It was only three and a half weeks that we were in Goa; yet somehow, while we were away from Mysore, summer sneaked in here big-time. When we departed, the air in Mysore still had a distinct cool edge, especially in the mornings and evenings, and some of the trees and shrubs were in bloom. Upon arriving home three weeks later, we beheld a transformation – suddenly, it seems that the whole city of Mysore is in bloom. The streets in our neighborhood are literally awash in yellow blossoms that have drifted down from the trees in number without end. Bushes, shrubs, trees and trellises have burst into fuchsia, orange, yellow, purple and even blue – their brightness rivaled only by the colors of the women’s clothing (vivid orange paired with bright blue seems to be a favorite).
The ethereal jacaranda trees seem to float in the air like lavender clouds, and the sweet scent of the frangipani adds its exotic odor to the sensuality of the jasmine. Roses abound. Frogs are croaking; crickets are chirping; and from our balcony we have a bird’s-eye-view of the large, bright green, rose-ringed parakeets, as they flock to the flame tree across the alley, flicking their long, turquoise tails as they greedily nibble the seeds from the brittle pods that drop to the ground to join the yellow blossoms strewn everywhere. Soon those orangey-red flames will be scattered all over the ground, as well. What a glorious season to be in Mysore! That is, excluding the fact that Bill’s allergies are now is very high gear.
But, lest we become too carried away by all this bursting into summer, we must mention the downside to all of this. Humidity. Heavy-duty humidity. The temperature often hits 100 F. these days, which wouldn’t be hard to take, IF the air was dry. I can still recall the breathtaking bake of the dusty heat of the Delhi of my childhood, when I looked at the thermometer under a tree and read 120 F. in the shade. I was amazed that it wasn’t all THAT bad. But 100 with high humidity is an entirely different story. Gone is that steady, in fact, annoying, wind that was constantly blowing through this apartment a couple months ago. Long gone are the sheets of plastic with which we had to cover the windows and doors because the wind was so cold up here on the 4th floor. We’re talking airless, heavy, tropical humidity. . .hair-curling in intensity. . .the kind of humidity where you sit very, very still and don’t move a muscle, and you’re still just dripping sweat. Minimum 3 showers a day, and the very act of gently toweling off causes you to completely lose any effect that your shower gained you. I used to wonder why in the world they had installed a ceiling fan in every room of this apartment, when the wind used to rip through here, slamming doors in spite of the door-stops. Now we have them running constantly, and they barely even stir the torpid air. Sleep has suddenly fled, as we toss restlessly, awaiting the whine of yet another challenge that has increased dramatically since we went to Goa – the mosquitoes. Hopefully, Mysore isn’t too high on the list for malaria, although the chances for that increase as the monsoon approaches. Locals tell us that this is just a long, unusual heat wave. We’re finding all of this surprising, since everything we had heard and read led us to believe that Mysore was not nearly as hot and humid as the rest of South India, due to the steeper elevation. We beg to differ……
Be that as it may, this was not meant to be a diatribe about the humidity of Mysore but, rather, an attempt to record some of the experiences, and people, we would like to remember from our three and a half weeks in Goa. We have already recounted our adventures in getting there, including the big road accident that caused our bus to have to detour, necessitating an extra night in Mangalore, where we discovered that the coast was already ahead of Mysore by about a month in the heat, humidity and mosquitoes departments.
We arrived in Colva Beach, Goa, tired, hot, sweaty, and, for my part, covered in mosquito bites. The legendary salt-air breeze blowing off the Arabian Sea was a balm to our souls, and from the moment we arrived, the (also legendary) friendliness and laid-back attitude of the locals began to work its magic on our travel-weary brains.
Our taxi driver was a young, bright and helpful fellow, who took us to the place he recommended as the best deal in Colva, after we looked at the two places we’d had in mind and been disappointed. He didn’t steer us wrong, and before we knew it, we were ensconced in the Colmar “Resort” (probably called that because the place covered a large area and also had a pool). We were on the top (2nd) floor, with a window facing the pool and the door opening into an echo-y corridor. Above the door and high up in the bathroom were louvered windows, intentionally built to never close, and we quickly discovered that they admitted not only every little sound that came from the rooms (and bathrooms) which all faced into the corridor, but also mosquitoes. We were able to tape our mosquito netting over the main window, but the louvered windows were completely open to the damp, dark corridors where mosquitoes love to dwell.
One of our first purchases at one of the little stands out by the bus circle was an expensive can of mosquito spray, as well as a box of mosquito coils. This combo was fairly effective, along with the citronella oil I slathered on myself every evening before venturing out for supper. Still, I always managed to acquire a few bites a night, somehow.
The netting on the windows was a brainstorm of Bill’s that probably saved us a lot of grief, but it had the disadvantage of cutting off the lovely, cool air-flow into our room, and made many of our nights airless, humid, and sleep-deprived. However, when all one has to do all day is lie at the beach and read a book before deciding where to eat supper, one doesn’t need so much sleep. We were just happy to be in our favorite tropical paradise again, with no responsibilities except for Bill to heal and rest from his recent surgery.
