“Days later, we see a coastline of beaches of glistening white sand punctuated by coconut trees. Our ship enters the broad mouth of a river and glides between two promontories leaving behind the deep ultramarine of the open sea, as it enters the emerald waters of Mormugao Harbour. Whitewashed churches pop up amid the dark green of vegetation. We have arrived in Goa. ”
By Braz Menezes
My first night in Goa in 1950 is etched in my memory.
There was no electricity in Avozinha’s village of Loutolim, Salcete. Oil lanterns shed a dim light. A bright pressure lamp called a Petromax was used when the adults would gather during dinner or in the living room. We three children slept in one room on two wooden beds; Linda, aged 13, shared a bed with 7-year-old Fatima. I had the other bed to myself as Joachim, 4, my little brother howled from the start, and landed in Mum’s room.
Because this was our first night in a strange room, a small oil lamp was kept alight, its flame was set low to prevent a total blackout. After Fatima fell asleep, Linda and I tiptoed to the window and peered onto the large balcao from where we heard voices. Seconds later at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, we scurried back and jumped into our respective beds in case it was Avozinho, our Granddad, a strict disciplinarian. There was a knock on the door. We remained absolutely silent against the chorus of crickets outside. There was another knock.
“Who is it?” I asked cautiously.
“Uncle Armando told us stories, alright—stories that made us scared to stay in bed, and even more petrified to get out. For added effect, he moved his hands as he spoke, shaking his mop of jet-black hair vigorously; he stuck his beak-like nose right in my face...”
“Tio Armando. Uncle Armando,” he repeated as he opened the door and entered, turned up the flame a little, and sat on the edge of my bed facing Linda and Fatima, now both wide awake. Uncle told us he was banished from the adult conversation and sent to entertain us with bedtime stories to help us fall asleep.
Uncle Armando told us stories, alright — stories that made us scared to stay in bed, and even more petrified to get out. For added effect, he moved his hands as he spoke, shaking his mop of jet-black hair vigorously; he stuck his beak-like nose right in my face, brought his bushy black eyebrows together, even as he rolled his eyes this way and that. He told us about the ghosts that visited Avozinha’s house regularly. A few, he said, were dead relatives angry with someone in the family; others were homeless ghosts from the village that always came visiting at night. He told us also about creatures that growled like tigers but were really reincarnated humans changed into animals after their death. From deep inside his throat, he produced such sounds that, even though I could see him right there in front of me, I was ready to believe a real beast was prowling outside. A creature that could attack us during the night.
He told us about snakes, originally happy in the Garden of Eden but now annoyed that they too were wrongly thrown out of Paradise, because they were somehow linked with Adam and Eve all those thousands of years ago. We have snakes still looking for victims on whom they can avenge themselves.
“By the way,” Uncle Armando said, “remember that in Goa you must always kill a snake by smashing its head first. Otherwise the head will travel separately from the body and come and get you.” I felt a chill down my spine. “Also,” Uncle continued, “remember, if you kill a snake anywhere in the village, its mate will come and hunt you down. So you must kill both snakes. That means if the mates are not together when you kill one of them, you will have to look for its mate so you can kill it before it kills you.”
I glanced towards Linda and Fatima; they were clutching each other, with eyes closed, pretending to have fallen asleep so Uncle would stop. I could tell they were still awake and just as frightened as I was. I too closed my eyelids tightly, hoping he would go away before I passed out or the girls started screaming. There was a brief silence. I held my breath, hoping he would leave.
“Okay, good night now. You must all be tired,” Uncle Armando said. “Tomorrow I will tell you some really scary stories.”
He walked to the oil lamp, turned the wick even lower until the flame barely flickered; then he left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Within seconds Linda and Fatima relocated to my bed. I was so glad they did, because whatever was out there couldn’t possibly get all of us if we stuck together. Eventually they moved back to their bed and fell into a sound sleep.
“Weeks later on board the steamer bound for the Seychelles and Goa, I discover during mealtime conversations, I am to be interned for an undisclosed number of years as a boarder at St. Joseph High School, Arpora. The family will return to Kenya.”
