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| Goanetters annual meet in Goa is scheduled for Dec 27, 2005 @ 4pm |
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|The Riviera Opposite Hotel Mandovi, Panjim (near Ferry Jetty/Riverfront)|
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Quiet village life: Of Chorao, the island of fidalgos
Prava Rai
[EMAIL PROTECTED]
Many people ask us why we chose to live in Goa and not
anywhere else in India, or, for that matter, any other part
of the world. The next question is "Why Chorao -- an island
village?" After all even some people from Chorao have
abandoned their homes in favour of city life. Of course there
are compelling reasons for them to make this shift -- better
schools for their children and proximity to their place of
employment or simply a change from a quiet village life. We
wanted to exchange the noisy city life with precisely this
quiet village life.
Initially, we lived in a rented apartment near the Indoor
Stadium in Campal, the first floor of Villa Braganca Pereira.
The location was impeccable and we could see the wide arc of
the river as it flowed into the Arabian Sea.
But to our misery, we found that the ground outside was a
favourite New Year party venue. No doubt the parties were
successful while we hunted around for a quiet hotel room to
usher in the New Years noiselessly.
On one occasion, we found that there was nowhere to go and
decided to brave it out. It was a harrowing experience when
the noise blasted on until eight in the morning -- long after
midnight.
For us it was clear that the further we were from sources of
noise like new year parties, temple music and the clamour of
traffic, it was better for our health and well-being. This is
not to say that we are not assaulted every now and then by
that ubiquitous equipment -- the loudspeakers -- proclaiming
devotion and nuptials in equal measure of nerve-shattering
insistence.
However, it is not true that we are surrounded by
sepulchral silence either. Each season brings with
it its own special voices. Come September -- the
evening meal time is filled with the works of an
unknown soloist. The music we hear but the shy
performer is hidden in the shadows of the night.
My husband smiles indulgently when I perk up and tell him
that the Spanish castanets are here, for the music made by
these shy performers is reminiscent of the accompaniment to
the flamenco dancers of swirling skirts and flashing eyes.
In the days when my son had to catch 6.30 am bus to school, a
bird voice urged him to hurry politely, it sang, "Quick
please, quick please". I would gently admonish him while he
lingered sleepily over his breakfast, 'Even the birds are
telling you to hurry up'.
And there is another bird which gently sings, "Sleeeep –
sleeeep!" These aerial singers are so many, some permanent
residents and others that the seasons bring. Every now and
then you hear a song which is different joined by myriad of
singers building up a veritable airy Tower of Babel. I am
reminded of Daudet's words (in a different context): "Why are
thy songs so short?" a bird was once asked. "Is it because
thou art so short of breath?" The bird replied: "I have very
many songs and I should like to sing them all."
Often we not only hear them but also see them. A visiting
friend was delighted when she saw a couple of Paradise Fly-
catchers playing hide-and-seek among the tall branches in the
garden.
Once lured by a strange honking call, I wandered into the
woodland surrounding our home and was almost brushed by the
wings of a Great Indian Hornbill as it swished majestically
away. Mr. Mendonca, the friendly proprietor of Mr. Farmer
Nursery located on the NH 17 in Guirim, advised me to plant
mulberry bushes. He said that birds will come to eat the
berries. So I did and now the birds and I share the delicious
fruits. They feast from the tall branches while I confine
myself to the lower ones.
Speaking about fruits, there are mango trees which
have grown tall; I was told it was because they
were competing for light with other tall trees like
the teak and even kajra -- a jungli which grows in
great abundance and with great abandon. We harvest
kokum fruits with which I have experimentd. I make
tart filling with it and it has proved to be a
great standby for cranberry sauce to accompany pork
roast or the Christmas turkey.
There are three or four varieties of mangoes and wishing to
fulfill my dream of making the land pay for itself, I have
tried unsuccessfully to sell the fruits. There are a few
sharks in Chorao who survey your trees around April and tell
you with a dismal shake of their heads that the trees are old
and tall and fruits are few and then offer equally dismal
price.
