Dear all: May I introduce you to Tony de Sa of Moira, Goa who is editing and compiling a book on Goan lives in Africa? I'm a journalist friend of his, who is egging him on with the project. Am also associated with a small, alternative publishing network at [http://goa1556.goa-india.org] There's more about the three books we've worked on so far here [ http://books.google.com/books?q=goa1556&btnG=Search+Books] and one focuses on Goans in Burma.
Below is an article written by Tony, which illustrates the kind of chapters we're looking for. If you could write one for the book, it would be very nice indeed. I'm sure there are many stories out there, waiting to be told. Let's get these down in print, so that another generation knows of the lives Goans have led in different parts of the globe. Many thanks, and please feel free to get in touch with Tony, with your suggestions. Regards, FN/Frederick Noronha. * * * O, FAR AWAY IN AFRICA... MEMORIES OF A GOAN KIND Childhood reminiscences of a land I loved By Tony de Sa Years ago, when I was a little boy, there was a song that used to haunt me. It was called 'Skokiaan'. [1,2] The words went something like this "O! Far away in Africa, happy, happy, Africa." It had a very catchy tune, many of you reading this article might know it. Later on when I grew up, I learnt that skokiaan was a South African illicit brew that was served in the illegal booze dens -- shebeens. But the words of the song and the tune reflect my view of Africa -- a happy, happy land. But the fact is Africa was very, very happy; at least for me. Those were carefree days bereft of any responsibility, when all there was to do in life was to go to school and play when away from school. Little did I realize then that in time to come, going to school every day would be my life's avocation. I was born in Eldoret in Kenya. I believe it was a very cold place and it was rather primitive. My mother had only a midwife to attend to her at my birth. Almost as soon as I was born, 22 days after my birth, my father who worked for an oil company major received transfer orders and we were relocated in Moshi, a small town in Tanganyika (now Tanzania after the union of Tanganyika with Zanzibar), at the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro, the tallest mountain in Africa. My first awareness of my surroundings in Moshi was in something like 1954. We had returned to Moshi, from Goa where my family had gone on "long leave". I remember the 1954 as we had a big calendar with 1954 blazoned on it in large letters. I remember asking my father what those numbers were. And he told me that was the year, a part of the date. Of Goa on our long leave, I have the most pleasant memories. We went to Paitona, to my mother's house as our house in Moira was locked and required a lot of repairs and tidying up. Although we spent some time in Moira, most of our time was spent in Paitona, Salvador do Mundo. My father had taken a whole trunk full of toys for me. Those were the days of ship travel and baggage rules were lax. I was the first son born after three girls, a 'Ticlo' (a son born after three girls is considered auspicious by Goan lore) and I merited some pampering. Oh, I was fussed around, and made much of. My maternal grandmother was very, very fond of me and tended to spoil me no end. For me were the biggest 'wagios' (tiger prawns), that my uncle netted from the little rivulet in Paitona, for me the best chickoos from our home tree, the best of everything in fact. My granny thought that I was the sun, moon and the stars. This caused me a lot of envy from my sisters and earned me a few sly pinches. No doubt, my sisters molly-coddled me too. Every where I went, I was hailed by the local populace as 'Mariebaiecho natu' (Marie's grandson) and so life was very pleasant. Another vivid memory I have of those times is that, in the evenings, almost the whole population of Paitona congregated at the 'arc' -- a small bridge over the rivulet that connected Paitona with another ward of Salvador do Mundo -- Torda. There many would be angling, some netting, some hunting for shellfish and the others just lazing away on the arc. As dusk settled in, the old timers would start to sing. "Daisy, daisy", "Sugar bush", "Shoemaker's shop" and other popular songs of the day. In Moshi, I went to the Aga Khan School. It was a hop step and jump away from my home. So invariably I was late. Our Principal, Flt. Sergeant I. P. Mapp had a unique way of making latecomers come early. He figured out that we were late because we were lazy, so he would make all late comers stand in a circle with himself in the centre. He would then spin and swing a rope round at a little height. If you didn't jump in time, you got the rope on your legs. The rope being made of