The Colmar was surprisingly free from roaches, and that was probably due, in part, to the efforts of the Hindu cleaning woman. How she cleaned bathrooms and floors in a sari was beyond us, but we determined early on that it would be advisable to get on the good side of her. She seemed to be very authoritative and, besides, we were leaving a lap-top, our passports and spare money every day in a flimsy cupboard with a cheap padlock, while we went to the beach. And she had our room key. We tipped her fairly liberally, and I was always giving her little things, such as cashew nuts. She had a preference for pink saris, and she wore pink lipstick and even a pink bindi dot. An opportunity was never missed to inform us, in very limited, broken English, of how hard she had worked to clean our room, and how over-worked she was in general (not exactly true). She accepted our praise of her good job as only her due, and her smile, when she gave one, always had a little trace of a sneer behind it. But she was pleasant enough, and actually, quite amusing, in a frustrating kind of way. This was because she had a penchant for extremely dramatic, excessively corny, Indian soap operas.
We noticed that whenever she was cleaning a room, she would always crank the ceiling fan up to airplane speed, and then turn the volume of the TV up to max. We also observed that, when she had the good fortune to be cleaning one of the few air-conditioned rooms, she would close the door, crank up both the air and the TV, and spend a very, very, very long time cleaning that particular room. What she was actually doing was taking a prolonged “break,” eating her lunch in the blessed coldness of the room, and watching her favorite soap – this was her idea of bliss.
One day, however, we came back to our room from the beach a little earlier than usual; about 4:00. The manager had given us a new TV the previous night, because the original one was all snowy when we tried to watch BBC, and the new one had a better-than-average picture. The maid apparently thought so, too, because there she was, sitting on the bed right in front of it, completely engrossed in the violent intrigue and complex love affairs of Ravi and Deepa, or whatever. We could hear the TV blasting even before we reached the top of the stairs. I rather expected that she would be a little sheepish about being caught out slacking off, enjoying our room and watching her soaps – but not so. In fact, we ended up being held hostage in our own room, because she wanted to finish watching the end of the serial. “Just 5 more minutes!” she excitedly exclaimed, shouting over the volume of the sound (which she made no attempt to modify) that this was the best “serial” in Hindi that ever was. We were just dying to take off our swim suits and jump in the shower to wash off the sand and salt, but we had no choice but to wait, much longer than 5 minutes, as it turned out, until the end of the show. She seemed to think nothing of this and, in fact, acted as if we should feel privileged to be privy to this art form that she was sharing with us. We were amazed at her audacity, but at the same time, vastly amused. . .it was hilarious, actually. This experience also illustrates the meaning of the common phrase in India, “Just 5 minutes,” which can mean anything from 10 minutes to half an hour, Indian time.
The waiters in the outdoor restaurant at the Colmar were another story altogether. Young men (and, to a lesser degree, young women) from all over India come to Goa to earn a far better income from the tourist trade than they could ever hope to earn in their own, poorer, states. Some, like the Kashmiris, come to sell their unique wares in little tourist shops, whilst escaping the ongoing strife in their homeland. As a result, you meet people from many parts of India who are working in Goa in order to send money home to support families, or they are saving up their earnings to seek their fortunes in Europe (usually London), or saving up for higher education that they could not have otherwise afforded. Almost without exception, they are away from home for the first time, and extremely homesick for friends and family left behind. The majority of them are employed as waiters, hoping to supplement their meager incomes with tourist tips.
The boys employed as waiters at the Colmar ranged in age from about 18 to around 23, and we couldn’t help but observe that every one of them was exceptionally cute. In fact, we commented that, when they applied for the job, the number one criterion for getting hired must have been the “cuteness factor.” Not cute = no job. But it wasn’t just their exceptional good looks that made them cute, as much as it was their personalities. Even the most serious, studious-looking fellow, who was wearing glasses (still unusual in India), brightened into smiles and became extremely chatty when we asked him about his home and family. Every one of them was just as sweet as could be – they were the kind of boys that make you want to take them home and mother them and feed them cookies and milk. And, as we talked to more of them in the other restaurants and beach shacks, we realized that they all seemed to have that sweet, fresh quality to their characters.
There are so many beach shacks and cafes in the area, that it takes a while to sample a good number of them and decide which ones are your favorites. . .but once you decide, you tend to keep going back to the same place(s). Even the most die-hard lovers of Indian cuisine can become tired of eating nothing but, after extensive travel throughout India; especially CHEAP Indian food. This is why the food in Goa is such a delight – it’s made with tourists in mind! Only in Goa can one find such un-Indian dishes as coconut/banana porridge, papaya milkshakes, all manner of steaks, fish in every form, and many typical Goan specialties, often featuring fish or pork. Goa is the only place where we saw butcher stands advertising pork products, because of its Portuguese/Roman Catholic heritage – other religions in India wouldn’t dream of eating pork, but we passed stalls in the market where women were making vast amounts of chorizo sausages. Portuguese bakeries abound, as well, and one of the prized Goan desserts is a 40-egg, sugar, butter, coconut, crepe concoction, called bebinca. Surprisingly, it’s not as delicious as it sounds, but Indians really seem to think it’s the cat’s meow, so we brought a couple home to Mysore to share with friends.
