As the monsoon sets in, the Goa government finds itself grappling with a recurring and tragic challenge—keeping tourists away from waterfalls, streams, and rivers in the hinterlands that become deadly traps during heavy rains. Despite repeated warnings, bans on swimming and picnics near water bodies, and heightened patrols, a disturbing number of drowning incidents have occurred over the last two years. The fatal allure of monsoon-fed waterfalls continues to claim lives.
Goa’s interior is a paradise in the rains. The Western Ghats come alive with thick foliage, gushing streams, and mist-covered trails. Iconic waterfalls like Dudhsagar, Harvalem, Netravali, and scores of unnamed cascades deep in the forests are irresistible magnets for tourists and locals alike. The very landscape that draws people in, however, also becomes perilously unpredictable during monsoons.
Chief Minister Pramod Sawant, Health Minister Vishwajit Rane, and Tourism Minister Rohan Khaunte have all been at the center of this issue, juggling the demands of public safety and tourism promotion. While bans have been issued and forest and police personnel deployed, enforcement remains a significant challenge across Goa’s vast and rugged hinterland. Despite some deterrents like barricades, signage, and temporary closures, tourists often bypass restrictions—sometimes with fatal consequences.
But this also raises uncomfortable questions about the government’s own messaging.
How can the state impose sweeping bans on visiting waterfalls and water bodies in the monsoon, while simultaneously branding Goa as a “365-day destination”? Is there not a contradiction between promoting “Goa Beyond Beaches”—a campaign that actively encourages exploration of the hinterlands—and the practical inability to make these areas safe during the monsoons?
Moreover, if tourists are being drawn deeper into Goa’s forests and remote areas through official tourism promotion, then isn’t it incumbent upon the state to invest far more heavily in safety infrastructure? Signages, barricades, and patrolling are not enough. There needs to be a larger ecosystem in place: trained rescue teams, local tourism marshals, early-warning alerts, and even regulated access to danger-prone areas during peak rainfall months.
Tourism Minister Rohan Khaunte has argued that responsible tourism is the way forward—and rightly so. But in practice, who decides what is “responsible” when thrill-seeking, overconfidence, and social media clout often override safety considerations? How can the government ensure that the same agencies tasked with promoting adventure tourism also help prevent disaster?
Furthermore, should the state consider a permit-based or guided-access-only model for certain hinterland spots during the monsoon? Can the government partner with local communities, panchayats, and trek guides to develop a co-managed, safety-first model of monsoon tourism?
These questions demand urgent answers. Goa cannot afford to oscillate between reactionary bans and promotional campaigns without a coherent policy framework. Tourists need clarity, not confusion. If an area is unsafe, it must be categorically marked off-limits. If promoted, it must be protected.
As it stands, the current system seems stretched thin. Each year, after a spate of deaths, the same cycle of bans, appeals, and blame games follows. The time has come for Goa to move from reactive governance to proactive planning.
Goa’s beauty—especially in the monsoon—is undeniable. But without a serious commitment to safety, regulation, and consistency, this beauty will continue to come at the cost of human lives. The government must ask itself: is Goa truly ready to be a year-round destination, and if so, can it make that promise without risking the safety of those it welcomes?
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