Letting your hair down in Goa: The single young Indian woman's guide

As the hoary tourist t-shirt line goes, it really is "better in Goa". At least for girls on the go, writes elated Amrita Singh

When my best friend and I finally decided to take an all-girls vacation on a whim, the only destination that came to mind was Goa. We had toyed with the idea of Gokarna, proceeding on the assumption that what we needed was isolation — a complete break from the all-consuming and disturbing recent scenario of riots, murky politics and protests in Delhi. But, surprisingly perspicaciously, we decided against it out of fear of getting bored (and judged) in that small temple town. Also, to be really honest, Goa's familiar beaches and parties were hardly a deterrent for two young women looking to let their hair down.  

Next, it was time to plan the logistics. While looking for an Airbnb, we encountered a vast range of options. To our delight, we found an all-woman-run lodging called Curioso Goa — Studio & Suites in Siolim, North Goa. It ticked all the boxes and put to rest safety concerns too, as we had every intention of partying into the wee hours. Our hosts, Inchara, Neeta and  Devika, had quit the big city lifestyle to balance work, life, health, travel and their creative pursuits; they have also set up an art studio where fellow travellers can pursue their own art and craft interests.

Our hosts connected us to a woman-friendly cab agency. Paresh was our trusty driver who we nicknamed "Papa" for reasons that will shortly become obvious. He gave us standing instructions on our very first night: "In the morning, do whatever you want. But at night, call me at any time and I'll pick you up from wherever you are and drop you back to the hotel. Times have changed, you know." The paternal, affable cabbie checked in on us every night after midnight and ferried us party girls while we took on Goa without a care in the world.

We restricted ourselves to North Goa — not the tourist-infested Baga, Candolim or Calangute, but quieter Morjim, Vagator, Anjuna, Ashvem, Arambol and Assagao. This voluntary quarantine felt surreal, like not being in the country of our birth and citizenship. Surrounded by Russians, Israelis and dare I say, Italians, my friend and I managed to blend into the mostly white crowd, also deceiving many credulous fellow travellers, just for kicks, of course.

As the fairly empty beaches of Morjim and Arambol took up our days, the nights were reserved for parties. Both of us love techno music but we were wary of attending scenes that might land us in trouble. Thus, Party Hunt, an app that helps you search out parties that suit in Goa. This invaluable piece of information was revealed to us by a waiter at Olive Bar and Kitchen in Vagator. Name the genre of music you want to groove to, be it rock, trance, techno or psychedelic, and you will be flooded with information about gigs and parties on the app. 

While we had a great time dancing to techno with the beach in sight, this was also the time when men began to prowl. As soon as we encountered thinly disguised pickup lines or felt eyes ogling our halter-necked backs, we armed ourselves with indifference and disregard for their subtle advances. Some men tried their luck anyway. To nip the conversation in the bud, I came up with a "sorry, but I'm engaged" and waved a ring-finger that sported a fake ring no one cared to investigate under the moonlight. (That might sound anti-feminist, but it was effective.) We even went to the extent of conjuring up fake identities — she was Nyra and I, Zeenat — so that we could vanish untraceably into the night.

If you think we were overreacting, you are probably a cisgender man. It is not fun to be approached every five minutes simply because two seemingly single women without a man hovering looked like they wanted to enjoy themselves — alone. For many, the fact that the two of us were travelling without men and not for a bachelorette party was unbelievable and intriguing. One man at Larive Beach Resort on Ozran beach in Vagator first asked me if I wanted to dance with him and then, unfazed, asked my friend the same question the second I turned him down.

A 2017 news report says that some 245 foreigners have died in Goa over the past 12 years; that number has probably grown since. But us Delhi girls didn't feel remotely unsafe in Goa. We haven't managed to put our finger on just what it was about the place that allowed us to be ourselves, away from the prying and judgemental eyes of uncles and aunties elsewhere in the country. Wearing revealing clothes with pride, disregarding curfew, hopping into a cab with someone we met five days ago — all things we wouldn't dream of doing back home in Delhi — but nothing felt wrong at all.  As the hoary tourist t-shirt line goes, it really is "better in Goa". At least for girls on the go.