When one is in Goa, it’s easy to forget you’re in India, and you may even be tempted to think that you’ve landed in paradise, because all the tropical clichés apply: golden sand beaches, coconut palms and banana trees, clear, clean ocean with just the right amount of surf, friendly, laid-back people, and a lazy lifestyle. The tropical lushness is such that I often felt as if I was in a painting by Paul Gauguin, with all that ripe fruit; those brilliant, exotic flowers everywhere; the deep greens of the foliage; the moldering, ancient homes; the bright colors of the clothing; and the plump, sensual beauty of the women, with their thick, curly hair to their waists, often worn loose. Very much like a South Sea Island picture.
But something usually manages to intrude into this picture just long enough to remind you that, no, Goa is not paradise, nor will we see paradise until Jesus returns. That “something” can take many forms besides the obvious ones of high humidity, heat and mosquitoes (unless one is right down at the water’s edge). It could be the stench that comes from the sewage-laden ditch that you cross to get to the beach. It could be the half-wild dogs that roam in packs, endangering little children, or the skinny cows and their piles that you have to navigate your way through before reaching the beginning of the beach. It could be the oblivious guy who hawks and spits right onto the sand, in the spot where you might have stepped in it with bare feet or, worse, lain in it. It could be the squalor and litter of the little alleys that lead off the back roads behind the beach, and the poor little huts that many of the locals live in – the “other” side of Goan beaches that most tourists never see. It could be the 4 gentlemen who drank whiskey all night at the beach huts, and then spent the next morning throwing up with unbelievable violence, in the room across the hall from us, where every sound was magnified so that it sounded as if they were in OUR bathroom (and they did this 3 mornings in a row)! That’s after coming in at 3 in the morning and practically tearing down the walls with noise from both themselves and their TV. Or, it could be the relentless hassle of beggars and other poor folks, mostly women, trying to sell you an endless array of goods on the beach, when all you want to do is sleep in the sun or relax with a book. But as you open your new book to Page l, the fruit lady appears at your side, whining for you to buy some of her papayas, bananas, mangoes or coconuts. Just as you try to progress to Page 2, the skinny little kids selling newspaper cones of burnt peanuts come up to you, practically forcing them into your hand or lap. Meanwhile, the women selling sarongs and scarves are making their way toward you. As they approach, they unfurl the nicest of their scarves out to billow in the sea breeze, which makes then look for all the world like some type of predatory insects. Right behind them are their buddies in trade, the jewelry sellers, trying to convince you to look at the wads of necklaces and bracelets that they keep stuffed in their bras, for fear of the police. These, of course, are touted as being made of semi-precious stones, when in reality they are usually only glass. And here comes the fellow who sells drums of various shapes and sizes, beating on one to demonstrate the sound. Another guy offers sunglasses and flashlights. And one Rajasthani man has a really unique gimmick – he has decked out some poor cow and himself in the most gaudy costume you can imagine, with huge mirrors sewn into the cloth, and painted the cow all up and given it a hat and everything. If you pay him some money, you can have the privilege of taking their picture. Just what you want to show your friends when you get home from India. Of course, the cow does her business on the pristine beach, as do the herd of water buffalo that are driven home at the end of the day right along the shore. And, finally, just as you think you will be able to progress to Page 3, along come the pretty henna girls. They beg you to allow them to stencil a hennaed design on your palms or elsewhere. But what really took the cake was the day three little ragamuffin children came by and literally set up their own, mini-circus act. Right on the beach, in front of a long line of tourists’ beach chairs, one little boy beat a drum to get people’s attention, while a second boy set up a rickety, makeshift tight-rope. Then their little sister proceeded to mount the rope, where she walked holding a long bar with perfect balance and did a number of other tricks, before passing the hat. By this time, we had given up on our books.
We learned by reading the local newspaper that most of these beach beggars are actually a syndicate. They are brought in by the bus-loads from other, poor states in India, because they’ve been told that they can make a lot of money off the tourists in Goa. Most are illiterate, but they quickly learn excellent English, including all the latest slang, just by talking every day with tourists and interacting with them. They are bright and intelligent, and it’s sad that they will probably never progress beyond walking the steamingly hot beaches, selling junk nobody really wants. Many of the older ones are truly pitiful beggars with terrible deformities.
Lest all this sounds just too off-putting, it really isn’t. It’s all part of the Colva Beach experience, and one becomes used to it and, when you leave and go home, you find yourself remembering it all with fondness and missing it. And the good stuff about Goa far, far, outweighs the little annoyances. Probably the best of the “good stuff” is the people you meet and get to know. Many of them are other tourists, mostly from Germany or Great Britain, and we’ve already mentioned a few that we became friends with while there. But others are locals, or expatriates. Mixed marriages; mixed blood; mixed religions; people escaping a “past”; people who come there to heal from various diseases (and many do); people running away from something and looking for solitude; people looking for love; people who would be misfits anywhere else in the world. . .they all can come to Goa, and find an acceptance that they wouldn’t find in a less laid-back environment – Goa accepts them all.
