January 2, 2025, 12:34 pm | Read time: 5 minutes
Many people traveling to India for the first time choose Goa as their port of call. And Arambol Beach is one of the most popular meeting places for party tourists—an Indian version of Mallorca’s Ballermann, so to speak. TRAVELBOOK author Anna Wengel was there, and explains the place full of contradictions.
The scent of alcohol wafts into my nostrils, mingling with the musty vapors of sweat and long-unwashed hair. Perplexed, I turn to the side. A man staggers into the café in Goa and plops down next to me on the row of cushions. Too close. My stomach, already on guard, growls to attack. I move away a little and try to concentrate on the laptop in front of me and ignore the stench. The inebriated individual beside me disregards my disinterest and slurs in broken English with a thick Russian accent, “Hey beautiful woman, do you know what I have? Something sacred you can touch.” “Hm, I really don’t want to know,” I grumble back, shaking myself inside. “Really girl, I have a big, sacred treasure. You should really take a look.”
I make this wonderful encounter at 10 o’clock in the morning in Arambol, a fishing village in the Indian state of Goa. In a miserable attempt to find some peace and quiet to work. It is not the only experience of its kind. Numerous tourists flock to Goa for the colossal drinking festivities. The good manners usually stay at home. Well, not everyone comes to Goa to get drunk. The drunken Russians, who are as present in Goa as sunburned Germans on Mallorca, mix with numerous hippies and yogis in Arambol to form a heterogeneous mass. Many of them are searching for meaning, some for the ultimate psychedelic trip. Finding it is not difficult. Theoretically illegal, the drug business in Goa flourishes as openly as in Berlin.
Chakra Cleansing in the Crystal Store
The quest for meaning grows more challenging amidst the reveling throngs on Arambol Beach. However, if you get involved in unexpected, perhaps even unusual experiences, you can actually experience something new in this party stronghold characterized by live music. For example, two of my fellow travelers were offered the chance to have their chakras cleansed by a crystal seller. They want to. They lie on the floor of the store with their eyes closed. The salesman closes the door, places stone after stone on my friends’ bodies, and quietly mumbles some incomprehensible words to himself. And suddenly they are rigid. They find themselves immobilized, unable to move. The man continues to mumble, and they both realize: He has the power.
Covered in sweat and with a somewhat crazed look on their faces, they both storm back into our two-bedroom apartment, which we are sharing with eight friends at the time, after their healing session. “I was completely unable to move. He could have done anything to us,” my friend says, trembling. He didn’t. After a good hour of sheer fear and panic-inducing immobility, the magic was over. “I’m tired. But I also feel so light. Somehow carefree,” she tells me. It appears the crystal man has drained more than just the energy of my friends. Curious, I walk to the store several times with a few others. The door is always locked.
Tranquil Paradise versus Party Stronghold
Searching for meaning in Arambol seems to happen mainly early in the morning. Long before the beach bars blast loud techno music from creaking speakers, the cliché tourists make themselves heard with slurred outdoor voices, and soften the image of themselves shot by shot. Long before the beaches are filled with white bodies in colorful bikinis and swimming trunks, and women with fair skin become a much-photographed sight. In the early hours, before the raucous spirit of Ballermann Goa stirs to life, Arambol Beach is a sanctuary for those in search of tranquility.
Yogis doing their sun salutations with their eyes closed and bare feet in the sand. Meditators who, in their lotus position, are not even disturbed by wandering cows. Joggers trying not to step in the garbage in the wet sand or run into a dead dolphin washed ashore, while keeping their eyes on the sea, where very lively dolphins leap out of the water in shoals.
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This version of Goa is truly the stuff of dreams. And unlike in Arambol, in other parts of the state it doesn’t just exist in the early morning. In Agonda, for example. “This is exactly how I always imagined Goa to be,” one of my travel companions says to me when we arrive in the small fishing village after a four-hour motorcycle tour. Me too. White sandy beaches with more or less discreet bars line the beach here, as do palm trees, and small beach huts, where you can hear the sound of the sea as you fall asleep.
There are no crowds of people, no abundance of stores with their huge colorful scarves, leather bags, crystals, and costume jewelry to make tourist bargain hunters’ hearts beat faster. The small fishing village seems like a small haven of peace in bustling Goa. And it feels like the only place in the whole of India where garbage doesn’t dominate. But then again, Goa stands apart; it is not quite India.
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The original version of this article was published in 2018.