------------------------------------------------------------------------ * G * O * A * N * E * T **** C * L * A * S * S * I * F * I * E * D * S * ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Enjoy your holiday in Goa. Stay at THE GARCA BRANCA from November to May There is no better, value for money, guest house. Confirm your bookings early or miss-out
Visit http://www.garcabranca.com for details/booking/confirmation. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THOSE WERE GOOD DAYS: REMINISCENCES OF MAPUSA IN THE 1930s AND 1940s Going down memory lane, a Goanetter reminisces with his own memories of Mapusa (aka Mapuca, Mhapsa or Mapsa) of the past decades. This was written as a follow-up to Dominic Fernandes' much-appreciated and widely reproduced article on Mapusa (see links below). The views expressed below, about the direction of social change in Goa are the writer's. More perspectives on this and other subjects are more than welcome. Send in your comments and feedback to goanet@goanet.org By Marcos Gomes Catao [EMAIL PROTECTED] I read with great interest and joy Domnic Fernandes' article -- A Reminiscent Tour of Mapusa Town in the 1950's. For someone who spent fifteen years in Mapusa as a child and youth, and later visited often till my mid-thirties, the article evoked very many fond memories of those far-off days. "Deu para matar as saudades." (It helped assuage nostalgia, roughly translated, as the Portuguese word saudade has no equivalent in any other language.) I belong to an older generation than Mr.Fernandes and so, my recollections are of Mapusa of the 30's and 40's, though not too disparate. Since there are places, people and events that seem to have escaped Mr.Fernandes' attention, I thought I might take the liberty to pen a few complementary lines to fill in the lacunae and thus present a more complete picture. Adjoining the Camara Municipal, mentioned in the article, there was the shop Maganlal Monji Ganji which was frequented by the well-off as it was a very expensive shop with beautiful articles for wedding presents, etc. For us children, the attraction lay in the 'Conklin' fountain pens the store sold, considered at the time the ultimate in penmanship, but beyond our meagre purses at the princely sum of Rps 7.50 each. (By way of comparison, a Nestle chocolate slab cost 2 annas.) A little further down in the Old Market, there was another relatively expensive shop, though with a greater variety, and thus reaching a more widespread clientele, Caetano Paulo Sousa. Their sales assistant, Abdul, almost a family member, with his suave manners and congenial approach was an object lesson in "How to Win Friends and Influence People" long before Dale Carnegie put the principles into print. The shop continues in the New Market but with less glamour and chic. Continuing upwards on the way to Duler, on the left side, by a lane, was the red and yellow house of Adv. Cipriano da Cunha Gomes, one of Goa's leading advocates. His brother, Alexandrino, was the official pharmacist of Farmacia Ferrao mentioned in the article by Domnic. Every Sunday after the ten o'clock Mass he would drop in at our place with tiny cartons of caramel toffees for us children. The ancient house has now been replaced by the usual, modern, faceless brick and concrete box. Proceeding along the same side, after the Pinto de Menezes house, quite recoiled from the road, there was an old decrepit looking building that had been Pe. Acacio's school, where hundreds of boys were educated in the 3 R's before organized education came to town. And then on to the Liceu, at the edge of which was the balconied house of Adv. Caetano Felipe Saldanha who became the first President of the Camara after its restoration. The house stood like a veritable fortress overlooking the steep slope down to Duler. The slope ended in the Duler playground which was directly opposite the private elementary school I attended for three years. I was thus a witness to any number of classical football games. Most often, due to exiguity of time -- and money -- I would watch for a short while only through a peep-hole made in the matted coconut palm that fenced the field. One of the most exciting games I watched, which remains indelibly etched in my mind to this day, was the tournament final between Arpora High School, then in the heyday of its footballistic glory, and a German team. The highlight of the game was Juveniano, tall and lanky, the hero of the Arpora boys and fans, taking the ball with headers almost from his defense perimeter to that of the opponents' and scoring a goal, a stupendous performance I watched 'boquiaberto' (with wide mouth open), thinking nothing in the world could surpass that! Even later in life, after decades' sojourn in S Paulo and familiarity with the greatest football on earth, I did not see anything comparable. The German team