Goa Beyond the Beaches:
Before I left for Goa - I was sure I wanted to do it with a difference; experience the place for what it was, rather than what it has become.
Laterite and Portugal was the agenda - a combination of local context with the lifestyle of a (then) foreign state; it's effect on the original local, it's manifestation on the 17 islands, it's acceptance, its existence, it's preservation, it's dilapidation, and most of all - the impact of modernization on the thus generated fabric - this trip was going to be an exploration of these few thoughts.
In brief, I was aware that the Portuguese colonized Goa in 1510 - several inhabitants were forced into Christianity and several chose to flee. Those who left the city due to religious possessiveness were further accompanied by those who didn't wish to live there in the fear of being hit by the plague (the common doom for all cities who laid their foundation stone before the 1800s) Many of the original residents shifted to nearby islands, in an attempt to restore their original lifestyles.
One such island was the Island of Diwar - a secluded hilly paradise perforated by and engulfed within the Mandovi river: forming internal sweet water lakes and mangrove ecosystems. Hence, my first day's plan had very obviously been established.
I rented a scooty from the Panjim bus stand, fueled it up, sorted my directions; camera and sunglasses in company - I took off. A few convoluted-circular-traps-of-Panjim-city-entrance later, I finally caught the old Goa causeway.
A beautiful road fanned by tall (seriously tall) coconut trees; and abutted with built-to-line ground level Portugese structures - of colours and of white. Decorative ceramics and earthen potters; laterite fences and the green Mandovi; the winding concrete ending in red sand - the journey was fabulous. It built anticipation, it was like a road morphing into the past.
The day was strange - one of those when you look up at the sky and wonder 'what's wrong today?' (Or what's right). The light was unique, the rays came directly but filtering through the clouds. The feel was warm but wind was chilled, the air was moist but the pastures were dry, the sun was bright but the light was dim, the atmosphere was fogged but vision was clear. Eventually I quit questioning the decisions taken by nature; it's seldom a fruitful argument.
I indulged in the onset of tropical Indian winters.
Post the poetic scooter ride till the old Goa jetty (the second one that comes directly on the main road as you ride north on the causeway) - I waited in a patient line of scooters and cars. At first I assumed this is probably how I must park my vehicle, but as the boat arrived, I ran back to my scooter (pretending to not be amazed) as the vehicles went on the boat. Yes, 'on'.
The boat service was absolutely free for all humans, cars, bikes, cycles, carts, wheelchairs, pets and of course - bhel-puri stalls. 13 excited minutes later, we (my bike and I) had crossed the green waters and I was free to ride around the green paradise of history and nature, Laterite and Portugal.
I took a minute - stood and just stared.
Butterflies and mangroves, paddies and lakes, white birds and coconut palms, picturesque and built - I spotted a church atop in the midst of a lot of sky. Nothing blocked my vision - no mist, no smog. Salt in the air, sweet water below and the ring of church bells.
This was Goa; coastal, fertile, clean and convenient.
I spent the next three hours riding around the island, experiencing the streets and questioning its becoming; there were no shops, no restaurants, no commercial zones - just humble Portuguese houses constructed in laterite, wood and some newer ones in concrete. Bowing trees abutting winding roads and the few visible friendly locals became my partners for conversations.
As I investigated further, I was told that over time, the Portuguese had seeped their colonial ambitions across the Mandovi hence reaching the secluded islands as well - allowing for the manifestation of what I saw of Diwar that day.
A close knit, wealthy catholic community which seemingly dates back generations – worshiping together and sorting their livelihood by the way of business ventures in and around Panjim. Many households are occupied only for five-six months a year as the locals probably sought the need to move out to bigger cities or other countries for work or education, but could not find the heart to tear away from a home like Diwar.
As I rode on, a steep road layered with yellow crunchy leaves lead me to that ‘church in the sky’ - a handsome white building; so tall, so commanding.
So old.
Amazed, I stood there imagining a Hindu temple in its place, orange and chaotic. How must have the Portuguese converted them? When and with whom did they have that first conversation? How did an entire foreign culture enforce itself on another? How do the people respond - do they accept, are they afraid? Did they revolt...?
They seemed to be at home now.
And yet, I knew that it had all happen right there, right where I stood, a few hundred years ago. It must have begun with the morphing of the place of worship – and eventually seeping into their homes, languages, cultures, architecture, conversations and now – it was lifestyle; it was what they called themselves.
Still building with the local laterite, but the way the stones came together, decided their label, their routine.
That day, the community was enjoying a feast at the Church as I spotted a tiny orange temple standing alone at the corner of the cliff, behind the tree.
As though, compensated.