For some quite a few years I surrendered helplessly to them
-- after all it is difficult find mango pluckers. And the
mango pluckers in Chorao are a dwindling tribe. We are lucky
that we have Vishwanath, a neighbour who is one of the best
pluckers around here and we have to book him way in advance.
He is a busy man for that short but intense period.
I decided to gamble on this year's harvest of mangoes after
being submitted to the ritual dismal head-shakes and offering
of miserable sums. I reasoned with myself that anyway it is a
bad year and even if I make a disaster of the entire thing,
the loss could not possibly kill us.
So I learnt a few things about mangoes in the garden and
about marketing in the Panjim market. I felt out of my depth.
Believe me, this is not an activity for the fainthearted.
But the result was a 700% more than what was offered to me.
This sets me off thinking why agriculture as an option is not
attractive in Goa, in Chorao anyway. Between the high labour
cost and the machinations of middlemen, there is little
incentive left! On the ferry an acquaintance told me
recently, that she prefers to keep her fields fallow because
the returns are too meagre compared with the investment,
mainly in terms of labour which is not only costly but also
unreliable.
We have been planting all kinds of trees and wherever we go
we find plants and saplings to bring back to our garden. We
even travelled all the way from Belgium with an oak sapling
from my brother-in-law's garden which, alas died after a
valiant fight to survive the alien climate.
It has taken us six long years to understand the soil around
our house. We are not always lucky with our planting of trees
but each sapling that survives fills us with much happiness.
Now we grow flowers for the house and it is a joy every
morning to wander around the garden in the company of bird
songs: sometimes the liquid gold of the Golden Oriels, or
just the soothing cooing of doves.
There are voices of the trees. Each tree with its
unique leaves makes music which is all its own. The
kokum, the jamun and the teak leaves sing with
different voices when the wind blows through them
or when the rain falls on them. When the rain
slackens to a slower tempo, the leaves murmur
confidentially and one is drawn into the magical
circle straining to comprehend the messages of the
rain and wind.
What about our neighbours and fellow islanders? We have come
to depend on them for friendship and service. Apart from
regular house help, we also employ a few to work with us in
the garden. There are fresh shrimps that come to our doorstep
and sometimes we are even offered Chonak from the rivers
around. Fresh eggs from the village, milk and chickens are
also available.
In the course of the years we have come across interesting
people. One such person is Alphonso who at age 77 is still a
keen long-distance runner. He has been running all his life.
We met everyday when he used to deliver newspapers all over
the island. He still runs and inspires youngsters to take up
running.One day he showed me an old photograph of himself
with a trophy -- that was in the fifties when he had competed
with the Portuguese youth as well as fellow Goans.
He is concerned about his young protoges. He
personally accompanies them to various states and
is always worried that they lack adequate nutrition
to enable them to perform their best. He
sympathizes with them because some of them are
poor. He recalls the days when he was young and
competed keenly, "I don't know how we managed. We
were so poor but we beat the Paklos!"
Chorao in the days of its glory was called the Island of
Fidalgos. There still exists the remains of an impressive
Seminary, but only a few know what the structure is. Most
islanders call it the quotidian 'comphro'.
A fellow islander Lisa Noronha and I tried a few years ago to
work with some students from St. Bartholemew School on a
project called 'Know your Island'. Along with the students we
discovered quite a few interesting aspects of the island: the
manos (13 in number) their importance in the island's
agriculture, ecology and economy, the birds, (Salim Ali Bird
Sanctury is located here) and the monuments of Chorao.
So why did we settle down here - obviously for the quiet
village life, space and peace.
--
PRAVA RAI has been at Delhi's prestigious Jawaharlal Nehru
University, and while in Goa has been editing PARMAL, the
annual journal of the Goa Heritage Action Group.
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| Goa - 2005 Santosh Trophy Champions |
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| Support Soccer Activities at the grassroots in our villages |
| Vacationing in Goa this year-end - Take back & distribute Soccer Balls |
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