comprised some excellent players culled from among the crews of three merchant ships that had sought refuge in the neutral waters of Goa when they had been caught by surprise on the high seas with the outbreak of the Second World War and had to make a dash to the nearest neutral port in order to forestall being seized by the British Navy. The ships remained in Mormugao until one fine night in a bold commando raid by the British Secret Services, orchestrated by the then British Consul General in Pangim, the ships were set on fire and the equipment destroyed. Allegedly this was done because the ship personnel were being supplied information by their spies in Bombay about out going shipping from there, and were transmitting this info to their headquarters from where the news was relayed to German U-boats infesting the Indian Ocean enabling them to sink many ships. After this, the crews dispersed and many rented houses on Candolim beach. The episode of the attack was made into a good film, shot (in the 1980s) on location in Goa, with a good cast of Hollywood actors. On top of the Duler hill , there was a school for boys run by an Order of Brothers. The Brother Superior was a big man, very jovial and affable. He probably was an East Indian and spoke Portuguese with a quaint accent. He used to ride a motorcycle and come often to our house for chats with my uncle priest. And then beyond Duler there was Cunchelim. I visited Cunchelim only once: As an eleven year old, I was deputed to represent the family at the funeral of an acquaintance (my father and uncles being away, and in those days, ladies not expected to join funeral processions, the task fell on my "responsible" shoulders.) Fortunately, the parish curates were kind enough to give me a lift in their taxi to the residence of the deceased. But even then, the return was a fifty minutes' slog, certainly a very "costly" representation for an eleven year old. As my old uncle would say "Basta para toda vida e mais cem anos" (It's enough for a lifetime and a hundred years more.) Retracing the steps to the Tribunal, standing opposite the Lyceum, in those days there were no military barrack, as asserted by Mr.Fernandes. Probably they came later with the aggravation of tensions between Portugal and independent India. There were, however, many good residences like those of Carlito Noronha of the BNU (Banco Nacional Ultramarino) and Tome Menezes of Menezes & Cia. And, in the far distance, there was the Convent of the Sisters of the Holy Cross, probably the first girls' school in Mapusa, where I sometimes went to serve at Mass. The slaughter house referred to by Domnic Fernandes was on my daily path to school as it diminished my trek to school by about ten minutes had I gone by the normal road instead of cutting through the hill. Quite often, in the evening, when returning home, it was time for the cow to be slaughtered. So, I would tarry there watching the fight between man and beast as the butchers tried to fell the cow and, as if with a premonition of the fate that would befall it if it went down, the cow put up a brave fight. But, human ingenuity and strength won the day: the cow was downed, the throat slit and then the animal quartered and prepared for the next day's table fare. I would be exaggerating if I said that at times the gentle eyes pleaded for mercy. My insouciance at the gory spectacle, at that young age, would probably raise eyebrows to-day, and might even be labelled unnatural, by today's child rearing canons. Continuing back to the main road down to Dixticar's house, the lane right next to the house went straight to the fish market. The first house on the right belonged to Fransquinho Noronha, Manager of the BNU (the house is now owned by the Soares family of tile manufacturing fame). This house acquired extraordinary importance on one Sunday every year, Carnival Sunday because it faced the hillock where every Carnival was re-enacted the last battle between the Bhonsle forces and the Portuguese army, which led to the final incorporation of Novas Conquistas into Goa. The Portuguese Army (i.e. Goans dressed in Portuguese military uniforms of the period) would coming marching up after Mass at the Capela dos Suissos (I was never able to find out what the Swiss had to do with the Chapel!), followed by a whole crowd of people. Then, on the hillock a mock battle would take place with the Portuguese victory evidenced by the lowering of the Bhonsle flag and the hoisting of the Portuguese one, to the sound of loud music and shouts from the populace. People would throw 'cocottes' (types of paper bullets filled with face powder, flour or rice) at each other and surround-ing spectators so much that the lobby of Mr. Noronha's house, where we took refuge, by the evening, had an inch high carpet of powder. There was a lot of music and shouting, innocent revelry