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As the last drops of rain glistened on the lush green leaves in late September, we drove to Goa, India's hub of seaside tourism. Choosing the lesser-known destinations of South Goa was a conscious and probably wise decision for us weary city travellers. Our first stop was Agonda beach, where we were welcomed by miles of uninterrupted golden sand and the continuous rhythm of foam-crested, crashing waves. Still off the radar for the busy, Instagram-obsessed tourists, we loved this beach for its limited crowds and laid-back hippie vibes.
As luck would have it, the rain gods seemed excessively appeased, and they weren’t about to relent. The sea often threatened to become choppy, prompting the coast guards, equipped with stylish orange surfboards, to intensify their watch. This also meant that all our plans for water sports and dolphin watching were dashed. Noticing our disappointment, the resort manager suggested we participate in the eagle-feeding activity. After a brief conversation with the Goan staff at the property, our interest was piqued, and we decided to sign up for it, unsure of what to expect.
The following afternoon, we set off for our venue, which happened to be the nearby Palolem beach. Parking our vehicle outside, we ambled up to the beach. Unlike Agonda, Palolem was teeming with tourists frolicking on the white sand or in the sun-kissed, turquoise waters. Our boatman greeted us and offered to transport us to the designated site on scooter. The two-wheelers navigated the crowds and trundled along for about half a kilometre until we reached the beach's far end, where the landscape changed noticeably. A verdant forest cover dominated the coastline. Along its periphery and strewn carelessly across the waters was an assortment of black, asymmetrical boulders, some of which were oval with cylindrical or pointed tips. We were surprised to find a sandbar which acted as a barrier between the sea on one hand and an expansive stretch of backwaters on the other. The scene here was a complete contrast to everything we had witnessed in Goa so far. It had a quiet, laidback vibe, with just a handful of international tourists relaxing on the clean, white sand.
We alighted from the scooter and followed our man to his vessel. Several colourful wooden oar boats were moored, while a few others were ready to sail. All of them bore the names of Hindu goddesses. Our boatman, Raju, helped us settle down, and off we sailed into the placid backwaters. The easy gliding movement of the boat, the rhythmic splashing of the oars, the waters reflecting fifty shades of green from the surrounding vegetation, the low hum of the cicada, and the occasional twitter of the home-bound birds together gifted us some truly unforgettable moments.
The Palolem backwaters are home to a lush undergrowth of mangroves—unique trees and shrubs that grow above the water, with their lower trunks and roots submerged in the briny sea. From a distance, they appear as clumps of leaves walking on tall stilts. While we admired the mangroves and their dense, tangled roots, we sailed past what is known as the ‘Magic Rock’ of Palolem. This ancient geological wonder features a dark brown, round boulder perched precariously on top of a larger, oval parent rock. Despite centuries of weathering, this silent and stately formation has withstood erosion and remains intact.
After cruising for a while longer, we finally arrived at our desired location. This spot had always been a part of the natural ecological process, likely linked to the food chain, but it gained fame only recently due to the local tourism industry. It was a quiet area where Raju slowed down his rowing until we were barely drifting. A couple of other boats were already there, carrying some eager foreign tourists. As soon as we arrived, a flock of sea eagles began to circle above us, their sharp eyes alert for any sign of food. Raju informed us they were sea eagles. We sat up straight, ready to witness the unfolding drama.
Raju stood at the edge of the boat and fished out a fistful of what looked like the leftovers of raw, chopped chicken. With a dramatic flourish, he flung it out into the waters. A crescendo of shrill birdcall rent the air as the eagles flew very low over the waters, lustily eyeing the meat. Out of so many birds, two extra aggressive and ambitious ones swooped down and, in a jiffy, scooped up the fleshy chunks. The other birds kept circling overhead, their relentless cries attracting more of their ilk and also a few Brahmini kites.
The sight amazed us, and we thirsted for more. Raju again took out the chicken feed and, in a slow, deliberate motion, flung it out towards the big birds. The idea was to thoroughly whet their appetite before satiating them. All the tourists clicked on their mobile phone cameras, aiming to capture every sound and movement of this unique phenomenon. Though smaller, the kites did not lack bravado and tried valiantly to scoop up the meat. A couple of them succeeded, and jet sped to their safe spot on the branches of some faraway tree. I spotted a senior dog on a mangrove island, edging close to the water, hoping to receive a bite from the excited humans. I requested Raju to throw him some meat.
The avian instinct which guided these birds of prey to the precise spot on the waters, the lightning speed with which they attacked the food, and their retrieving skills — all left us agape. The eagles, being larger and having a more considerable wing span, were swifter and more successful in getting the feed. Sitting in our boats, we were treated to a flurry of grey, brown, ochre, white and black, accompanied by some high-pitched peals of the raptors. A bunch of crows perched on the nearby trees tried their luck but were not fortunate enough to get a coveted piece. Raju repeated The feeding process about four times until he exhausted his meat stock. The other boats had already left, and Raju returned to his seat for the return ride. The erstwhile peaceful backwaters and mangrove thickets had temporarily sprung into life and became cacophonous. As we sailed away, they again plunged into quietude, especially now that the sun was whispering its farewell.
On our way back, Raju explained that the tourist activity of eagle feeding in Palolem began just about nine years ago. Previously, these birds would only visit the mangrove islands during the winter as part of their migratory route. They fed on fledgling birds, snakes, and crabs and stayed in the forested hilly areas at the far end of the islands. (They still do when visitors are not present.) As tourism grew in Goa, the eagles discovered an easy source of food and safe habitats in these backwaters, prompting them to settle there permanently. Almost by accident, local operators realised they could attract the birds with meat, turning this into an engaging and profitable activity through practice and conditioning. This situation exemplifies how conventional feeding and nesting behaviours in the animal world can be altered or modified by human intervention.
An hour-long ride costs INR 1,500 per boat, although sharing a boat with others may cost a little less. Thus, eagle feeding has become popular with tourists not keen to venture out into the seas for more adventurous activities. Also, it is not season-dependent, as the backwaters remain calm even during the rains, although tourist inflow is undeniably diminished during monsoons. Raju and the others joined their family fishing business and crabbing during such lean periods.
Thus, in Palolem's serene, mangrove-rich backwaters, eagle-feeding becomes an unforgettable adventure, bringing tourists closer to the splendid local flora and fauna. Watching the majestic eagles soar high and dive headlong for food is thrilling, leaving a lasting impression of the region’s unique biodiversity on the visitor’s heart. This activity entertains and deepens our appreciation for the area’s rich ecosystem, creating memories that linger long after the journey ends.
