By Cordelia B Francis

As I look back at my childhood, squinting across an ocean of time, faint memories begin to flicker to life. Like mirages they swim in to focus, the details fuzzy, the stories skewered, the timelines overlapping. Fact, fiction and hearsay coalescing into childhood impressions.

Between five and twelve years, childhood was itinerant. We moved from Mumbai to Lagos, back to Mumbai, and then to Nairobi. The first time I came to Goa was in the late ‘70s. For years, like Ridley turtles, we returned to the same place every year, to my mum’s bachelor uncle’s house in Margao for our annual holiday.

A mud path led from the main road to the house. On one side were small mud houses and on the other, a natural fence of bamboo, hibiscus, jackfruit and kokum trees where at certain times of the year caterpillars dangled from branches on slim threads, swinging like pendulums in the breeze. We’d dodge them to avoid getting stung. Sometimes my brothers and I would walk the path at night in single file enjoying the unfamiliar freedom of sauntering down a lane. As we inched our way forward without torches, through the pitch darkness, my brothers would surreptitiously whisper, "Did you hear that?” We would stop. Our ears glued to the night. “There… there it is again… something in the bushes.” Suddenly they would start running and yelling, “Run, run, someone’s behind us.’ I’d jump forward, sprinting blindly through the darkness. Once behind closed gates and in a light flooded compound, I’d look behind only to see my brothers laughing out loud. 

Today the house in Margao, made brittle by rain and sun, is described as having `no road access’. The mud path never made it to a wide motor road. The green space has disappeared, replaced by a three-storey apartment block. The hill situated on the main road, opposite the little path, has been gorged out and filled with more apartment buildings that stick out from the crevasse like ill-fitting dentures.

The Goa of my childhood was funny and strange. As soon as we touched Goa’s soil, disembarking from the flight, mum would switch to Konkani. Dad, who was always well turned out even at home, quickly discarded his shirt, trouser, socks and shoes for shorts, vests and chappals. The bathroom forsaken for a bath at the well. Dad enjoyed drawing up the water in a kossoi dousing himself in a torrential stream. Everyone swore that the well had the freshest and coolest water but Uncle was quick to point out that we should never go to the well in the afternoons. There’s a ghost who possesses children. After three years in Nigeria, I was no stranger to warnings.

Nigeria was our first encounter with Africa, a continent and people we grew to love both for its untamed beauty and the warmth and friendship of the people. In the late ‘70s, Nigeria was a booming oil producing country, politically it was unpredictable. Lagos was not the ideal place to bring up a young family. We ran around barefoot, played for long hours and barely studied, which suited us fine but not our parents. The highlight would be the ice-cream van. I still remember the nursery rhyme chiming from afar as the van trundled down the pot-holed road, luring us to buy our tub of creamy ice cream. In our newly constructed neighbourhood, we’d watch labourers roasting bandicoot rats over hot coals as a tea time snack.

Most times we didn’t have electricity; roads barely existed. Some neighbourhoods had no piped water. But for those who could afford it, there were plenty of imported food, toys, clothes, cars and electronics. The long and regular power cuts went unnoticed in our household. The fans worked, our TV screen continued to flicker brightly. The black and white images lighting up our rapt faces thanks to dad's ingenuity of rigging a truck battery.  

Illnesses were treated at home. Dad was adamant we avoid hospitals if we could. When a huge abbess developed on my knee from playing in wet sand, dad boiled hot water and with a disinfected needle punctured it, cleaned it and bandaged my knee. I still have the scar. Dad was our in-house doctor diagnosing illness, prescribing medications, cleaning wounds.

When dad contracted malaria he went to a local hospital. The patients were made to stand in a single file, drop their pants and bend forward. The nurse went around inserting a needle in each of their backsides. Then the doctor arrived. With a single syringe, he went round to each patient administering the medicine. Dad said it was very painful. For years, dad suffered with fever and weakness. Finally, he decided to rid himself of the parasite. He took an extra dose of quinine. That night he fell very sick. He thought he was going to die but by morning the fever abated. He never got a recurrent chill or fever again.