full of bonhomie, never a hint of rowdyism or drunkenness, two features that I understand mar to-day's "ordered" ( i.e. made to order for the Tourist Department) festivities due to the large influx of visitors from outside, not attuned to our customs and traditions. Sunday's celebrations were capped by Dinner Dance at the Municipal Gardens. In those days, the Mapuca Carnival was considered the best in Goa: spontaneous, more ebullient and exuding greater joie de vivre so much so that people from Pangim would come in open cars, in the evenings, circling the core of the city, honking, singing and throwing 'cocottes' at residents in their balconies who responded in kind. It was great fun. Further down the road was the Lobo Mansion, home to Dr. Guilherme Lobo, best known of the Notaries Public; Dr. Casimiro Lobo who had laboured for many years in Mozambique and Pe. Andre Lobo, chaplain of the Asilo chapel. If one continued to the end of the road, one came to the fish market. Turning left there and proceeding some yards, one would come to the Benao building. Besides the Benao family living upstairs on one side, the other side was occupied by Dr. Mousinho Elvino Sousa and family. Dr. Mousinho had his dental consulting room there. He was an excellent dentist. He achieved fame, or notoriety, depending on individual interpretation when, after the invasion, he refused to give up his Portuguese citizenship. The Government cashiered his medical degree and he could no longer practise. He eventually migrated to Portugal. The lane by the side of the Benao building led to the residence of then Dr. Felipe Cordeiro, a superb physician and outstanding diagnostician (based solely on the solid grounding received at the medical school, with no technological paraphernalia without which to-day's doctors are at sea to diagnose any ailment). Dr.Cordeiro was also an uncanny psychologist: when we fell sick and he came to see us, his re-assuring "vozeirao" bellowed at the gate of the house often sufficed to dissipate half our symptoms! The British with their supercilious snobbishness, labelled the graduates of the Goa Medical School as LMPs (Licensed Medical Practitioners) i.e. a cut below the M.B.B.S. they produced at Grant Medical, not only a manifest injustice but a positive insult to the dozens of outstanding physicians produced in Goa, some of whom, after further studies abroad, achieved international fame like Dr. Gama Pinto, Dr. Froilano de Mello, Dr.Bossuet Afonso, etc Even to-day, almost seven decades later, were I to fall sick and given the option to be treated by my childhood doctor or a Harvard educated one, I would unhesitatingly opt for the former not only for the more devoted attention that would be given to me but also the former would be closer in mind and practice to the Hippocratic ideal of a doctor, not forgetting, of course, that he would be much less inclined to keep his eye on my purse. (To be fair, these strictures probably apply less to medical practitioners from Europe, Canada and Australia.) There were other families living in the lane like the Monteiros, whom we called Contador and the Bocro family. (I do not know whether that nickname was due to the several 'bocro' plants in his garden.) Coming out of the lane and turning right we came to the big Ferrao house, whose beauty was hidden by the dense foliage of the trees in the garden. Pantelao Ferrao was a known connoisseur of antique furniture and, together with Dr. Florencinho Ribeiro and Carmo Lobo among the best known philatelists of the day in Goa. Directly opposite the Ferrao house stood our house, which stretched from the main road (Rua de S.Jeronimo) all the way to the hill with the hut atop. The hill had been cut off from the main property by the Camara taking over for a pittance (under eminent domain) a huge slice of land to cut through the road that now runs from Dixticar to the cemetery and the Church. We did not find it difficult to climb up there and did so quite often as the plot contained mango trees, jack-fruit, etc and we went up for the 'colheita' (fruit harvesting). Our 'khunbi' free tenants lived there with their family. To the right of our house there was a large empty plot. The old Public Jail had stood there until, in the dead of night one fine day, it came tumbling down with a colossal bang that woke up everyone in the vicinity. It took a year or two for the debris to be cleared and then, the earthenware vendors set up shop there on Fridays and we were entertained by the variegated sounds of the wares being tinkled by the vendors to show the clients they were whole and not cracked. Those were good days. As we were in the middle of the 'commotion' people who came from the villages would drop in, either for a chat with my grand-mother or to deposit their purchases and head for some more, or merely to wait for the noon or one o'clock bus