Hello Fred, I have finished my write up on San Francisco. I will submit it in a couple of days. Bella
Get Outlook for iOS<https://aka.ms/o0ukef> ________________________________ From: [email protected] <[email protected]> on behalf of Frederick Noronha <[email protected]> Sent: Sunday, April 6, 2025 4:50:45 PM To: [email protected] <[email protected]> Subject: [GOABOOKCLUB] BOOK EXTRACT: Panka Soda and Nylon Socks (Clifford W DeSilva, in Belgao: Goan Memories) Panka Soda and Nylon Socks ________________________________ Clifford W. DeSilva I have often heard and read about the train trip from Belgão to Goa and back, before 1961. Not many have written about the bus journey to and from Goa. Later in this book you will read about the even less-heard-of bus route i.e. via Anmod. The other, better-known bus route was via Karwar. You, gentle reader, might be misguided into believing that the words `bus route' mean one smooth bus ride. Let me disabuse you of that belief if you have it. The route consisted of a series of rides — not all of them by bus, and not even one of them smooth. Willy-nilly I will describe my own experiences, but I dare say almost all children (and a good many adults) must have had similar and either more painful or more interesting experiences. I do believe, though, with all the earnestness of a child of five, six and eight (three trips) that no one could have found that journey either pleasant or interesting. It is not as if there were no pleasant experiences; but these, if any, were short-lived. It was only the destination — Goa — that enabled us to endure. Those were the days (1950s) of no reservations in trains, at least in `III Class' or even `II Class'. II Class only meant you had a better chance of getting a seat since it was much more expensive, and so had less takers. There was no question of reservations in buses. One had to go to the train or bus station and take one's chances. Now, after our first trip, we children had very clear and vivid concepts of the ills of the journey; but these did not prevent us from being greatly excited about `going to Goa'. The journey was the necessary evil, if we were to enjoy the beaches and other exotic experiences, and the unusual food (boiled rice and prawn curry) and drink (they had Coca Cola!) Older siblings looked forward to the beer or kuttuk (a shot of feni). The first part of our journey was a dumney ride to the Central Bus Stand in Belgão. (On our last trip, it was a ride in an auto rickshaw, which was then a thrill by itself.) We then waited anxiously for the bus to come. The bus used to come into the Stand already packed with passengers. We learned that this was because these enterprising people had gone to the bus depot, from where the buses started out, and produced a couple of coins to get into the bus. We would manage to get into the bus somehow. Dad would push us through a window while Mum would see to the luggage being loaded safely onto the top of the bus. Then Mum would somehow push her way through the crowd. She would have to stand. We kids were in some kind soul's lap. We would set out at last and the bus would `sneeze' every few minutes — something that was a feature of the diesel buses in those days. The nice thing is that not everyone in the bus was going to Goa. Some were just going to the next village. So, in an hour or two, all Goa passengers were seated with us kids fighting for the window seat. The window seat was a strategic requirement, along with a single sour lime to suffice for everyone in the family. The sour lime was to sniff, to prevent vomiting. The window seat was for ease of vomiting, because everyone knew the sour lime did zit to prevent vomiting. For some reason the throwing up did not begin till after Yellapur. Yellapur! It was the much-awaited stop because here is where we got to eat a plate of rice and curry — as much as we wanted. It was unlimited! Such a novelty. We used to stuff ourselves and polish off our plates — no need for washing them, I guess. After Yellapur there must have been a ghat section. I am not sure about it. Regardless of the why of it, it can be categorically stated that the sour lime trick would fail miserably and the throwing up would start after Yellapur. More need not be said. At every long stop there would be urchins selling `panka soda'. Youngsters of today may want to know what panka soda was. The bottles of soda water (and other carbonated drinks) in those days came with a unique marble stopper. Wikipedia tells us these were called `Codd-necked bottles', after their inventor, Hiram Codd. We just called it a `soda bottle' as there was no other at the time. In Goa, however, we would see Coca Cola bottles with the regular caps we see today. Those we called `Coco Cola bottles'. Life was unsophisticated in those days. To open the bottle there was a little wooden opener. It was shaped like a regular cover but three times