In a development that has sent shivers down the spine of every beach shack owner and coconut-seller, the fabled sands of Goa are emptier than a politician's promise. The cause? The UK Foreign Office has issued a travel advisory so terrifying it makes the plot of a Michael Bay film look like a Shakespearean comedy. Tourists, it seems, have realised that paradise comes with a side of septic tank overflow and a chaser of three-hour traffic jams.
Let us paint a picture: the golden beaches are now glittering with the sheen of uncollected rubbish, the air thick with the perfume of drains rather than jasmine. The UK government, in a rare moment of brutal honesty, has warned that 'safety and hygiene' in this Indian idyll have gone the way of the dodo. One can almost hear the collective groan of every travel blogger who promised their readers 'authentic experiences' involving dodgy plumbing.
But wait, there's more. The advisory specifically mentions 'shortages of clean drinking water' and 'poor medical facilities'. This is the point where the average tourist, clutching their bottled water and hand sanitiser, decides that a week in Benidorm with its relentless karaoke bars suddenly seems rather appealing. The goan tourism board, no doubt nursing a hangover of epic proportions, has responded with the usual platitudes: 'We are working tirelessly to address concerns.' Translation: 'We have formed a committee that will meet in three months to discuss forming a sub-committee.'
Let us not forget the irony. Goa, once the jewel in the crown of the hippie trail, a place where freedom and cheap rum flowed in equal measure, is now a cautionary tale. The very things that made it magical – the laid-back attitude, the disregard for schedules – are now its undoing. Tourists complain of being overcharged for substandard rooms, of encountering more stray dogs than sunbeds, and of the alarming discovery that the only thing colder than the beer is the service.
And what of the foreign office's own role in this farce? Did they not, just last year, recommend Goa as a 'vibrant destination for cultural enrichment'? Now they are telling their citizens to avoid it like a plague. The truth, as ever, lies somewhere in the middle, but that doesn't make for a good headline. The local economy, dependent on the winter influx of Brits with fat wallets and weak stomachs, is in a state of panic. Guesthouses are offering discounts that would make a budget airline blush, and bars are serving two-for-one cocktails in a desperate bid to keep the punters in their seats.
But the exodus is real. One travel agent told me that bookings have dropped by forty per cent. 'People are scared,' he said, wiping a tear with a fifty-rupee note. 'They think they will catch something nasty or get hit by a taxi.' And let's be honest, they're not entirely wrong. The roads are a death trap, the hospital is a gamble, and the only thing more unreliable than the electricity supply is the weather forecast.
So what is the solution? Perhaps it is time for Goa to embrace its new status as a post-apocalyptic paradise. Market it as a survivalist destination. 'Come to Goa and test your immune system! Battle the traffic jams! Survive on street food! Return home with stories that will make your friends wince in horror.' There is a niche market for that, surely. Or perhaps the tourism board could invest in a few rolls of bin bags and a squad of retired NHS cleaners. Just a thought.
In the meantime, the only foreigners left are the ones too drunk to read the travel warnings, the ones who think 'Delhi belly' is a political party, and the odd conspiracy theorist who believes the whole thing is a plot by the Maldives. As for me, I'll be in the airport bar, raising a glass of dubious quality gin to the last tourist. He'll be drunk anyway. He won't notice the sinkhole outside the terminal.