sisal would sting! We soon learnt to be punctual. I'm sure, if this was done today, our principal would have been in court for cruelty to children and be looked upon as some kind of pervert. We didn't dare tell our parents about the punishment for fear of getting another dose at home! Such were our lives and times. Today?! School was interesting. My teachers were mostly untrained teachers, till we got a couple of Goans from India who were trained. But trained or not, our teachers were absolutely the best. They made school fun. In retrospect, I suspect they had no pressures of a rigid syllabus to cover. Perhaps, the syllabus was outlined in very general terms. Teaching was very practical. When we learnt grafting in school, I discovered in my own experimentation that the easiest plant to graft was the marigold plant. Art was another subject that we loved. Not for us the printed drawing books they now have. We were taught various drawing and painting skills. The best part was that the school supplied art materials -- so we learnt to handle a variety of painting media -- water colours, powder colours, tube colours, oils, etc. We learnt paper mache, clay modelling and a host of other things. It was inevitable that we had to learn serious subjects like English, Math., Science, History, Geography and Kiswahili, but our untrained and trained teachers made learning a pleasure. That is why till date, I have never set much score by training which is all so important in Goa. I have always felt that dedication and a flair for teaching are the most important in the make up of our teachers. No amount of training can replace a teacher who lives and breathes his or her job. Training at best can impart better communication skills and techniques. Mr. Mapp, Mr. Mohammed Kamal Khan, Mr. Hashim, Mr. Satelly Philip, Mrs Bennet, Miss Isabel Vaz, Mrs Tomasina Gomes, my primary school teachers, have all left an indelible mark on my soul. Life was fun in Moshi. We were a small Goan community. We had our club which was a wooden shack on land allotted by the Government to us. On Sundays, all the Goans went on a picnic to selected places -- Marangu, Taveta, Kibosho, Arusha Chini, various other places. The system was very much akin to the pound parties that we now have. Each (Goan) lady of the town contributed a dish that was sufficient for the group. Certain dishes like pullau were distributed between two or three ladies. Transport was usually in the back of a large lorry. One or two oldsters would be accommodated in the cabin. My father being the depot manager of the oil company usually had to organize the transport. The picnics were fun. I had always thought of all Goans being Catholics. Till we had a Goan, Molu Dessai from Cuncolim, who arrived in Moshi. I remember, there were hot debates and arguments about admitting him to our Goan club. For a long while, he was a member of the Hindu Association, which comprised mainly of Gujerati Hindus and a few Ismailis. Till better sense prevailed and he became a member of our club. It was only when we came to Goa that I realized that the term 'Goan' also encompassed our Hindu brethren. Our wooden shack was replaced by a brick and stone club building. Our club organized an annual fete which usually ran for three days. Many of the stalls sold Goan food. There were games like lucky dip, nine pins, coconut shies, tombola. The fete was open to all on payment of admission fees. Our club had a fairly large ground -- about half a football field. It was on this ground that I had my first sneak drive in a car. There were 'uncle' (any adult Goan was uncle) who let us hold the wheel while we sat beside them and they manipulated the other car controls. One particular day I pestered this uncle so much, that he gave me the keys of his Morris Minor and said in disgust, "Go, kill yourself", and gave me the car keys. I took two rounds of the ground before I stalled the car. I also once held the wheel of our school bus a seven tonner Austin. Often on Sundays, when there was no picnic, we had tombola in the club. Life was very good in those days. I had no cares. Studying came easy to me, and so I coasted along without much effort. It was a rude shock when I learnt later on in life that as one grows older, the competition becomes fiercer and more efforts are required if one is to stay at the top. Around 1958, I was admitted to the Government Indian Secondary School at Moshi. To get admission to this school was a chore for Goans. By a quirk of fate, we had Portuguese passports and lived in that no man's land where we were neither Indians nor Europeans. Admission, then, in European school was out of the question. And as we were not classified as Indians, we had problems -- although Pakistanis found their way in easily. It