to Moira, Aldona, etc. Life became much more dull when the market shifted to its present location. To the left of our house there was a small printing press. The owner of the press was awarded the large plot to our right by Mr.Bandodkar, as a 'Martyr of Liberation' and built his house and press there. A unique record of our 'bairro' (neighbourhood), unique not only to the city but also in relation to Goa and, possibly India, was that within a radius of less than 70 yards, three persons won the coveted Mons.Delgado/Cowasji Jehangir scholarships at the Bombay University Matriculation examination, two in Portuguese and one in Latin. Further up was the Remanso hospital that belonged to Dr. Francisco Correia of Ucassaim (Prof.Francisco Correia Afonso M.A. Oxon was a Professor of English and Principal of Colleges in Dharwar and Belgaum). Opposite the Remanso was the large house and compound of Jeronimo Caetano Braganca where Da. Blasia took gentle and firm care of the siblings. A nephew of the house, Aquino Braganca, became famous for his participation, as a member of FRELIMO, in the struggle for the independence of Mozambique, having perished in the same plane crash that killed Samora Machel, then President of the country, of whose entourage he formed part. I had known 'Aquin' when he was doing Inter Science at Belgaum and I was in the sixth standard. He was always serious but affable and congenial. And then, after the bakery and the 'taverna' and the tailor's shop we came to the Church and the Parochial School. Sadly, these have been relegated to the annals of history, bringing to a close the wonderful story of great Goan music and musicians. I remember our Church with great affection, not only the pomp and joy of the feast of Milagres and the Feira but also S. Jerome, the singing of Veronica on Good Friday, the Novena of Our Lady when the children with well decorated little baskets full of flower petals would line up in the aisle at the centre of the church and then slowly advance and throw the petals on the Statue to the tune of 'Devache Mae' (Mother of God). But, most of all I loved the Solemn High Mass on Easter Sunday at the height of which the choir would burst into the Hallelujah chorus of Handel's Messiah. Even Joao, the sacristan, went up to give a helping hand, or rather, a helping voice. The rendition might not have gladdened the heart of an operatic conductor because it was more noteworthy for its sforzo i.e. vociferousness than for the mellowness of the art. But for a ten-year old it was like a clamour coming down from Right Above (though obviously I did not know then that it was what it is). However, I have always credited the annual rendering of the Handel chorus at Easter at the Church in Mapusa with igniting in me the spark of love for classical music, later on further fanned by the band of the Mahratta Light Infantry band playing at the monthly Dinner Dance at the Officers' Mess (Belgaum), situated about 750 yards from our home, but on a sharp elevation, so that Strauss, Chopin and marches came wafting down through the air in the still of the night like so much ethereal manna falling from the skies, lulling you into a deep sense of rapture until the strains of 'God Save The King,' punctually at eleven o'clock, broke the spell and jerked you back to reality, to much chagrin. Our Vicar then, Pe.Euclides da Silva, from Benaulim was a man of considerable stature, physical and intellectual. When he went by the house daily, on his evening constitutional, with measured step and gait, he projected an aura of awe and respect. And when, on Palm Sunday and Good Friday he impersonated Jesus at the singing of the Passion, his grave mien and deep, cadenced bass gave you the fleeting impression he had truly morphed into the very Person, so unlike to-day's post-Conciliar cut-and-run ceremonies lacking all that pristine majesty. At the end of the Church compound, there was a small lane on the left, that led to Gaunsavaddo, Camarcasana and Acoi. I never had the occasion to visit the last two but did go sometimes to the first. My most memorable visits there were to the house of Dr. Florencinho Ribeiro. As a young boy and adolescent, and an avid stamp collector, I was privileged to have a look at his collection. In spite of the disparity in age, he was always very attentive, perhaps in deference to my uncle-priest who took me there. Like all serious collectors, Dr. Ribeiro was very proud of his collection. You could feel it specially when, after the early periods, he came to the part where his collection was complete and he would say, with a tinge of pride in his voice: "Daqui para frente, sao colecoes completas (From here on, only complete sets)." I have come to the end of my complementary, peripatetic tour of Old Mapusa but, as I am about to close, other remembrances of my city and country come cascading down