There are some very interesting characters that make a person wonder about their history. I found myself fantasizing about the backgrounds of a father and his little girl who were living in a tiny room downstairs in our hotel. They were extremely self-sufficient and isolationist, and he appeared to be home-schooling her, as they sat on their cots in their dark, sparse room with the door ajar. A chair with some items of washing usually stood outside their door, where they dried quickly in the sun. When not being used for drying clothes, the father often sat reading books for long periods of time. They never seemed to speak to anyone else, and didn’t emerge from their room or the chair until everyone else had deserted the swimming pool, around 5 or 6 pm. They would then take a swim together, taking quietly to each other in a rather mysterious-sounding language that I could never quite make out – it might have been Danish. I found them intriguing, and, as they seemed to be fairly long-term, I began to wonder what had brought them to Goa. And where was the mom? Were they recovering from a divorce? Did the dad “kidnap” his daughter after breaking up with the mom, and abscond with her to a place where they would never be found? Had the mother died? Was the father a fugitive from the law? Was he a hermit-type, looking for peace and quiet? I had fun exercising my imagination.
Another interesting character was a German man who seemed to definitely be an expat. He
knew everyone in every beach hut, restaurant and bar in Colva, and we saw him everywhere we went. He had a very vigorous personality; always joking with waiters and residents, laughing boisterously with much slapping on the back; and he had that bull-dog appearance of a Germanic Anthony Hopkins, with the same type of take-charge attitude. The first time we saw him, he was out in the ocean, roughly scrubbing clean about 5 large dogs of various breeds. Two half-naked little boys of about 3, one very dark and the other extremely blond and rosy, were having the time of their lives, running up and down the beach, chasing the dogs into the water so that they could be bathed, and running with them back out again to the shore. Occasionally, some of the wild beach dogs that roam in groups would run over to them, excited by all the activity, and nip at their ankles. It was quite a scene. We never really learned who this man was, or why he was in Goa tending dogs during the day, and drinking in the bars at night; nor, who the two children were. One of the dogs he tended was a magnificent boxer, which looked to be of show quality. Anyway, that gentleman was yet another of the many “Goa characters” who make up the rich fabric of that small spot on the vast map of India.
Speaking of that small spot, I suppose that a visitor could come to Goa and never really see anything more than the beaches. To my mind, they would be missing out on the most fascinating aspect, and that is: the history of Goa. The centuries of Portuguese colonialism have left their indelible mark on every aspect of Goan culture. As a result, the predominant religion is Roman Catholic, although it took an Inquisition more terrible than the one that gripped Portugal and Spain to “convert” the Hindu/Moslem/Jewish populace. From 1560 to 1812, burnings at the stake and all types of tortures were plentiful. Today, some of the famous cathedrals sit on the ruins of what were once Hindu holy sites. This led to a unique form of Roman Catholicism, where the Hindu deities were still secretly worshipped at home, while the people were apparently as devout Catholics as their Portuguese oppressors. Even today, one sees this mixture of Hindu and Catholic traditions as, for example, in the practice of garlanding statues or pictures of Hindu gods, which has been carried over into the garlanding of images of Christ, or the Virgin Mary, or the various saints (St.
Francis Xavier and St. Thomas are particularly popular, as they figured in Goan history). Everywhere you go, you see tiled, or whitewashed, crucifixes – in fields, on the beach, in people’s yards, wedged between shops. They, too, are inevitably garlanded with flowers, and often have tiles affixed to them with pictures of Christ. A pedestal at the base usually serves as a place on which to burn candles, and mounds of wax sit in the smoky soot, the yellow wax dripping down the step like melted toffee.
Our arrival in Colva preceded Carnival by a couple days. Being a former Portuguese colony, Carnival is an important holiday, although nothing as spectacular as the one in Rio, of course. But school children enjoy a few days’ vacation, and have an excuse to dress up in fancy clothes, and everybody attends church, filled to overcapacity, with the overflow crowd standing outside, looking in during the service and, during the evening, teenagers roar around in old trucks throwing colored water on passersby and each other (another similarity to the Hindu holiday of Holi, which takes place in almost the same time period as Carnival).
While the teenagers were reveling, however, a quieter, more reverent crowd had gathered at a shrine just outside our hotel, on the back edge of the beach. It consisted of a below-ground level, concrete, roofless rectangle, about 20 ft. x 15 ft. x 5 ft. deep. (See picture) If one stood on the sand near one end, it was possible to look down in, and see a tiled mural of the cross on the left wall, a shrine with a crucifix on the far end, and something that looked like a concrete sarcophagus in the middle, garlanded with large marigolds. In front of the cross, candles were burning, but not the discrete little offerings that one sees in churches when someone “lights a candle.” No indeed – there were so many of them, that they had a flaming bonfire going in front of the cross! No one was at all perturbed. . .on the contrary, a large group had gathered to sing hymns in the local language, which they did with beautiful harmony. We were surprised to hear that, because we had remarked several times that “Indians never sing harmony.” They usually have lovely voices, but even in groups, such as in church, they always seemed to sing only the melody together. This was a treat. The atmosphere was
upbeat, but very pious, and we stood there a long time, drinking in the singing and the cool breeze, pounding surf, and sparkling stars – one of those unforgettable “Goa moments.” The next morning, we passed the shrine again, and where the bonfire had been, was now a blackened mound of soot and ash.
