by John Eric Gomes
joergo@dataone.in

I go back in time to the last few years of Portuguese rule. Our family settled in Poona (now Pune) in the year 1955, when I was a student in college. We used to travel every year during the summer holidays to Goa by train, which was the most convenient mode of transport then. The third class ‘through’ bogey train (no getting down and changing at Londa station), drawn by a steam engine, was usually jam-packed. The coolies at the Goa railway stations were women. We had to stop at Castlerock for the Indian Customs clearance and at Collem for the Portuguese Customs clearance. On our return journey, the Indian Customs were a pain, as the foreign and imported items available in Goa were a big draw for them.

Goa, to me, meant our huge ancestral house with rooms full of the choicest of mangoes, plenty of fish, sausages, Goa rice ‘cunjee’ drunk from “vatlis” with ‘kalchi kodi’, orchata (a drink made from almonds), Rowntree chocolates, St Pauli beer, and the smell of feni (which, being young, I was only allowed just one small sip at times). Feni was used as a medicine, for colds and coughs (with burnt sugar or honey), rubbed on the chest etc. My mother and various aunts were recognized experts in removing “disht” (evil eye). Goa also meant late night Konkani theatre, beach dances, fresh toddy, and the dreaded pig lavatories, which I could never get used to. Everyone used to laugh at me when I carried a ‘bindul’ full of water in one hand and a stick in the other to scare the pigs away. Goa also meant daily ladainhas (where everyone had such beautiful voices and enjoyed singing in falsetto and seconds), bathing with water drawn from the well (there were no taps or electricity then) and oil lamps at night. Lighting those lamps every night and later putting them out, together with the one ‘petromax’ we had, was a big daily chore. There was a roadside cross built up for every few houses, and one summer I was told that being the son of the house, I would have to be the celebrant. Little did I know that I would be dressed up, a crown put on my head and then carried aloft by a crowd of friends and neighbours! I had to serve them boiled gram, sweet drinks, urack and feni.

Goa was indeed God’s Own Acre. The beaches were clean and the sea unpolluted. Baina was one of Goa’s best beaches. There were no plastic bags, and murders and crime were an aberration. There were Portuguese, African and Goan troops and police.  People, rich and poor, of all castes and creed, lived in harmony and by and large with good manners and neighbourly relations. There were no street lights, TVs or mobiles or even a telephone at home. Anything urgent went by telegraph. No roads as we know them today, but just two strips of macadam for cars and public vehicles (caminhões). The driver would stop anywhere and once, to my consternation, even went off the road through a field to pick up something. Everyone else seemed to not mind and took this as quite routine. There were no bridges but, instead, efficient ferry services. Vehicles had to negotiate over wooden troughs in lieu of ramps to get onto the ferry. These were put on, adjusted and taken off manually with steel hooks.

I usually tried to spend most of my holidays living in shacks at Calangute, Caranzalem or Colva. I would get up early in the morning and wait below the coconut trees for fresh toddy. I would watch the fishermen, most of them Goan, pulling in their nets from the sea, in long lines, like in a tug-of-war. I used to join them sometimes, and come away with fresh fish and, sometimes, big crabs. Life was slow, tranquil and comparatively safe. Families were generally big. My grandparents had more than eight siblings each. There were no fights or major problems between the children, as the elder siblings looked after the younger, handing down both clothes and values from usually strict parents. Nowadays parents find it difficult to handle even two children.

Whenever I visit the Calangute, Baga or Colva beaches today, and think about what happened to Baina, or when I encounter the attitudes of our people today and see what tourism, all types of pollution and our own politicians are doing to Goa and Goans, I feel that my generation was lucky to have been able to experience a paradise that seems lost forever.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________