as large. The centre of the cover had a little peg that fit over the marble. One placed the cover over the bottle head, and gave it a light punch and the marble would be forced down. When we grew older, we would show off by punching the marble down with our bare thumb. The enterprising lads on the way to Karwar had an innovation that was extremely appealing to us. They would put a bit of cycle tyre tubing over the opener. So when they opened a bottle, the rubber tubing would cause it to make a sound like `punkkkkka'. That sound had the magic ability to make us thirsty when we heard it and we would worry our parents for a panka soda. Heaven knows we felt thirsty all the time, but our requests would generally fall on deaf ears. Constant requests (read whining) would earn us a shout and threats of dire consequences if we did not stop. Having reached Karwar, we would come face-to-face with the stark realisation that we had to take another bus, this time to Kodibag where we would get a ferry ride. Getting into this bus gave us a feeling of déjà vu. It was like we had gone over this exercise before. I was always selected to be hauled up and pushed into a window with yelled instructions to `keep place for us'. Then, since there was no place to start with, Mum would tell me how useless I was and my sister would add her two pice worth. Grrr! Anyway this was not a very long trip — maybe five klicks. The more harrowing part of this exercise was getting the coolies to follow Mum's precise shouted instructions to load our luggage onto the bus, unload at destination and then load it all into the motor boat. Yes, that was the next part of the journey. Please do not get the idea that the boat was like one of those cruise liners. The boat was a glorified fishing boat that was converted to load people instead of fish. But the concept was similar. The staff believed they were still loading fish. To change the metaphor a bit, we were put like sardines into a can. There were hard wooden benches with several windows without panes or shutters. This meant that everyone got pushed through the windows, but with a lot of care, as a false step meant falling into the River Kali. With those open windows, if it happened to rain we would get wet anyway. [image:] Sadashivgad Ferry, 1951. Photo courtesy @KARWAR on Facebook. Looking back I wonder if those boatmen had even heard of the Plimsoll line. The boat was so overloaded that the prow was only about 6 to 10 inches above the water. I could have reached out and touched the water, but I didn't dare. I thought we were all going to drown and I must have said what felt like a full rosary. I guess I threw in a solemn promise to be a good boy from there on. (All forgotten once we were safely on the other side, though it did cross my mind that we would be returning the same way.) On the other side of the river was Sadashivgad. Guess what. Now we had to take another bus trip albeit a short one to Majali which was the Indian border. Here there was a Customs and Immigration Check Post. The check post was mainly to check our papers. The Customs officers had little or nothing to do with passengers who were going into Goa. (Who was going to smuggle anything into Goa, where there was `everything'?) All their fun began when passengers were returning from Goa to India. Once out of the check post we had to cross No Man’s Land — a narrow strip of untarred road of maybe 150 metres but to our young minds and tired legs it seemed like a mile. It was a barbed wire corridor and uphill. I remember that because we had to walk and it wasn't easy as I was still getting over my near-death experience. I was so terrified I even forgot to ask Mum for panka soda. [image:] The buses then in Goa. Photo courtesy AGE `Gerry' Coutinho, ex-Belgaum, via the Frederick Noronha Collection. On the other side of No Man's Land was Polem. This was Goaaaah! We had started out early in the morning and our travel had taken the better part of a day. It looked like we might make it for the last bus to Margão. The buses on the Goa side were the quaint looking carreira. They were a larger version of the `Convent Bus' in Belgão. Some had a body of brass plates and looked very smart. Others had bodywork done in steel and wooden ribs. Some had a door at the back and two long wooden seats at right angles to the driver while others had regular seats as in a bus. Whatever the model, the norm was to overload the bus. Kids were seated on people's laps. I always longed to get a seat near the driver, but I wasn't the only kid there and the others were stronger. Luggage was loaded on top and secured with ropes. I marvel now at how we managed. It was amazing. The road was a narrow strip. If a bus came from the other direction our carreira would slow down and go on to the dirt on the side of the road. The other bus would do likewise on their side. The conductors would whistle and direct the