*

So our holidays to Goa were liberating. From the airport, we hired a taxi stacked high with our luggage. Hard-topped suitcases filled with Lux soaps, lotions, socks, Kenya t-shirts, packets of tea and coffee for relatives who would visit: a widowed distant aunt of mum’s in a black dress, a cousin of a cousin with his entire family, the little son wearing a shirt tucked in to his trousers, the sister in a frilly frock. I wondered how they didn’t sweat in all those clothes. We would sit together in the sitting room on hard wooden chairs with the fans above whirring, smiling at each other. They asked mum if we spoke Konkani. She didn’t tell them we never spoke Konkani since dad was Anglo-Indian. After a while, mum would disappear into the bedroom emerging with a gift in a folded plastic bag. Everyone smiled. The children would be reminded to say, “Thank you, aunty”.

Those gifts extracted with such ease from a deep suitcase were no easy task to put together. Before each holiday, mum spent days writing up lists, shopping and preparing the various packets. She remembered everyone — neighbours, friends, relatives and sundry people we had never heard of. As the suitcases burgeoned with presents, dad’s complaints increased proportionally. Mum was unrelenting.  The return journey was even more daunting.

Our suitcases were vaults. It’s a good thing my parents had three children. Our entire weight was needed to press down the hard-tops. As their metallic lips inched closer together, dad would spring in to action sealing them shut by pressing in the metal clasps, then, swiftly turning a tiny stainless steel key. For reinforcement, nylon ropes were woven around the suitcases. As we trundled towards customs, we prayed they wouldn’t ask us to open the suitcases. One time, a customs officer asked mum to open bag. Angrily she selected the one with sausages, dry fish and masalas. We cringed with embarrassment at the unholy mix of aromas that escaped.  The officer taken aback by the funky odour almost fainted, dropped the lid and shooed us on, to mum’s delight.

As the years went by, customs got more daunting, airlines got stricter and suitcases got weaker. By then, had left Africa  to return to India. With permanency, the bright holiday veneer of Goa begun to peel off. Uncle’s house lost its quaintness, the baths beside the well, lost their charm, and the neighbours felt too close for comfort. Even relatives became awkward. My mum’s cousin had an old rambling house in Verna located at the foot of a hill. During our Goa sojourn, we would spend a couple of days visiting, but once we moved to Goa we rarely saw them.

Taking the bus to Verna was almost an excursion. We would leave early morning to catch the bus from Kadamba Bus Stand, settling in our seats for the slow, rambling ride with multiple stops. The camaraderie of the passengers with the bus driver and conductor made it a jovial, unhurried journey, so unlike the matatu rides in Kenya with passengers spilling out of doors and windows. We would get down at Verna church, walk the sun dappled road to our cousins’ house, making intermittent stops as people waved or greeted us.

Once at the house, mum and her cousins launched into Konkani trading stories about the family. The children spoke Konkani and Portuguese, neither of which we knew. After a delicious lunch of beef soup, boiled rice, prawn curry, fried fish and caramel custard, we would set off for the hill. Watch out for foxes and snakes, we were warned. My young cousin who previously spent the time hiding behind one of the massive wooden doors, watching us with large saucer eyes, strode ahead confidently. He guided us along dusty paths, through the scrub, up to the white cross on the hill. Along the way, we discovered dry snake skins, porcupine quills and peacock feathers, but no foxes. Now we know Goa never had foxes, but jackals.  Nonetheless, they remained elusive.

I never took to the large toilet. To the left was a massive copper pot filled with water sitting squat over a wood fire. To the right, were four latrines. Mum later explained it was customary in the old days for the men to visit the toilet together. One would read the newspapers as they participated en masse in their morning ablutions. As for the piggy that arrived sniffling at the other end of the open chute, it was more frightening than the ghost story.

