Day Twenty Three

Goa sits on the Western edge of India, pretty far down the coast to the South. Unlike Rajasthan which was under the rule of the Mugul emperors, Southern India was under the control of Bijapur kings. There must have been some dissatisfaction with this arrangement, because in the early 1500s the Goan people invited the Portuguese to come in and replace the Islamic Bijapuris. I guess the Hindus figured they’d get a better deal from the Catholics. The Portuguese come in with their ships and soldiers and take the region. This foretells the decline of the Bijapuris in the region. They officially kick the bucket in the 1600s when Aurangzeb conquered the rest of their region. We remember him from that time when he killed his brothers and locked his father up in the Red Fort where he could stare at the Taj Mahal until the day he died. So in this instance, Goa was ahead of the rest of India in falling under European rule. But when India gained its independence from Britain in 1950, Goa was still under the rule of Portugal. It took a brief military action from the Indian government in 1961 before Goa was united with the rest of its newly self-governing people.

Basically, Goa had a much earlier, and slightly more recent connection to Europe compared with Northern India. The effects of this can be seen everywhere. The buildings are an interesting combination of Spanish style adobes with islamix/hindu design elements. Like northern India, it seems like most of the modern buildings were constructed in the 50s, but in Goa that means charming bungalows and sprawling estates. I get the sense that the Indian people have really taken advantage of the infrastructure left behind by the Portuguese. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I feel like the Goan were lucky to be subjugated by Europeans instead of the Muslims. Granted, the Europeans were invited, but the Hindus still had to contend with the Inquisition, destruction of their temples, and forced conversion under threat of expulsion or death. So it’s not like it was a cakewalk.

We drive into central parts of the city, up in the mountains, and visit old churches. I’m shocked at how many there are. It seems like every sect is represented, most within shouting distance of each other. There are facilities for the Franciscans, the Dominicans, and a bunch I cannot remember. They’re beautiful and imposing; gilded with gold and dense with statues and murals. Bom Jesus Basilica houses the body of St. Francis Xavier. He lived and taught in Goa. When he died, his body was returned as per his wishes. Now he’s in a glass coffin atop a large base. If you fight the crowd of people vying for a view, you see him from the side through the glass wall. Creepy.

These are pretty standard churches and cathedrals, but they were built by the same workers who built the Islamic/Hindu structures before. There’s definitely a local influence, especially in the decorative murals covering the walls and pillars. Many of these were white-washed away, so I wonder if they weren’t more explicitly Hindu in some places.

Later we visit a couple Hindu temples and I’m struck by how beautiful they are. I’ve written before about the gaudiness of the others I’ve seen, but these are built from wood with a tasteful use of marble. No doubt this is my cultural bias coming through, but the merging of the Hindu with the European style is more pleasing to me. Next to the temples stand beautiful lamp towers. They’re at least ten meters high with as many platforms for lighting lamps. Each level is a ring of windows letting the light shine out. I don’t see any of the historical ones lit, but they built new ones for the launch of the Goa Film Festival four years ago and the effect is striking.

For lunch I take a tour of a spice plantation. I see all the staples in their natural environment. It’s kind of boring. The food is good, but not particularly spiced. The best part is the giant Banana Spider I see between the trees.

We drive around Panaji, the capital of Goa, and I feel like I’m in the south of France. The roads wind between market streets and parks, and official looking buildings. My guide points out where all the public officials live and where the children go to school. We take off on foot and look through some shops. When I buy some gifts from a spice merchant he says to me, “That man was my student.” He taught physics for 30 years at the high school. We get back onto the street and now every few men he passes, he tells me was a former pupil as well. It’s a small town, and having lived and worked here so long, he seems to know everyone. It makes me feel welcome, and on tour with a town elder rather than a paid guide.

We stop at a lookout point and he shows me a tamarind tree. I look for pods but can’t seen any within reach. Our driver sees what we’re up to and goes and gets some medium sized rocks from the road. He’s amazingly good at throwing the rocks up into the clusters and knocking down a few. There’s a broad variety of flavors to the tamarind based on how mature they are. The fresh ones are soft and sour and the skin is bound tight to the meat. I eat this first one with a permanent pucker. The dried ones taste like the candy I’ve had from the Chinese grocer. The best are the ones right in the middle where the meat has shrunk a bit and pulled away from the skin, but it’s still moist. These I can bite and chew until the meat is gone and just the dark smooth seed remains. The driver goes nuts and I leave with a bag full of pods. Good for digestion, my guide says. Anytime I ask what something is in India, I get “good for digestion”.

One the way back into town we stop at the beach and I hike out to the water. It’s a deep beach and I’m surrounded by other tourists making the same pilgrimage. The sun is setting, but the beach is crowded and children splash about in the water. There’s a big contingent of nuns in simple habits. They’re having fun taking pictures with tourists and laughing along with us at the children. I knew Goa was popular with tourists, but I didn’t realize that most of them would be from other Indian states. At least on the sites I’ve seen there have been few westerners. That’s been a theme of my trip. I think a result of using a local tour company for my itinerary. That served me well in most cities, but in Goa, I would have preferred to be with the other foreigners. Part of it’s charm is status as a Mecca for expatriated hippies and I would have liked to see that.

But it’s on to my river cruise where again I am the only westerner on the boat. At my guide’s recommendation I sit near the back. I was well to heed him as the music is thumping and riotous. After every few songs, they’ll break the DJ set and bring on a team of Goan folk dancers. I really enjoyed the Rajasthani dancing. It had all the rhythm and exoticism of belling dancing, without the creepy stripper-like quality you sometimes see in the US. So I was excited to see the Goan version. The troupe comes out in island wear, with the men in kurtas and wrap skirts and the women in tropical saris. They dance in line and hold hands, forming a circle that they rush in and out of. It’s childish and reminds me of the stilted dancing in the Spare Me My Life video. Very odd. But it’s always nice to be out on the water. Our boat is flanked by others lit at every corner with bright white bulbs. Many are floating casinos with neon marquees naming them Casino Royale or King’s Casino. Deck side they’re having similar performances to mine. We come back to the docks, get back into the car and head home.

This was my longest day of sight seeing since leaving Delhi and I’m exhausted. I start my journey home tomorrow, but have a nine hour layover in Bombay. I’ll try to finish strong and see as much as possible, but nothing right now seems more inviting to me than an aisle seat and an ambien.