From Susegaad to Greed: Travels in Remixed Goa

Goa, once the land of susegaad—that blissful, hammock-swaying, afternoon-snoozing, Kingfisher beer -sipping contentment—has gone through quite the personality crisis. My wife and I hoped for a nostalgic dip into coconut curries, quiet beaches, and maybe even a church bell or two ringing softly in the distance. Instead, I found myself in a DJ's fever dream—Goa, remixed.  

Calangute and Baga felt like Las Vegas had a glitter overdose. EDM beats pulsed louder than my heartbeat, and the only thing more neon than the signage were the flaming shots being served at every third shack. Taxi drivers offer "spiritual tours" which involve not temples but a pub crawl ending at a secret rave (that seemed rather well-publicised).  

The susegaad of old Goa—where conversations stretched longer than siestas—seemed to be hiding behind overpriced organic cafes selling avocado toast and turmeric lattes. We did try to find peace. But the closest we came was watching a group of North Indian tourists argue passionately with a shack owner about who invented the dosa! 

And then there’s Ashwem, my home village in Mandrem (north Goa) , where the remix feels more personal. Russian, East European, and North Indian tourists have taken over, transforming the once-quiet village into a mini-UN of sunburnt, half naked holidaymakers and beachside entrepreneurs. The transformation is loud, flashy, and —well— profitable. As my cousins still living there say with a half-smile: 'They bring money, they bring business, they gave Ashwem a new look. Sure, we don’t like it, but we didn’t like poverty either.'

It's hard to argue with progress when it puts food on tables where scarcity once sat. Yet beneath the glitz, the heart of Ashwem lingers. The scent of fish curry bubbling in a clay pot, the sight of old fishing boats still dragging their nets at dawn, feni served in chipped shot glasses, the echo of a Konkani song drifting from a balcony. The rhythm has changed, but the soul? It’s still humming—if you know how to listen.

Ashwem, sitting between Morjim and Arambol—once a haven of peace and quietude—felt like a secret Goa, untouched by the chaos of tourist crowds. The Chapora and Terakhol rivers flowed through these beautiful villages. The cashew tree-filled hills seemed to rise right from the beachline. Back then, the sea wasn’t just a postcard backdrop; it was alive, rushing its high tide waters into a lazy, chest-deep inlet, carrying fish as if delivering them straight into our hands.

A simple white cross (my grand-dad waa part of the team that built it) and St. Anthony’s Chapel on the beach—both still standing—marked our village, quiet sentinels watching over the shoreline. Old-timers would sing Alfred Rose and Lorna Konkani songs, their voices carrying over the salt breeze as they climbed the coconut trees every morning for fresh toddy. They would speak of turtles coming on moonlit nights to lay their eggs. It was a ritual, a rhythm of life that felt eternal.

I'm glad, though, that the beautiful interiors of Aldona, Ucassaim, and Chorao Island have remained mostly untouched by this remix. These villages, with their sleepy lanes, moss-covered Portuguese homes, and ancient banyan trees, still hold the old Goa close to their heart. Here, the scent of rain on red earth lingers, and the churches whisper stories older than the tourists who never quite make it this far inland. The backwaters of Chorao still reflect lazy afternoons, and in Aldona, the pace of life moves as gently as the river that cradles it. Some places, thankfully, still believe in susegaad.

Today, the peace has been traded for neon lights and techno beats, roar of bikes but the echoes of those old songs and the scent of cashew blossoms remain—if you care to look beyond the Babel of tongues and noise, past the Instagram influencers posing on rented Royal Enfields. Goa's soul peeks through this clutter. It's in the quiet charm of pastel-painted Fontainhas, and time moves like the lazy flowing Mandovi. Or the loose frocked auntie selling bebinca at Mapusa market, refusing to haggle but handing out free samples anyway.  

Goa isn't ruined. It's just... remixed. Greed has turned its beaches into real estate brochures, but deep down, it's still the land of afternoon siestas, coconut palms, and susegad souls—if you know where to look. Just follow the scent of xacuti, the sharp smell of cashew or coconut feni and the sound of a distant guitar.

*Note: the headline was recommended by my FB friend, writer and media personality Madhavan Narayanan*