I cannot sleep. My thoughts wander back to Nairobi and the Portuguese Consulate. Except for me, the whole family is travelling on my father’s Portuguese passport; my passport requires an additional document authorizing me, as a minor, to an indefinite stay until my studies end.
“If Goa is my homeland,” I ask Dad, “why must I have special permission to stay?”
“Because President Salazar in Lisbon says so,” the visa clerk interrupts, irritated.
Weeks later on board the steamer bound for the Seychelles and Goa, I discover during mealtime conversations, I am to be interned for an undisclosed number of years as a boarder at St. Joseph High School, Arpora. The family will return to Kenya. Dad and Mum describe the family in Goa. I can’t believe they will abandon me with these strangers I haven’t even met. I stomp out on deck. Linda follows.
“Look Lando, over there,” Linda excitedly points to a school of flying fish skimming over the Indian Ocean…they suddenly dive under and pop up again to fly another stretch. She seems intent on distracting me from a sadness I cannot describe.
Days later, we see a coastline of beaches of glistening white sand punctuated by coconut trees. Our ship enters the broad mouth of a river and glides between two promontories leaving behind the deep ultramarine of the open sea, as it enters the emerald waters of Mormugao Harbour. Whitewashed churches pop up amid the dark green of vegetation. We have arrived in Goa.
Dad clutching a brown envelope with our passports and other documents, leads us down the gangplank as Mum grabs hold of Fatima and Joachim. Linda takes my hand. Dad seems nervous at the Immigration Desk. He shows the documents to an official who nods approval and waves us on. He shows all the same documents separately to several other officials as well, explaining to me in a whisper that these multiple checks of the same papers are how the government creates jobs.
The Health official beckons us as he adjusts his spectacles and fishes for earwax, wiggling his little finger deep inside his right ear while he slowly and carefully inspects our health documents over and over again. I watch Dad. Prior to leaving Nairobi, we were offered a choice of vaccinations including yellow fever, smallpox, typhoid, tetanus, meningitis, and cholera. Dad and Mum had decided our little skinny arms would not take all that abuse, so we were inoculated only against yellow fever and smallpox. “What about cholera?” The official asks. “You should have had a shot for cholera. Has cholera in Kenya been eradicated?”
“There has been no cholera for at least thirty years,” Dad is certain of his facts. The official waves us on. Dad does not tell him that our family doctor, Dr Manu Ribeiro, had advised him to also carry a five-month supply of quinine tablets in case of malaria. I say nothing. Our doctor is the nephew of Dr. Rosendo Ribeiro, the founder my school, the Dr. Ribeiro Goan School in Nairobi.
“He’s just trying to show that he is single-handedly protecting the population of all of Goa,” I hear Dad whisper to Mum.
We troop into the customs area in the same congested hall. Our trunks and bags have been collected and grouped together, as Dad’s name is painted on every item. Two cheerful bag boys in ragged uniforms hover nearby, awaiting an inevitable tip. The customs official, hair and moustache trimmed and greased to perfection, beams a welcoming smile. He is pleased with the detailed handwritten list of contents that Dad has presented, saving him the effort of asking endless questions. He shakes Dad’s hand, wishes us a good holiday, and waves us on with a big toothy smile.
Mum’s brothers, Uncle Dominic and Uncle Rafael, are waiting by the doorway of the shed. They greet us with hugs and kisses, unsure whether to speak to us in Portuguese or in English. Linda and I answer in English. The hint works. While Uncle Dominic leads us out into the bright sunshine, Uncle Rafael manages the two bag boys as they carry our baggage.
Suddenly, all our senses are under attack; the cacophony seems deafening after the relative quiet of the sea voyage.
“It seems that all the crows in Goa are here to greet us,” Linda says. I have to agree. They are everywhere: on ridges, parapets, and the roof racks of buses, and in the trees. They hop sideways, cawing loudly, and occasionally flutter off in frenzy into nearby trees. Linda and Fatima clasp their hands over their ears to shut out the din. Joachim mimics them.