memory lane causing a vice-like twinge on the heart at the thought they will never reccur: the matinal, cymbalic tingle of the baker's staff on his early deliveries; the 'gentleman' beggar, impeccable in his black waistcoat and earthen bowl intoning "Amot tik, Barretto makta bik" (Hot or sour, any will do. Rough translation of his intent, rather than a literal one); the funeral procession going by the house, with many surpliced clerics and the band in the rear valiantly striving to cope with its version of Chopin's "Marche Funebre"; the pounding hoofs and creaking wheels of the 'boilanchi gaddi' (passenger bullock cart) making its way at its slow, leisurely pace to Candolim for the annual May 'mudanca' (holiday); the rush to the tinto (market) there to fetch the tin of Huntley & Palmer's cream crackers, red ball cheese, the inevitable xarope d'brindao (binn'a or kokum syrup); the phut-phut of the Betim-Pangim early ferry with white, starched buttoned up officials on their way to work; the 'whoooop' of the ship steamimg in on to the quay after its overnight journey from Bombay, ready to disgorge sons and daughters come to satiate their longing for the motherland; the golden bus rushing headlong at breakneck speed, laden with passengers and baggage bound for Colem and thence embarking by train for Hubli, Belgaum, Poona and Bombay under the benign, watchful eyes of local officials while preparing, with trepidation, for the coming confrontation with the obnoxious sepoys and inspectors of H.M.Customs at Castlerock in British India. All these sights and sounds of an era gone by keep revolving through the mind endlessly, of an era when life was quiet and peaceful and safe. Goa was backward and primitive then, many would say... Perhaps... who knows? Words may have an ambivalent connotation, depending on the individual's mental and moral frame. May be we were backward. But at least we were we, heirs to a great tradition of integrity, honesty and ethical values, not overwhelmed by outsiders alien to our mores and values. Goa is to-day the country in the world with the highest percentage of outsiders in its population, an unenviable record formerly held by Estonia, in the Baltics, which had 35% of Russians in its midst after being occupied by the former USSR. I learn also that GOA to-day has earned the reputation of being the most corrupt State of the Union. Even if it is only partly true, our forefathers must be turning in their graves at this sullying of the most profound and lofty legacy they bequeathed us. When I was ten years old, a much older cousin told me in hushed tones the tale of a certain Reynolds, Briton or Anglo-Indian from British India, who had been caught in the Church of Bom Jesus, in Old Goa, trying to rob the tomb of S. Francis Xavier. It was a sensation because in those days, 'thieving' was not a word in the Goan lexicon. In my youth, when we woke up in the mornings, all the doors and windows of the house, even two at street level, were thrown open, to be closed only at 8 or 9 pm. Most Goan households followed this practice, as far as I am aware. And not even a pin ever went missing. Try this in today's 'progressed' Goa. Perhaps I am too antiquated, constrained in a straight-jacket of incredible naivete and anachronic idealism, unadjusted to modern, pragmatic realism where the only thing that really matters is rapid material progress, feverish industrial activity producing more and more wealth, drowning in rivers of money...all other values be damned. Unfortunately, my vision is clouded and my option ordained by heritage and upbringing. That is why, even though I am aware it will occasion numerous contrariant responses, I would like to conclude by borrowing words from the Bard of Avon: "What a fall was there, my countrymen." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- GOANET-READER WELCOMES contributions from its readers, by way of essays, reviews, features and think-pieces. We share quality Goa-related writing among the 7000-strong readership of the Goanet/Goanet-news network of mailing lists. If you appreciated the thoughts expressed above, please send in your feedback to the writer. Our writers write -- or share what they have written -- pro bono, and deserve hearing back from those who appreciate their work. GoanetReader welcomes your feedback at goanet@goanet.org For more on Goanet see http://www.goanet.org/mailman/listinfo/goanet or www.goanet.org Domnic Fernandes' three-part article on Mapusa is at http://www.mail-archive.com/goanet@goanet.org/msg38358.html http://www.mail-archive.com/goanet@goanet.org/msg38771.html http://www.goanet.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=426 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Goanet, building community, creating social capital for a decade. ----------------------------------------------------------------------