting out numbers from ABBA, Elvis, Bob Dylan or other Western rock hits. Only dollops of sleazy Bollywood hits were interspersed on request from the diners. Goa’s sultry arcadian charm, its susegad or the relaxed laid back attitude inherited from the Portuguese, was something all were proud of. As a slow traveller, I could relish the Goan susegad in tandem with the pork sorpotel -- hot with red chillies but sour with coconut vinegar. The concoction of two tangy tastes was akin to the fusion music being played, guitar strums and percussion clops.
Not long ago, Goans would go into hibernation once the monsoons arrived in full bloom. I noticed that the coastal state does not retreat into a shell even during torrential downpours any more. There is no fuzzy feeling as the shack owner looks at the crowd lining his joint. He knows for sure there would be a beeline of pleasure seekers to enliven the evening. Everywhere I toured, be it the alleys or Panjim city, raindrop tourism has brought the pennies clanging for all vendors and it is a rich haul for most restaurateurs or small eateries. As I heard the drops pitching over giant leaves, I could see the beach scattered with visitors, undeterred by tides and the lifeguards. They kept on flocking to the waves, giving a blind eye to the whistle shrieks of the lifeguards and whoop each time the ocean’s watery whip lashed the shores. Only when the exuberance was overbearing, the coastal police jeep cop blared on the hand-held mic, asking people to step back.
At Colva, Majorda or Betalbetim to the southern leg of Goa, fierce rains, thunder and lightning do not bring life to a screeching halt. It is quieter, full of obliging locals. I savoured the tangy fish curry, racheado or stuffed fish and balchao, the ubiquitous Goan prawn delicacy with parboiled rice. Most first-timers mix up the cuisine balchao with balcao or the open space connected to the front door abundant in old Goan houses. As I walked past the countryside, the balcao was like an open invitation to take a breather. It seemed a spot where languid conversations are punctuated by laughter and song. The balcao was like an archetypal Mario Miranda sketch of his native village and a gracious way of life, an illustration replica which I could lay hands on. And the casa or household still stocked up on salted mackerels, stingrays and shrimps for the monsoons.
This time I decided to venture into the famed Old Latin Quarter in Panjim. Soaked in heritage, on a wet afternoon, Fontainhas resembled what William Dalrymple described as a ‘small chunk of Portugal washed up on the shores of the Indian Ocean’. All are fascinated with the colour scheme of Goa’s Latin Quarters, criss-crossing cafes, bakeries and sundowners. A gallery owner explained to me the reason behind the use of the only three colours available, red from laterite, yellow from burning lime, blue from indigo, green from mixing blue and yellow. The insignias, sentinels and finials in the form of a rooster or soldier atop houses were equally intriguing.
A Goan medley is as welcome as a whiff of petrichor. The steady pitter-patter of raindrops drenching the coastline made me run down the shore. As the clouds open up their canisters on the soil, the Goan villages and hamlets are a joy to behold; verdant alleys and fields washed clean, a feeling of pure abundance. A picture postcard frame often sending shutterbugs into a tizzy, ogled at by many, but cherished to the core by tourists and domiciles. Goa’s monsoon doesn’t end with the receding showers; it only takes a break to revive with pent-up passion. As my flight took off, displaying the semi-circular wave arc from Arambol-Tiracol to Vasco and Marmagao harbours to Palolem, I promised to return by the next monsoon.
(The writer is a commentator on politics and society.)