Drivers in a line of waiting buses, their engines running and their roof racks packed, are shouting out their destinations in Portuguese and Konkani: “Margao, Panjim, Moddgoam, Ponnje!” Small bullock-drawn two-wheeled carriages (Ghadis), handcarts, and bicycles, crowd into the area, all ignore a lone policeman’s efforts to organize the traffic. The smell of diesel fumes reminds me of Nairobi’s Hardinge Street bus station.
“I don’t remember it ever being so noisy,” Mum says. Everything seems so different from Kenya, and yet here on the docks there are many similarities. Uncle Dominic signals to a couple of prearranged taxis that are waiting for us, and the boys quickly load our luggage in them. Dad gives them a tip that sets them off as if they are coin-operated, which in a way they are. They bow, smile, and salaam with their hands in gratitude.
Uncle Rafael rides with Mum, Fatima and Joachim in one taxi; Uncle Dominic, Dad, Linda and I are in another. After the comfort of Ahmad’s gasoline taxi in Nairobi, which I will use as a yardstick for the rest of my life, I find our car’s interior coarse and every detail very basic. It certainly is not dust-proof—the window controls are broken.
“We’re going to stay at Avozinha’s house in Loutolim,” Uncle Dominic tells us. It is nice and quiet. We leave Mormugao Port and travel toward the main Panjim-Margao road, following the banks of the wide Zuari River. Clusters of egrets adorn trees along the bank, while other species of birds circle and glide overhead. The many hours that my friend Jeep and I spent with the bird collection in the Nairobi Museum now come in handy. I call the names out loud as they come into view: herons, egrets, river gulls, kingfishers…
“Oh, stop showing off,” Linda says. I ignore her, happy for once to be the one with all the answers. The landscape changes, as does the type of road surface. We travel past paddy fields in near silence except for the distinct rattle and smell of the diesel motor. The taxi driver keeps rolling along parallel concrete strips embedded in compacted red dirt. There is almost no other motorized traffic, though the road is filled with handcarts, bicycles, and women carrying produce on their heads to the nearest village market, as women do in Kenya.
We swerve off the concrete strips as a bigger vehicle heads toward us—our driver has to give it the right of way. When we approach a village, it seems to trigger an uncontrollable reaction from the driver; from this point on, he sounds his horn continuously. Vehicle size seems to establish the hierarchy: trucks have absolute right-of-way then buses; ghadis, taxis, handcarts, and bicycles follow. I notice pedestrians, often making the sign of the cross as they scurry to the other side of the road. Drivers exchange shouted and prolonged greetings, even while overtaking another car.
“What are they saying, Uncle?”
“They’re giving each other the latest news in the village.” I sit back. Everyone seems to know each other. Even though they are all gesticulating wildly at each other and are always calling out in raised voices, nobody ever seems to gets angry.
The landscape changes as the river gives way to paddy fields again, separated by built-up embankments and rows of coconut trees. We are now entering Loutolim village. There are no street names.
“Go past the chapel,” Uncle tells the driver. “Please turn left after the Hindu shrine… by the tamarind tree is best.”
Avozinho and Avozinha, my maternal grandparents, along with Mum’s remaining siblings in Goa, as well as two maidservants, a handyman, and three dogs are waiting to greet us on the large front porch. Mum’s is a typical large Goan Catholic family, abundantly showered with God’s blessings as measured by the number of surviving siblings (ten in all). Linda and I whisper guesses to identify some relatives from an old family photograph we had in Nairobi.
Even as we are doing that, amid barking and yapping, we are ambushed. Grandparents, uncles, and aunts repeatedly hug us and kiss us. They wipe away tears, we wipe off their saliva. They insist on speaking Portuguese, which is already a problem for Linda and me. About five years earlier, Mum had wanted us to learn English, so she started speaking English at home instead of Portuguese, so now, though we still understand Portuguese well, we have lost our fluency. The greetings over, the maidservants slip away to their chores, and the dogs return outdoors to stretch and luxuriate in the sun. A couple of pigs that had watched our arrival, snort their approval and rummage through the undergrowth. I am glad we have arrived at our destination, as it had been a long hot trip in the car. Before being given a tour around the house, we are shown directly to our rooms and given about thirty minutes to refresh ourselves, as my granddad is waiting.
