I realised that Goa like its waves, is all accepting, all consuming

Bhangra rap meets Goa trance and Parisian quirky cuisine melds into a cocktail called Shiva…Bandana Tewari does a round of the restaurants, bars and beaches of Goa, the oh, so cool Indian destination

When I look back on my first trip to Goa, I must confess, I was nothing short of a fake Bohemian, with the assumption that juggling a Jack Kerouac novel in one hand and a Hare Krishna scarf in the other, would allow me a quick entry into a world of spliff-friendly hippies. I marvelled as I watched the dreadlock community descend day after day on Anjuna Beach, to watch the sunset with the same awe-struck gaze, as did believers of Moses when he descended Mt Sinai. It had taken me a few days to ‘escape’ from my Gothic environment (convent run by Czech nuns in Darjeeling) and I promise you I smelt freedom for the first time. So in utter excitement I found myself, within an hour, beaded, tattooed, hennaed and scuffed up to make a poor man’s hippie swaying to Bob Marley, punctuating my conversation with “the vibes, man….” I have never been that earnest in my entire life.

But see, the spirit of Goa is that of an intrepid backpacker, who believes in experience, not as one being better than the other, but as an accumulation of memories that will make him or her quite the ‘self-realised’ raconteur. As I sat in La Plage in Asvem Beach (best vegetarian carpaccio and conveniently close to the chic outdoor Le Salon for a quick haircut), I realised that Goa like its waves, is all accepting, all consuming. It doesn’t repudiate the wannabe, the unsophisticated that the ‘real vibe’ imbibers say is corroding Goa. What it does is carve a little corner for everyone. While the hippie epicentre is moving increasingly north to Vagator and Arambol, leaving behind marks of local adaptability in such names as ‘Israeli Beach’ and ‘Spaghetti Beach’, Russians have quite a thing for Morjim. Chapora remains the retirement village for over the hill hippies, while Baga and Calangute beaches are swelling with surplus Indian revellers who think underwear is swimwear and carry the message of bhangra rap to the sandy beaches that once swayed to Joni Mitchell.

If you are a Carrie Bradshaw-like cocktail chaser, follow what I call ‘Goa’s Golden Triangle’ – a trail that begins in Caravela (Taj Village shack in Aguada) to Congo (with Julius Macwan’s 16-feet mural in a bling-bling meets jungle Jane lounge) via Vijay Mallya’s palatial home (strictly by invitation), a one kilometre romp that is patently for manicured mamas who match jewels to their thongs. If you want to sprawl in luxury within the confines of impressive ‘mini-metropolis’ hotels, then swing your Vuittons to Park Hyatt or The Leela, Goa. But for the twilight zone followers, there’s the perennial boho-circuit – sunset in 9 Bar (great music and pizza), strawberries and vanilla ice cream at Primrose before you kick-start your bike by midnight to a rave (which is only good if some snotty local boy tells you about it). If neither suits you, just go meet Tony. You will find him in Fisherman’s Paradise, making a cocktail that epitomises Goa’s energy. It’s called Shiva. Shiva for a Goan sunset.