There are times when the unconscious blending of old Hinduism and newer Catholicism takes on an amusing aspect. The one that stands out in my mind was the day we sat in a realtor’s office (yes, we were inquiring into long-term rentals; that’s how serious we were about coming back again to stay longer). We had to “wait 5 minutes” for the man to arrive, and while we sat there, we studied the wall in front of us. It was adorned with two pictures: the one on the left was much larger in size, and had several big, thick garlands of flowers around the image of Christ. The one on the right was much smaller, and was of one of the Hindu gods in the pantheon of deities. This one was garlanded with a single strand of much smaller flowers, but both had the seeming pre-requisite of being surrounded with the usual twinkling lights, flashing randomly in blue, red and orange. All of this was in the office of a thoroughly modern, cell-phone addicted, up-to-the-minute realtor – a man who really made sure he had all his bases covered, yet expressed his preferences according to size. All in all, it was very eye-catching, and also an insight into the open-mindedness of most Hindus who are so accepting of other religions, even when they, themselves, have converted to Catholicism.
As mentioned in our previous blogs, we made several trips around the Colva environs by local bus, which is a wonderful insight into the lifestyle of the common folk in Goa. One thing that never failed to fascinate us was the signs printed on every vehicle and shop, indicating the Portuguese/Catholic heritage, yet always with an Indian twist. Unlike other places in India, where the drivers name their auto-rickshaws with common names such as “Mala” (which means “Beautiful”), or the name of the driver, which often indicates his religion, in Goa the names of the buses, trucks and auto-rickshaws are almost inevitably Roman-Catholic. Hence, you have items such as the “Peter & Paul” bus; the “Infant Jesus” auto-rickshaw; the “Ave Maria Guide Our Path” truck. Sacred hearts of Jesus and Mary adorn bumpers. We passed a “Holy Family Movers,” and an “Our Lady of Mount Carmel” church (was Mary really there with Elijah that day?). We passed the “God Gift Furniture,” and the “Saint Francis Xavier Lodging.” Even the boats are given religious names; hence, the “St. Antony Speedboat.” Then, there is the “Jesus Wine & Spirits” shop – which makes you wonder just what spirits are indicated. Open-air liquor stands can have a religious name, or even a sad-eyed picture of Jesus, gazing down upon the sales counter. And, the biggest oxymoron of all: “The Salvation Bar.” Food for thought. The Indian penchant for the flamboyant is evident in the frequent use of the word “palace” to describe the most unassuming of business establishments or restaurants. We passed the “Motel Hiway Palace” – a real hovel, at least from the outward appearance.
Speaking of signs, one can’t help but notice the legacy of Portuguese last names. Anybody who is a Christian will almost inevitably bear a Portuguese surname. So, as we bump along in our bus, we see one sign after another with such names as da Silva, Costa, da Gama, Rodriguez, de Souza, Baptista, Fontes, Dias, Fernandes, Mendes, Santos, and on and on. Many people today in Goa are either of mixed Indian and Portuguese blood, or they could even be direct Portuguese descendants. Often, they have adopted the Portuguese name of the town in which they were christened, or perhaps the name of the priest who christened them, or even the name of their Portuguese masters who employed them. First names are almost always the name of the saint associated with their birth date.
Goans, in general, look different from Indians of other states and, again, this is due to the Portuguese heritage. Goa does, of course, have small communities scattered all over that are predominantly Hindu, and even smaller communities that are predominantly Moslem, and they do indeed resemble Hindus or Moslems everywhere. But Goans are a very mixed lot, and a very attractive mix it is. Their skin color can range anywhere from exceedingly fair to dusky brown, but rarely dark; depending on how much Portuguese blood runs in their veins. Many of the men have the tall, slim, dashingly handsome Iberian demeanor, whereas the women tend to be slightly rounder (plumper?), due to their pork-oriented diets as well as genetics. The women usually have wavy, or very curly, thick hair, typically worn loose and free, or tied back into a clip, but rarely do they put it up into a bun or even a braid. The Christian women also dress differently: rather than a sari or salwar kameez, they most often wear skirts and blouses and heeled shoes, very much like the outfits one sees on the poorer-to-middle class women in Catholic-predominant European countries such as Portugal, Spain, and Italy.
In case one tires of the beach life after a while in Colva or Benaulum, one can always hop a bus heading into Margao for a taste of city life. Margao inevitably proves to be a stimulating experience for us, and the bus ride is part of the fun. The bus you catch might be a Hindu-owned one, with pictures of various deities hung about, garlanded and with the ubiquitous flashing lights surrounding them. More likely, however, it will be a Catholic bus, with sacred heart pictures, or images of Jesus and/or Mary, similarly adorned. I found the one we took especially appropriate, with the First Aid box hanging next to the icon of Christ, for that is what He is (see photo).