two buses till they had crossed safely. It was tremendously hot in there and Mum would give us dire warnings not to be sick. Like that would help. If we were unlucky enough to miss the last bus, there was a huge shed for wayfarers to spend the night. That is when `bedding' came into use. This was a canvas contraption containing a thin mattress which was rolled up and secured with leather straps. Along with the bedding there was a lot of other stuff like folded clothes etc. This bedding was unrolled for the night and one person could sleep comfortably on it while the clothes inside got automatically `ironed'. Mum would make us kids sleep on the bedding while she herself unrolled a `satranji' which was a cloth mat woven from rough thick cotton thread. Spending the night at Polem was not so bad compared to spending the night at Sadashivgad or Majali, if one was too late to get to the check post which used to close for the day (probably office hours). There was no shed on the Indian side. We had to stay at a `hotel' which is a very charitable word for it. One time we had to stay at Sadashivgad in what Dad called an `inn'. I used to wonder if this was the kind of place that had no place for Christ. In hindsight, I am thinking if this was so then Jesus was probably better off in the stable. The rooms were dormitory style. There were beds but no mattresses. The `partition' to separate the men's section from the ladies' section was made of sackcloth. Don't even ask about the toilet. One time, when I was travelling with only my elder brother, we had to spend the night in Polem. Late that night, I woke up feeling extremely thirsty and told my brother. He took me to the little bar that used to be there. It was closing for the night and the Portuguese owner told us in Portuguese that they had no water, only beer. He was very kind and felt for me and told me I could have a bottle free. I was eight at the time and had never had beer and was not ready to try it — thirsty or not. My brother accepted the offer in a flash and we came off with a bottle of beer. I still remember that beautiful green St. Pauli Girl beer bottle, as if it were yesterday. While my brother was thanking his stars, I was still thirsty. He coaxed me to go back to sleep but I woke up after some time and wanted water. Master Lawrie, from our school, was travelling with us and when he came to know of my plight, he got up and asked around and someone helped us. They directed us to a place in a field nearby where there was a zor (hill spring). There were quite a few people there so I guess it was a known spot. Water never tasted better. Since this book is about Belgão, I am not going to describe our shenanigans in Goa, except for anything relevant to our return journey. Suffice it to say that in Goa we got a lot of fancy goods: Japanese slippers, black nylon socks (my favourite as they gave me an edge over the other boys in school who had only `ordinary' cotton socks), and other `foreign' goods. In those days, possessing anything `foreign' elevated one to special status in school or with one's neighbours. Each child was entitled to one pair of Japanese slippers, with strict instructions that they have to last forever, and three pairs of nylon socks; the girls got white ones. They were supposed to be looked after well, to make them last because `we don't know when we will come to Goa again'. It is significant to note that most of these foreign goods that we bought in Goa were eligible for Customs duty. Let me now describe the return journey. Obviously, it was more of the same as on the journey to Goa, except that the buses were different in Goa. There was, however, one major difference and that was our experience at the Check Post at Majali. But first, let me give you a little background here. To avoid Customs duty on the socks, Mum made me wear all three pairs one over the other. These made my shoes very tight but I had to lump it. My sister was not spared this ignominy, even though she protested that `I am a girl'. She got her quota of three pairs as well. My Dad and one of my brothers were not with us on that trip. So Mum rolled three pairs into a ball for each of them and told me to keep these in my pocket. I now had nine pairs of nylon socks on my person. We would set out early in the morning after saying goodbye to Grandma, who would place three escudos (=fifteen annas) in our hands and kiss us. After the first trip I knew she would do this and would always wish she would have given us the money when we arrived in Goa so we could buy a couple of `cadbury icecroot' — chocolate flavoured ice lollies. A couple of workers would carry our luggage to the main road for the bus. An important addition to our luggage was a korond — a wicker basket with a handle. It would have mangoes in it or, in one case, one half of a huge jackfruit from our tree. A separate story could be written about this korond. Having