Chedho was the milkman who came every morning to deliver fresh milk in Bazil bottles. He would arrive on his black Mamba bicycle wearing a short sleeved shirt and pants. Apart from good morning, he rarely spoke a word. Twice a week, however, he would become quite gregarious. On these mornings, he was also quite drunk. He would break out in Portuguese and French chatting happily with mum. If she responded which she did since she enjoyed his stories, he would sit on the planter chair on the verandah, the rest of his milk deliveries forgotten. He would ramble on about so and so and this and that until he fell asleep.  Thirty minutes later, he’d wake up with a start, get off the chair, push back his bicycle stand and walk away quietly.

During one of these holidays my parents decided to hold a ladainha at the cross on the main road, opposite the little path. Flowers, snacks, wine and feni were arranged. My younger brother and I were diligently instructed to be present. After the first set of prayers, the congregation burst into a full-throated chorus of the Ave Maria, the violin shrilly keeping pace.  Unexpectedly, a male voice emerged, off-key and loud, vocalizing the wrong verse but with gusto and confidence. I looked around to see if anyone noticed.  The congregation continued with sombre dedication. Then I looked at my younger brother Earl and we instantly burst into sniggers, our bodies trembling with suppressed laughter. Each time we managed to calm down, he would careen off again, winding us into another fit of imploding laughter. As the snacks and drinks arrived, our neighbour remarked, “Oh Johnny, he’s at all ladainhas hoping for a free feni or wine. By the time he reaches this cross he is so drunk he has forgotten the words and the tune.”

*

We moved to Kenya in the ‘80s. Compared to Nigeria or Mumbai, Nairobi was a beautiful city. The roundabouts orderly, and the boulevards lined with Jacaranda trees. Houses with large rooms and lawns stood behind tall concrete walls guarded by askaris. On the way to the city from Jomo Kenyatta airport, we’d pass Nairobi National Park. The straight tarmacked road cut through the park, a river of black through the brown savannah grasslands dotted with grazing antelopes and startled dik diks. Friends tell me most of this is gone. The sides of the roads are a patchwork of billboards and stifling traffic jams are normal.

I recall most vividly the beauty and wildness of its landscape; blushing skies and russet sunsets over the Maasai Mara. One takes for granted the overwhelming sense of space that is Africa. Empty lands stretch until the horizon. It is only when I came to Mumbai, I realised how urbanisation contains the mind. The eye cannot wander, imagination cannot fly, awareness is stunted. Perhaps, the reason why urban development is myopic, short termed, short lived.

One night in the Serengeti in Tanzania, our Range Rover broke down, plunging us into deep darkness. While the driver tinkered under the hood, we huddled quietly, daunted by the sensed wildness around. Suddenly, I threw back my head and my gaze fell upon the most magnificent night sky.  It was a crystal-clear night; the black dome was festooned with a trillion stars dripping like diamonds. I was awe struck. My mind fell away, my hand reached out certain to catch a star. Just then the car burst into life, scattering the moment, leaving me with a lingering sense of the immensity of our universe and our inconsequential self before it, despite the bumpy ride to the game lodge.

If you were Goan, you were usually a member of the Goan Institute or the Goan Gymkhana, or both. The Goan Gymkhana was patronised by the Brahmin Goans who greeted each other in Portuguese and looked at newcomers with suspicion. The rest of the community hobnobbed at dances and tambola at the Goan Institute, a two-storey modern building with its prized dance hall. Large windows overlooked the parking lot. The parquet flooring was supported by springs underneath making it perfect for older couples to show off their waltzes and the younger ones their dizzying jive steps.  The Institute’s managing cabal comprised of old time Kenyan Goans. For many, the club was the focal point, some visiting so often they seemed part of the furniture, their children believing they were Portuguese, and that Goa was an island.

The link to Goan culture and traditions was in name only. We studied and spoke English. Kiswahili was a subject in school. Konkani was rarely spoken amongst the Goans. There were tenuous attempts to revisit traditions like village fests. The occasion organised by the GI would begin with a mass. At the Margao fest, little thermocole tokens shaped like white doves would be handed to each member reminiscent of the Holy Spirit Church in Margao. Lunch comprised of pulao, sannas, beef rolls, tongue roast, pork vindaloo and sorpatel and Goan sausages made in Kenya. Everything cooked at home by the women.