After the conductor had shouted himself hoarse, “Margao – Margao – Margao –Margao,” over and over at the top of his lungs, trying his best to fill as many seats as possible, we took off from the square in Colva in a swirl of dust and diesel fuel. For the next 20 minutes or so, we bumped and lurched our way along the road into the market town of Margao. That is, after a slow start out of Colva because the driver first had to make a quick stop to pick up his plastic water bottle. He had obviously dropped it off at the sugar-cane juice press stand on his way into Colva, and left it with the cane presser to fill for him. On the way out, the driver made a sudden swerve, almost plowing into the juice stand, reached an arm out the window, grabbed the now-filled-to-the-brim, 2 liter bottle of foaming cane juice, and with a laugh and a joke to the presser who tossed it into his hand, went careening again on his way to town, taking swigs as he drove. It wasn’t long after that he made a stop, where he picked up a young lady transporting a gigantic truck tire into town. Of course she couldn’t maneuver the tire into the narrow door of the bus by herself, but the conductor gallantly jumped out and, between the two of them, they managed to squeeze the very heavy tire through the door and lay it on the floor next to the driver’s seat. The girl was pretty, with a round face and a bubbly personality, and she seemed to know the driver very well, so she was probably a relative. She perched on her tire, chatted and laughed with the driver, and he passed her his bottle of sugar-cane juice, which she tipped into her mouth and drank from, Indian style, without letting it touch her lips.
The road to Margao winds its way through thick jungle greenery and coconut palms, and everywhere are bushes of tropical flowers of the most beautiful and vivid colors. Nestled in all this verdant greenery are very old houses, built in the ancient tradition, with carved woodwork, tiled roofs (all made by hand), and crucifixes in the yards. The homes are covered in layers of blackening mold, which gives them a weathered patina reminiscent of many monsoons. Plants of all types abound, as do flowering trees.
The bus was filling up rapidly now, and the “ladies only” seats were all taken, so many women and children were standing in the aisle. We enjoyed observing them and, once again, had to comment on the beauty of the Goan women. Most of them were wearing skirts and blouses or dresses, and some of them looked very western. Beside them stood their Hindu sisters; they wore brilliantly-colored saris in every hue, setting off their dark beauty. And beside them, stood their Moslem sisters, with aquiline features set off by their stark black robes; their skin pale from lack of sun, and their lustrous eyes glowing above black veils.
The conductor was a wonder. He made his way through the packed-in crowd, collecting fares, answering questions, whistling to the driver when someone wanted to get off, and helping old ladies down the steps of the door, or mothers carrying babies, with little children clutching their skirts. He made sure they were completely clear of the bus before banging on the wall to signal the driver to go. He was the most efficient, cheerful conductor we’d ever seen, and he had the widest smile in Goa! He obviously took a lot of pride in his work, and enjoyed it. He also told us where to get off when we reached Margao, and flashed his wide-toothed smile when we thanked him.
For some reason, the town of Margao is given rather short shrift in India guidebooks. True, it doesn’t really have any outstanding “sights,” other than perhaps the old covered market, which is, in actuality, quite utilitarian. It’s a working people’s market, so you don’t find any glittering brass tables here, or sandalwood carvings, or the trinkets that adorn the famous bazaars and markets of India. Instead, you find clothes-pins, and balls of twine, and rubber sandals, and dish clothes, and scrub-brushes and hangars. Oh, yes – and one other unforgettable item: cashew nuts! Goa is famous the world over for her cashews, and the market in Margao specializes in selling all sizes of packages with several different seasonings, including salted, unsalted, with black pepper, with chili powder, with chili and lime, etc. They are very yum, especially if they’re fresh. Another interesting item sold are cone-shaped pieces of jaggery. Jaggery is sugar in its rawest form; very dark (almost black) with molasses. Coffee sweetened with jaggery is the favorite South Indian beverage.
Bill and I both feel that Margao has not been given its due in guidebooks, which too often dismiss it as a town that’s not really worth much except to be used as a major transportation hub. It is described as noisy, polluted, chaotic, and not worth a night’s stay when the beaches are so close by instead. Well. . .and what Indian city is not noisy, polluted and chaotic? Compared to Mysore, for example (which rates rave reviews in the guides), we found Margao a lot LESS of the above. Probably partly because it is smaller, with a lower population, and non-industrial. There is even a charming, old park, right in the center of the city. The humidity is terrific and the temperature is high but, again, so is the rest of South India, unless one is right on the beach.
I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about Margao that we find so appealing, but perhaps it is the Wild West feeling. You get a sense of being in a place that’s a bit on the edge; where anything goes. Margao is slow-paced and old-world, with a charming colonial essence, especially the historical old buildings such as the huge, ancient post office. Yet, it also has at times a fast, European feel, as well. Often, I felt as if I was in Havana, what with the buildings covered in mold, the sidewalk cafes, the humidity and the brilliant flowers and tropical foliage – and the very Iberian-looking people. I get the feeling that living in Margao might be kinda’ fun, in a slightly run-down sort of way. Maybe even a little dangerous.