got to Polem minus breakfast (which had been had actually, but had become minused on the way) we went through No Man's Land ('Don't touch the barbed wire') to the all-important Customs shed at Majali. Here Mum would deposit us kids with the korond with instructions not to sit on it and she would take the rest of the luggage for inspection. There would be a long queue, so this would obviously take a long time. In the meantime we were totally bored. There were no smartphones to keep us occupied. We did have a couple of books, but they were read and re-read and we could quote whole passages from `Coral Island' and `Robinson Crusoe' by heart by then. And we had `heat boils'. This was always a feature and I still have the scar tissue on my knees and elbows. That is where they would surface. Very painful, full of pus. They were the price of eating too many mangoes, according to Mum: `I told you, no? Don't eat so many mangoes. You would get boils? Now eat more mangoes!' >From time to time, I would go to the shed to see if Mum was done, but the real >reason was to beg for a panka soda. Mum would purse her lips, make big eyes at >me and order me to go back to where she had left me. And I would go, but >reluctantly. Then, on this particular trip I decided to make one last try. I >went to the shed, determined to not take `No' for an answer. My face already >had a whine in it and my voice followed suit. `Mamaaaa! Panka sodaaaa!'. By >this time Mum had got to the Customs officer who was inspecting her baggage. I >would not back down. `Panka soda. I want. Now!' This got the attention of the Customs guy. He looked at me pointedly and then said, `Come here, boy. What have you got in your pockets?' In my defence I must state that the main reason that great battles in this world have been lost is because of lack of communication. For example, the celebrated charge of the Light Brigade happened because of a miscommunication and those gallant 600 were actually supposed to attack a different target. My point is, how is a seven-year-old boy to know the implications and wiles of going through Customs? At any rate, why was I not informed in advance of the dangers of carrying socks in my pockets or wearing more than one pair? Had I known all this, would I have even approached the Customs shed at all? Wait, that sounds good as a rhetorical question, but if I were asked to answer that honestly I would have admitted that I would. For a seven-year-old boy suffering the heat, boredom and heat-boils, the need for a panka soda trumps avoidance of paying Customs duty. Those pockets of mine must have been bulging. `This?' I said, displaying the two bundles from my pockets with outstretched hands. `Nylon socks!' I said proudly. I saw Mum's face and immediately knew I had said or done something wrong. This animal instinct saved me because I was next going to proudly tell him I had on three pairs. But this officer must have been a battle-hardened veteran who knew that my mum was not the only person in the world who had this trick of getting her children to wear more than one pair of socks. He called me closer and asked me to show him my socks. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to refrain from telling him that my sister was waiting outside with three pairs of socks as well. I don't know what duty Mum had to pay. I do know what I had to hear from Mum afterwards when we got to the korond — and after that at irregular intervals on the rest of the journey. The diatribe increased particularly when I happened to ask for a panka soda. Later, when I was reading psychology in college I came across Thorndike's Laws of Learning, one of which reads, `If an action has an unsatisfactory effect, it is not learnt.' As a seven-year-old I did not know about Thorndike's laws of learning; and I did not need to. My mother taught me that all by herself in the School of Hard Knocks -— literally. I never asked for panka soda again. I did switch to asking for `Cococola' though. Take that, Thorndike! NOTE: The book 'Belgao' will be discussed at the XCHR-Alto Porvorim, on April 11, 2025 Friday at 6 pm. -- *** Please be polite and on-topic in your posts. *** --- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "The Goa Book Club" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]<mailto:[email protected]>. To view this discussion, visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/goa-book-club/CAMCR53KidDarQL1htJbg5zuN2%2BHEoR5sr1MWw_1EW7fMMQVacw%40mail.gmail.com<https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/goa-book-club/CAMCR53KidDarQL1htJbg5zuN2%2BHEoR5sr1MWw_1EW7fMMQVacw%40mail.gmail.com?utm_medium=email&utm_source=footer>. -- *** Please be polite and on-topic in your posts. *** --- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "The Goa Book Club" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. 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