In a development that has sent shivers down the spines of travel agents and cocktail shakers alike, the once-sun-drenched shores of Goa are now a ghost town of abandoned flip-flops and half-eaten vindaloos. Panic-stricken tourists, fleeing what they perceive as a mortal threat to their sunburned noses, have decamped in droves, leaving only bewildered beach vendors and a single, forlorn coconut seller who keeps mumbling about the 'good old days.' The reason for this sudden stampede? Security fears, so the official line goes. But this correspondent, fresh off a gin-soaked investigation that involved one too many regrettable decisions, suspects something far more sinister: the sheer, unadulterated horror of being forced to scroll Instagram without a decent filter.
Yes, gentle readers, the British holidaymaker, that noble species that turns beetroot in any climate above 20 degrees Celsius, has decided that Goa is no longer the paradise of psychedelic trance, overpriced beach huts and aggressive-beggar-ridden massages they once adored. Instead, they're flocking to destinations with proven track records of safety. I am told these include Butlins, the local municipal swimming pool and, in one particularly desperate case, a man's own back garden. The travel industry, ever the opportunist, has already pivoted to marketing 'Costa del Tesco' packages and 'Fortress Cornwall' experiences where you can hire a retired SAS operative to guard your deckchair.
But what, exactly, are these 'security fears'? Official statements are as clear as Bombay Sapphire on a Friday night. Is it the risk of an unprovoked attack by a rogue tuk-tuk? The possibility of being force-fed one too many pina coladas? Or the chilling prospect of being asked to partake in a yoga class by someone who's 'found themselves'? The truth, as always, is more banal. It's fear, magnified by a 24-hour news cycle that would make a Victorian melodrama seem restrained. And as the tourists flee, the local Goan economy weeps into its beer, wondering if the next wave of visitors will be backpackers with a taste for austerity and a fierce resistance to souvenir shops.
Meanwhile, the 'safe destinations' touted by the UK travel industry are a masterclass in Orwellian doublespeak. 'Safe' now means 'boring'. 'Secure' means 'devoid of any local colour whatsoever'. 'Peace of mind' means 'an all-inclusive resort where the most dangerous thing you'll encounter is a slightly undercooked sausage at breakfast'. This, my friends, is the death of adventure. The end of the unexpected, the spontaneous, the slightly iffy street food that gives you a story and a stomach bug. We are trading the chaotic beauty of Goa for the sterile predictability of a budget hotel chain. And for what? The illusion of safety? I'd rather risk my digestive system in the name of journalism.
So, as the last flight takes off from Dabolim airport, stuffed with terrified tourists clutching their tan lines like trophies, I raise a glass of dubious Indian whisky to the ghost of Goa. You were too wild, too messy, too real for us. We didn't deserve you. And now we're off to Cornwall, where the biggest danger is a moody seagull and a pasty that's only slightly radioactive from the local soil. God save the holiday, for it has become the safety drill.