Our first house in Nairobi had a huge backyard, soon populated with dogs, cats, chickens, rabbits, hares, a duck and a tortoise. Later, we adopted an injured weaver bird who recovered well under my elder brother Lloyd’s care. Every morning she’d leave, returning before sunset. When we moved homes, we took her with us, uncaged and free, but she soon disappeared. A few days later, we got a call from the new tenant enquiring about a bird that visits her daily. She was happy to continue to share her home with the bird leaving open the dining room window and a bowl of water for her feathered friend.

The Goans in Kenya integrated easily with the local population. In school we’d play hopscotch and kati or skip rope with Kenyan friends, quite unlike the Hindu and Sikh children who usually formed their own separate groups. They ate together, played together, rarely mixing with other communities. As I pursued higher education, there was a discernible drop in the number of girls of Goan origin. In IB (International Baccalaureate) there were Goan boys, but I was probably the only Goan girl in my stream. My friend and classmate Sylvia recently pointed out, “Years ago the Kenyan Goan community didn't encourage their children especially girls to pursue further studies. Many settled for a teaching course, a diploma, a secretarial course. But today this is changing.” When she got her Master’s degree in 2000, her professor at the time had commented “You probably won’t find a husband, now.” Suggesting that at the time, young Goan men felt intimidated by highly educated women.

Christmas at home was incomplete without Jim Reeves crooning carols from a tape recorder. Preparations would start months prior with mum soaking nuts and dry fruits in rum for the Christmas cake. Then we’d pay our annual visit to our tailor for new dresses. If we waited too late, Luiza Dsouza would be too busy to take our dress orders.

Large utensils and cake dishes would be dismounted from high shelves for the almond-cashew toffee, Christmas cakes, biscuits and rose cookies. As the festive days approached, I’d be sitting at the table rolling kulkuls over a fork. Dad would come home with a real pine tree while mum unwrapped her handcrafted decorations. After midnight mass, my parents and our friends would visit each other’s homes. The carousing would go on until early morning. Boxing Day we’d wake up late to have a delicious Christmas lunch. The reveling would conclude with a New Years dance at the Goan Institute.

In 1982, when the coup began, we were snug in bed. It was a Sunday morning. At 6am the telephone rang. Henry D’souza our neighbour called dad strictly warning him not to leave the house. It was the day Lloyd and Henry’s son Kennedy were to receive Confirmation at church. “Lock the doors, shut the windows, close the curtains. Don’t peep out. No matter what you see or hear, don’t open your door or go out. If they see you they will shoot you.”Dad herded us into the sitting room to quietly wait out the day. Behind locked doors and shuttered windows, we sat looking at each other, not sure what to say. At lunch we quietly ate mum’s prepared feast without enthusiasm. No one walked the roads. Not a single car passed by. From a distance, we could hear the staccato of gun fire, which sounded more like fire crackers.  In the evening, I remember sitting in my bedroom, parting the curtains eager to peep out. In the maize bushes beyond our compound wall, the sun was setting, the rays slanting in through the tall stalks. Foreign soldiers with berets and machine guns were slouching forward along the corn rows towards the road. I drew back the curtain hoping no one saw me.  A few hours later, we heard the coup had ended. President Daniel arap Moi was back in power. In the weeks that followed, news started trickling in. Horrific stories of looting, murders, rapes as old vendettas and hatreds played out. Indian — owned shops were burnt down or looted, the community that controlled the country’s economy were mainly targeted. Many left. We stayed on until 1996 when we finally left Kenya and returned to India

Cordelia B Francis moved to Goa 13 years ago. Prior to that, she lived in Mumbai, Nairobi and Lagos. She has worked as a journalist at Femina (Mumbai), Times of India (Goa edition), The Herald (Goa) and Gomantak Times (Goa). Currently she runs a luxury villa business and writes short stories in her free time.