Lovable rascal: the Alfred I knew --------------------------------------------------------- Frederick Noronha fredericknoro...@gmail.com
Bernice, his classmate while they were teenagers, rang at lunch-time on Sunday to break the news. It was brief. It was sudden. And, like everything else Alfred, it was unexpected. Alfred Tavares, journalist and Goan expat in Sweden, one of those traumatised by the twist of events in Goa after the 1960s who opted out via migration but who always loved his home, had passed away at 70. Waiting for more news online, I opened the Herald Review -- it was a late start to the day after being up till almost dawn -- and his latest column was there! This triggers off memories going back a long time.... It was the 1980s, and we were only beginning in journalism. Raw, untrained hands, we got precious space to enter the profession through the Herald, which then had just added two tiny o's at either end of part of its earlier Portuguese name. From being an eight-decade-old (and one of the oldest existing papers in South Asia, founded 1900, but seldom celebrated as such) it was just shifting over from being a Portuguese daily, claimed to be the only one in Asia then, to an English-language daily newspaper. Since we trainees were not even out of college yet, to understand the complexities of journalism was not easy. Books were in short supply. Experienced journalists were few and far between. Alfred Tavares was one of the role-models-from-a-distance then. In 1987, the Bofors scam had broken out. It was to lead to the defeat of the Rajiv-lead Congress in 1989. The Indian news-media suddenly realised that they had nobody then to represent them in Scandinavia. Alfred rose to the occasion. His metre-long faxes -- maybe he sent a copy to the Herald too -- offering insightful and exclusive reports on the Bofors scam made it to the then young and just-founded *The Week* magazine. (For those too young to recall, the scam involved kickbacks concerning the $285 million contract between the Government of India and Swedish arms company Bofors for the supply of 410 155mm Howitzer field guns.) *The Week* itself was an outrageous experiment, an attempt to build a 'national' magazine from out of the south Indian commercial city of Kochi, tucked away in one end of the country, and as remote as could be from the news-making cities of New Delhi and Bombay. AfTER A LONGISH gap, one met -- or rather, encountered -- Alfred again, this time after moving from the 'subbing' desk to reporting. After Statehood came our way, the Bangalore-based *Deccan Herald*, the biggest paper in that city then, decided they needed a full-time correspondent in Goa. The work was fun, creative and offered quite some freedom to decide priorities; the employers kind, supportive and gentle. Only thing was that they had little space for a small and young State like Goa, at best for four reports a week. To undertake any other writing activity, staffers needed explicit permission -- which you were discouraged to seek at the asking stage itself. This, naturally, led to a certain boredom and ennui. But it also meant that one had a lot of time on hand, to track local events -- mostly politics, which was itself starting to get repetitive, and the coverage of which mostly lacked the depth that could explain why repeated governments were being toppled post-1990, what role the various lobbies were playing in politics here, and what were the real issues behind the headlines and statements of politicos. One day, as one walked into the the small and old but scenic (and now long-disused and disrespected, even heritage can be sectarianised) Goa Assembly hall, it was a surprise to encounter a bearded Alfred Tavares. He seated outside the Assembly entrance, in an old Portuguese-style chair, with a edgy policeman in the next seat, obviously keeping close watch. Having come in late, one had to ask a journalist with a local language daily in whispers what had happened. "Toh bhoklo, reh..." ("He barked out") was the puzzled answer one got. In the interval that soon ensued, one asked Alfred himself what had happened. "I told him, 'Speaker Sir, you are a bl**dy fool. And so are the 40 other members,'" he replied. Probably it was around the time when a doctor had botched up an operation on Alfred's throat or nasal passage and hence what he said might not have been understood by all. Or, maybe we chose not to hear. Given the undefined privileges that legislators have across India, a legacy from colonial times, as subversive a thought of this kind could well be cause for serious action. In its wisdom, the Assembly decided to drop the case though, and kept Alfred in detention till the rising of the House, or something to that effect. OVER TIME, we became friends. The Net came to Goa early, thanks to our expat pioneers in cyberspace -- whose role is largely overlooked these days -- in making it relevant through ventures such as Goanet, GoaCom (earlier GoaWeb) and Goa-World. Incidentally, all of these mark the 20th anniversary of their foundation sometime now. Alfred and I met up in cyberspace repeatedly, and collaborated on some stories too. If he was excited over something, you could expect a call in the middle of the night or even the pre-dawn hours. Sweden got interested in Goa (as speedily as they lost interest subsequently) sometime in the 1990s. This came with the ascent of this region as a tourist destination for that Scandinavian country. Along the way, the "Swedish rape-case", as it was called here, broke out in the news. This tragic case showed that global tourism -- contrary to the claims often made -- doesn't contributes to only or mainly to global understanding; it also aggravates differences, deprivation, misunderstandings and injustices. With Alfred in Stockholm, we collaborated on