Margao is….unusual. One of the first things I noticed was the ridiculously large number of pharmacies; out of all proportion to the population. Why would a town of that size need so many pharmacies? There are regular allopathic, ayurvedic, homeopathic and naturopathic chemists. They line the main street and the back alleys. Because prescription drugs are probably cheaper in India than anywhere else in the world, and because you actually never NEED a prescription, in reality, to purchase them, I suspect that this draws some rather sleazy characters to this part of the world, with the intention of buying up drugs at dirt cheap prices, then re-selling them for a tidy profit in their homeland. In fact, we did see some rather shifty-looking characters coming out of back-alley pharmacies, carrying largish parcels. They looked to be Eastern European, and the reason we noticed them was because, in a place like South India, they stood out like a sore thumb, with bad dye jobs and slightly immodest dress (by Indian standards). But that’s just part of the Wild West feel.
One of our reasons for having taken the bus into Margao was to look for some bebinca to take home to friends who had expressed a great appreciation for that very rich Goan specialty dessert. It was easy to find some – we stopped in a Portuguese bakery behind the market, and they had several left. We also ogled all the pretty little cakes and egg-y-looking baked goods, but we resisted.
The other reason we had come into town was to find a homeopathic doctor. We had purchased a little vial of teeny, tiny pills in Mysore, called “China.” They were homeopathic, and the doctor who prescribed them had said to take only 3 per month to prevent malaria. Somehow, that didn’t sound right (way too few) so, when we got to Goa, we decided to ask another doctor his opinion. Not knowing where to start looking, we asked in one of those many pharmacies whether they could recommend a homeopath. They gave us some very vague instructions on how to find one, and we proceeded to try finding his office. It wasn’t easy, but we did manage to see a lot of life on the back streets of Margao as we searched. After several dead ends, we were directed to a very old, narrow building. Climbing a flight of rickety stairs, we found ourselves in a dark hallway, with a door that stood ajar. Pushing it open, we entered a room the size of a large closet, with very high ceilings, 2 plastic chairs, and a thin cotton curtain that stirred slightly in the breeze of a ceiling fan. That’s all. From behind the flimsy curtain, we could hear two voices speaking very quietly – patient consulting doctor. Not wanting to interrupt, we sat down in the plastic chairs and waited a few minutes, until a woman emerged, carrying a little paper packet of pills as she headed out the door. That was our cue to stick our heads around the curtain and state our business. A nice-looking older gentleman, slim, with steel grey hair, sat behind a desk, with one chair in front. That’s all. He greeted us and asked if he could help us. We asked our question as we showed him our bottle of China, and he recommended we take 4 per day under the tongue. That made sense, so we thanked him and asked him what we owed. Nothing.
I couldn’t get over the contrast between this little room, containing nothing more than a desk behind a curtain and a couple chairs, and a typical doctor’s office in North America. In every village, town and city in India, these little clinics exist, and they all look very much alike. These doctors are probably as highly educated as most North American doctors; yet they toil long hours with very, very little pay. We have found the doctors in India to usually be extremely humble individuals, working in equally humble surroundings.
We decided to have a late lunch as our main meal for the day, and then catch the bus back to Colva. Our India guidebook recommended Longuinhos; a virtual institution in Margao, and the kind of place where the locals drop in once a day, sitting at their favorite tables and always ordering their favorite dishes – you can just tell they’ve been doing it for years. I fell in love with the place from the minute we walked in the door. Something about it makes you instantly feel that you’re in old Havana, or maybe Coral Gables, or Miami, the way it used to be in the ‘60s. Maybe it’s the fact that the waiters still wear those slightly-seedy-looking, faintly crumpled, European white waiters’ jackets that they used to wear in restaurants that were considered a cut above in the old days. The clientele ranges from the young and with-it, cell phones in hand, to business executives, to old men nursing their third whisky and soda, to tourists, to students with notebooks, to groups of chic women having luncheon, to above-average-income families enjoying each other’s company.
The place suggests a sense of history and antiqueness without even trying – an aura of having seen better days that will never come again, but still bearing a certain worn nobility. The menus have also seen better days, and look as if they’ve been around at least a decade.
The first thing to catch your eye when you walk in are the three huge, old-fashioned mirrors. They’re framed in beautiful, dark teakwood, and look exactly like the heavy, dark furniture found in old homes in Portugal. What makes these mirrors unique (and even a bit creepy-looking) are the carved, wooden hands that mysteriously hold them up (see picture). They are truly unique, and I’d just love to own one! There are also some sort of old, black, cast-iron implements hanging on one wall, which looked to me to possibly be molds, perhaps for Portuguese egg puddings.
To your immediate left as you walk in the door, sits the cashier’s desk with an old cash register. Behind it on the wall hangs a very faded, blown-up photograph of one of the previous owners, framed and garlanded. Seated behind the desk and under the photo sits a heavy-set gentleman who looks remarkably like the man in the picture – probably his son, grandson or great-grandson. Next to the cashier was a glass case which was fairly empty, except for some slices of bebinca, a couple egg custards, and some gelatinous coconut puddings. On the left wall of the restaurant is a wooden bar with a little roof over it, dispensing the obviously popular whisky and soda, along with other cold drinks. The bartender, however, did not mix the drinks – that was the job of the waiters, interestingly. The bartender merely removed bottles from the shelf, or from the fridge, set them on the bar, and the waiters mixed them and took them to the tables.