Everyone files into the dining room. Avozinho presides at the head of a long dining table; he looks exactly like his photo taken fifteen years earlier: a handsome tall lean man with high cheekbones and a firm, well-shaped chin. He is formally dressed in jacket and tie. Four of Mum’s brothers are seated at the table: Uncle Thomaz (a priest), Uncle Dominic, Uncle Rafael, and Uncle Armando, who is only two years older than Linda and at sixteen is our youngest uncle. Mum’s only sister is Aunty Lucia, wearing a cheerful coloured dress from one of the famous fashion houses in Bombay, stands out from the rest, who are wearing brown and grey attire. With her long dangling jewelled earrings, a necklace and ring to match, and her shocking pink lipstick, she looks strangely incongruous in this village house. We had been told earlier that Aunty Lucia was recently married off to a young businessman in Bombay and has come down to Goa specially to meet us. In spite of her bold style of dressing, she is the only one who seems completely comfortable in my grandpa’s austere presence.
Avozinha smiles happily. I study her while we wait. She seems pleased that Mum is raising a brood of grandchildren for her. This lunch a very solemn event, with no room for the good-humored banter around the table that normally accompanied our mealtimes at our Nairobi house. Avozinho clears his throat, makes eye contact with Aunty Lucia, and nods. We bow our heads as she recites a short grace before meals. After we have nibbled nervously at our food for a short while, my grandpa abruptly announces, “The children can now leave the table.”
Everyone has a short siesta in the afternoon, and when we wake up, we spend a little time unpacking some items we need immediately before we are sent for our first baths. The hot water is boiled in big wood-heated cauldrons and then mixed in smaller buckets with cold water from the well. Following bath time, we say the rosary as a family and then share a simple evening meal, after which we are once again abruptly banished to our bedroom at the end of the meal.
*
“Lando wake up. Can you hear that?” Linda is whispering to me and shaking me awake. She is trembling. I sit up and listen. “Yes, that must be the tiger that Uncle talked about,” I say. “Listen, it seems to be getting closer.” I find myself trembling too. The oil lamp is dead. It is the darkness of an African night without stars.
Suddenly there is a very loud crash outside our window, followed by the instant chattering of monkeys. Fatima wakes up screaming and rushes to my bed. The monkeys outside are chattering hysterically. We hear steps outside our door. A flickering lamp floats into view. We hear Mum’s voice a split second before we see her face. She cuddles Fatima first. “It’s okay darling. Mummy’s here. Please go back to sleep now.”
I hear another voice. It is Uncle Armando. “Please don’t worry,” he says as he walks in with a brighter lamp. “A ripe jackfruit has crashed to the ground. We will have it for breakfast, “he turns to Mum. “Have they eaten jackfruit in Kenya?”
“Welcome to your homeland!” Mum was mocking Dad. She was unsuccessful in her efforts to persuade Dad against sending me to a boarding school in Goa. She was still angry remembering when her brother was coerced into entering a Seminary, the same year she left as a young bride with my young handsome dad for a lifetime’s adventure in Africa.
Braz Menezes is the recipient of a Commonwealth Scholarship. He retired from professional life as an architect-urban planner. His Matata trilogy, chronicles the Goan experience of living in colonial Kenya. Completing a Creative Writing Course at George Brown College, and later a mentorship programme at Humber College in Toronto, his debut novel Just Matata: Sin, Saints and Settlers (2011), was published in a 2nd Edition as Beyond the Cape (2015). This was followed by More Matata: Love after the Mau Mau (2012) and Among the Jacaranda: Buds of Matata in Kenya (2018). He is currently working on the fourth book. His writing has appeared in various anthologies including Goa Masala: Canadian Voices (Volumes 1,2&3); Indian Voices, and Canadian Imprints. Click here to buy the Matata Books.