this story. Like with all stories written for a distant audience, this one too was prone to misunderstandings. This was a brutal case; the two women victims of the gang-rape had been bold enough to come back to Goa to testify before the court and seek justice. But there were other factors at play, which complicated the case. International pressures and the media glare soon saw the local authorities catch half-a-dozen or so slum-dwellers mainly from the then red-light locality of Baina or elsewhere, and throw them in. Even if they were positively identified by the victims, and some did indeed seem to appear as rough characters, one wondered whether justice was really being served here. Or was it just a quick attempt to bring 'closure' on the case and its adverse publicity? Further, this played itself out as in any unequal relationship based on stereotypes and patriarchal perspectives clashing across the continents. Having to search for headlines and sensation, it grew tiresome.... Once though, we were at a hearing together. This was at the same scenic courthouse near the riverfront Mermaid Garden which was later to became famous for the closely-covered, politicised, high-octane trial of Tarun Tejpal. Except that there were few tracking the 'Swedish rape case' then. I was thrilled to use Alfred's advanced camera to photograph the accused on their way to court. They were naturally upset with us. When some of them had passed by, one rough looking character lashed out at the camera in my hand. We were on the first floor, and it could have easily crashed to the floor below. Alfred, in true style, let out a howl... and more! There was prompt attention, including of the judge's; the attacker immediately behaved well again. BUT IT WAS during my visit to Stockholm in 1998 that I encountered vintage Alfred. By then, email made contacting and planning easier. While a scholarship kept us in the scenic coastal town of Kalmar on the Baltic Sea in the south-east of Sweden, we had a day or two in Stockholm. Not being a very adventurous traveller in a new city, I was in half a mind to give a meet with Alfred the skip. He would have nothing of that. Alfred then lived in Bromma, if one recalls right, and mobile phones were of limited use still. Chance fated otherwise.... Running into someone you know randomly in a city of 2.2 million is a one-in-a-million opportunity. Or, should we say one in 2.2 million. But that's exactly what happened. I saw a white kurta covering 'Chacha' Alfred (as he preferred to call himself in recent years in the online world) in one of Stockholm's 100-stationed tunnelbana, or tunnel railway. Dodging an invite to his place was not possible. We did reach there, but not before some adventure. As usual, books, papers, a camera, rolls of film and miscellaneous other things were carelessly popping out of my hands. Alfred whispered "just watch", and launched into a coughing fit. He immediately seemed very ill. Some Swede stood up in the crowded the train snaking its way through what has been called 'the world's longest art gallery'. Alfred knew his hosts well! He insisted I stay for dinner and drinks; even if I didn't drink. On the way home, we stopped to buy some alcohol at the Systembolaget -- or systemet ("the system") or bolaget ("the company"). It was a learning experience to encounter a Western country where liquor was controlled, with the government-owned chain being the only one allowed to sell stronger alcohol beverages. We took tokens, sat and patiently and peacefully awaited our turn. In those days, even banks in India had not yet implement such a system of placid queue-forming! We went over to his home, and ran into his then-teenage kids. He introduced me to his neighbour, who happened to be a former lady-journalist who preferred to be a bus-driver in Stockholm, as, she said, the latter job was less taxing! In between, we often kept in touch. Alfred would get excited with developments in the news, even in distant Goa. While in Stockholm, he introduced me to a Goan from Calangute who had gone there penniless, begun by selling hand-made jewellery on the streets, and then grown to be a millionaire by working the import-export trade with Bangalore. Alfred was the kind of person about whom one could narrate many a story. In one carnival, he dressed up as an Arab, pulling the leg of even many who knew him. He would encourage friends to adopt poor children from Goa, many of whom are now well settled in Sweden. In his younger days, he was mischevious and bold. Till date, his contemporaries in Goa mention their role, and his, in what they once called with self-depreciating humour the Fraternity of Fools! In the assassination case of Swedish premier Olof Palme, Alfred played a role you might not believe. He found what was believed to be the bullet that killed the Swedish socialist prime minister. Searching online, the only links one could find were to some Spanish website. But that's how time makes us forget. During his recent visit to Goa, Alfred joined us at the Goa Book Club. [https://www.flickr.com/photos/fn-goa/11881903724/] He was indeed Goa (and India's) unofficial ambassador in Sweden. While some of us might miss the man, others would clearly remember him by the many stories he left behind. On Facebook, my hurried comment was: "Will definitely miss one of the most lovable, irrepressible, scallywag of a journalist Alfred de Tavares who passed away in Sweden today! But the memories will allow us to have many a laugh for a long time to come...." In hindsight, I'd say we'll remember the fun that Alfred was! -- Frederick Noronha is an online journalist and alternative book publisher, based in Goa. fredericknoro...@gmail.com 91-9822122436 All condolences may kindly be directed to Alfred's niece Joanne Pereira at joannechri...@gmail.com