After walking around Margao all afternoon, I decided to check out the Ladies’ Room. Unfortunately, there had been a city-wide water shortage for the past 10 days, so the toilets were “out of order” (which the odor quickly confirmed). However, I was glad I checked it out, because it was amusingly quaint. There was a swinging, stained-glass door leading into the Ladies’ area, like the “saloon” swinging doors in old Western movies. Above the door of both the Ladies’ and the Gents’ were heads that were gender specific, that reminded me of the figureheads that used to be fashioned onto the bows of old sailing vessels. Just the heads. They were painted, but very chipped and peeling.
The waiters in Longuinhos were not at all similar to the sweet, chatty boys who work in the restaurants on the beaches. Rather, they were older men, almost to the man, and a little bit aloof and impatient. They also looked very Portugese; one or two of them, in fact, were so white that they looked as if they had just stepped off the boat. The extensive menu, too, contained more Portuguese selections than most, or, I should say, many typical Goan specialties. It was heavy on the fish curries, and there was also a fish vindaloo.
The ceiling was very high, with old-fashioned moldings; the walls painted white, and a few columns standing between the scattered tables. At the far end of the room was a very odd-looking, very ancient-looking set of wooden stairs that wound up out of sight and looked for all the world like the kind of stairs one would see in an old sailing ship. They led to an even stranger-looking room above, that projected out above the dining area at a quirky angle; almost crooked. A stained-glass window would have looked down into the main restaurant, had it been opened, but it looked as if it hadn’t been opened in years. Right in the middle of the stairs, someone had placed a tray with dishes piled on it; obviously as an indication that the stairs were not to be climbed (they were so old, they may have been unsafe?).
Being of a romantic nature, my curiosity was piqued, to say the least. I just HAD to find out what was in the strange little room up there – it looked so enticing. Rooms that are closed off have always intrigued me enormously. So, after our lunch, I sauntered over to the bottom of the steps, and looked up to see whether I could get a peek. A waiter saw me poking around, and asked me where I was going, and I told him I was curious about what was up there. His English wasn’t very good, but he asked me if I’d like to take a look. Would I!! He removed the tray, and we wound our way up the extremely narrow stairs, emerging in one of the oddest rooms I had ever seen. It was quite small, and the ceiling was several heights: low, lower and lowest. At the lowest section, even I, who only stand 5 ft. 3 & a half in., had to hunch down quiet a ways. The walls were a mixture of wood, and plaster painted a muted orange, and a mildew-y smell pervaded. The room only held a few tables, and an eerie light shone in through the large panes of stained glass window from the restaurant below. I really felt as if I were standing in the small captain’s quarters of an ancient clipper ship or, more likely, one of those old, creaking little corks that sailed to the New World in 1492. Actually, I asked the waiter when this room had been built, and unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the exact date he quoted me, but it was around 1853. He also told me that it’s now just used for special parties. It probably belongs in a museum.
Well, as you can imagine, that experience made my day. It was my little trip back into history that will remain with me all my life. But there is one thing more that will remain with me about Goa, and it has nothing to do with the Portuguese heritage.
It was our final night in Colva Beach. We went for one more supper at our favorite restaurant, Goodman. It originally seems to have been called The Good Man, but everyone calls it Goodman now. It is run by a Norwegian woman who married an Indian man; they decided to open a restaurant and, it proved so popular, they have since opened a second one on Benaulim Beach, in a rice paddy, of all things. Anyway, I mentioned to one of the waiters that we had to leave the next day, even though we didn’t want to go, and we were feeling sad, because we were going to miss everyone we had met, especially our waiter friends at Goodman. We enjoyed a last, leisurely meal there, and they even had some live music that night. As the waiter came toward us with the bill, we noticed he seemed to be hiding something behind his back. He was. It was a beautiful bouquet of expensive, hothouse flowers of different types, obviously bought at a florist’s and all wrapped in plastic. I was struck speechless, I was so surprised. Why in the world would they do that? We were only customers, who frequented the restaurant probably no more often than many other tourists. When the waiter said, “We just want to wish you a happy journey,” I have to confess by that time, I had tears in my eyes. Then Thurid, tall and blond, made her way over to our table. I stammered my thanks, and she repeated what the waiter had said, “We just want to wish you a happy journey.” It was such a sweet gesture, from someone whom we had basically not gotten to know any better than to greet whenever we can in, wave, smile, and sometimes exchange little knowing winks when they had a karaoke evening. This gesture could not have epitomized more the friendliness of everyone we encountered in Goa, including Pia (see former blog), who had us down to her little house in Agonda as her first guests.
I enjoyed my flowers all that evening and the next morning, till around noon, when we had to be out of the Colmar. We had so much luggage, I couldn’t possibly take them with me on the buses and train. What to do with those lovely flowers? A solution soon presented itself.
Our Hindu cleaning lady was all excited, because her “number two” daughter had just had a baby the night before. As we dragged our luggage out the door of our room, I thrust the flowers into her surprised hands. “Congratulations on your new grandchild,” I said, giving her arm a squeeze.
Goodbye, Goa…….till next time. We’ll miss you.
