North Goa? Why you should go Elsewhere

There’s more to Morjim than offshore gambling and trance parties

“North Goa or South Goa?” Ahead of a last-minute January trip, I found myself pestering every friend and acquaintance I could recall having traveled near or by West India, in between consulting YouTube, Instagram, articles and forums. 

Advice was echoed across the board. “Head south to relax, and north if you want to go home miserable, with impaired hearing.” 

As much as trance music is distinctly Not My Thing, I still wanted to see its birthplace. North Goa is one of those storied, almost ethereal places intrinsically linked to a time before traveling was inextricable from viral Instagram videos and well-worn guidebook recommendations. South’s Mabor and Palolem beaches looked perfect, sure, but Morjim was hardly an eyesore. I wanted to see Old Goa, its buildings emblematic of Lisbon’s, the city I’d made my base years previously. I craved some real partying, meeting hippies who’d seen it all, maybe some travelers who’d ended up staying for decades. Had they managed to escape the clutches of social media, surfing real waves instead of the algorithm? Has anyone?

My accommodation options in peak season were limited. Two nights in a room inexplicably labeled “9 out of 10, Excellent” by Booking.com were enough to prove my friends right. Sticky heat, dirty floors, a few cockroaches and no option to open the balcony door and enjoy the “sea view” (read: “garbage dump view”). A cricket tournament — spanning at least six hours per day, for five days — blasted deafening psytrance, like a pneumatic drill boring through my skull, from the literal moment I set my bags down. The organizer’s dedication to eroding my sanity was quite frankly, impressive. 

Earphones wedged dangerously deep in my ear canals, I walked up Ashwim Road, dodging motorbikes, stray dogs and a couple of dazed teenagers in tie-dye. Tibet Cafe afforded a meditative place to plan my escape, a playlist of healing sounds lulling me into a determined fugue state when I unplugged my own music long enough to order a coffee. I needed to get out of there.

The irony of stumbling across a boutique hotel called Elsewhere wasn’t lost on me. A handful of freestanding restored Portuguese buildings and tents were set back from a private stretch of beach, in a comparatively underdeveloped area just a short cab ride from where I was sitting. Owned by the same family since 1886, the current caretakers appeared to have considered every possible detail — WiFi, AC, a varied menu of local food and impeccable, irreverent design — seemingly far from any crowds. Far from anything at all, in fact.

I could do one night in the Creek House, said the manager, and one night in the Bakery. Those whimsical names and his immediately familiar tone were a balm for my battered brain. I took my chance, arranging to check in with my friend Bel flying in the next day and began counting the hours until I could zip up my suitcase.

The next morning, on manager Mark’s request, I handed my phone to my taxi driver. A brief exchange saw him drop me off on a dirt track not far from Mandrem beach, flying past flyer after flyer advertising offshore gambling spots. He pulled up by a friendly man in a blue polo shirt, waiting dutifully on a wall.

“I’m Mark,” he said. “You found us.” 

Taking a suitcase, he led my friend and I down a dusty alleyway, past houses with gardens stacked with bananas, surfboards and junk cars. A questionable bamboo footbridge helped us cross a creek, acid green birds flitting overhead. 

“What are we doing?” I mouthed to my jet-lagged friend, the only person in North Goa more dazed and confused than me.

We were led to a tented dining area that doubled as a reception, a cluster of antique wooden furniture forming a charming little reading nook, with stacks of books left behind by former visitors. Rounding a corner, our jaws dropped as a table draped in a white tablecloth became visible in the middle of a clearing, framed by gnarly banyan trees. It was silent, but for the sound of crashing waves.

“Are you hungry? Our chef can cook anything,” Mark said. We could’ve cried.

Garlic spinach, handkerchief breads and a sizzling plate of prawns with Szechuan chili sailed over with a really good bottle of Indian wine. After snagging some cigarettes from one of the friendly watchmen (“there are seven: six, and one to keep the others awake” we later read in a booklet), we tipsily made our way up a sandy walkway, home. 

The midnight blue Creek House was better than the pictures, a brick roof propped up by thick white pillars, its bathroom walls and rolled concrete floor a happy, lemon yellow. A fanciful, sun-dappled daybed made up with crisp white sheets became my reading nook, on a private jetty overlooking the creek we’d crossed earlier. Local and French wines lined the walls. The faint sound of drums, and yes, more trance music got louder as what we later learned to be Goa Carnival drew closer, but we didn’t care. Bel had had the good sense to buy up every box of earplugs at the airport.

After a spoiling breakfast of omelets and fruit smoothies, we closed the green wooden door of our safe haven, swapping its keys for those of the Bakery. A porter led us down a palm tree-lined path, past the hulking skeleton of a whale that’d washed up some years previously. A hammock swayed in the wind. The sound of the swell grew louder, until we found ourselves on the beach itself, separated from the water by just a thin wall of shrubs. The beach was beautiful, empty but for a horse riding lesson, and a jogger or two. Setting up two sun loungers outside our fire engine red home for the night, we laid horizontal, watching the sky turn from blue to bubblegum pink. If we timed a late walk right, we might catch turtles nesting on the beach.

“It feels like our own private island,” Bel said, gesturing around.

A quick Google told me that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were rumored to have stayed here while filming a documentary. So in celebrity style, we splurged on a massage each, the masseurs setting up their tables in our room, and flinging the doors open to the sea. 

Over a Goan fish curry by candlelight, we planned the next leg of our trip. We’d stick around for a few days more, and get our dancing fix at a (trance-free) music festival happening minutes away. Other guests shared their tips for a handful of excellent restaurants, cocktail bars, boutiques and antique cabinet shops. North Goa has plenty to offer, we concluded — but in the end, I was glad I chose Elsewhere.