was with a great deal of wangling with subtle of influence that we got in. The school results were out and I was proud to have been ranked among the first three in the class -- that too after having appeared for the Tanganyika Prelims which were instituted for Asian pupils for the first time! I was about to start the new term in standard IX when fate played a card that would change the lives of my family members. For starters, My father who was advancing in age, and slaving away at his second job after having retired as a Depot Manager of the multinational oil company, was told that his services would not be required as the company had to employ a certain number of ethnic Africans. This was because 'Uhuru' (Independence) was imminent and nationalism and national priorities were the order of the day. This was a great shock to my parents. My mother was fully occupied with domestic tasks and my father was the sole bread winner -- by then we were a large family. So a family council was called to order. In our family, discussions were 'open-house' and every one in the family took part freely except for times when matters not to be heard by us were discussed. These my parents had in Konkani. As is natural, we eaves dropped and that is how we learnt Konkani in Africa. In this discussion, while me and my brother remained mute spectators, my parents and my eldest sister thrashed out the alternatives. My father received a meager pension from the oil company. His further employment meant survival for the family. My eldest sister worked for a private firm and was quite independent. But then the rest of the family needed to be catered to. So my father took himself to Dar Es Salaam, the national capital, where my second sister and her husband lived. My father managed to get a temporary job in a government department and sent for the rest of us. So we moved ourselves, bags and baggage to Dar Es Salaam. If Moshi was fun, Dar Es Salaam was even better. For me Dar Es Salaam -- or Dar as most people liked to call it -- opened new vistas. I was enrolled in a convent school that admitted boys. It was multiracial, unlike the Government Indian Secondary School in Moshi. Though my class mates were mostly Goan in origin, there was a fair sprinkling of Europeans, Africans and other races. This school was run by a Swiss order of nuns. Some of the classes we had were tremendously exciting. I can never forget the fretwork classes, the singing lessons and the language lessons. Initially, there was no choice for (second) languages. The school offered French. I had never studied French. In GISS, the language offered was either Gujerati or Hindi. I had opted for Hindi as the easier alternative. We Goans were in a peculiar predicament in Moshi as far as languages went. In primary school (Std I-VII), we studied Kiswahili. When we went to secondary school (Std VIII-XII) we had to opt for either Gujerati or Urdu. Most of the Goans had a smattering of Gujerati, but the script was another matter. So on reconsideration, the school authorities were kind enough to introduce Hindi. My first experience in the French class was unnerving. The teacher was an Egyptian, who on entering was greeted by a chorus, "Bon jour Monsieur le Proffeseur!". I was totally lost then. He made all the new comers stand up. He pointed to a desk and asked us to name it in French. Most of us newcomers couldn't. So he roared out, "Le pûpitre!, le pûpie." I can still hear that roar in my ears. This teacher was temperamental and wouldn't tolerate us in his class. So we were sent to another teacher, a European lady. She proved to be even more temperamental and so we were bundled off to the Principal's office. Our principal felt the hurricane of Uhuru blowing and quickly introduced Kiswahili in school. In Dar, we had a large Goan population, unlike Moshi. Much of our social life was centred around the Goan Institute. The Goan Institute was a lovely G-shaped building, with an open air dance floor outside in the shape of an I. Supposedly from the air, it looked like GI the initials of Goan Institute. There was no way I could verify this claim as there was no way of taking a plane ride -- we didn't have shillings to throw around. The club had several bars, a card room, a billiard room, a library and a dance hall with a stage. After our one-hall stage in Moshi, this was a wonderful building indeed. I believe, it was designed by a Goan architect, Anthony Almeida. While Moshi was in the interior, Dar was on the coast. That meant fishing, boating and swims. Sunday mornings usually found us at Oyster Bay, if the tide was right. In the afternoons, we went to Slender Bridge to catch lady fish. This was the upside of it. On the down side, it meant having to study hard, trudge to school twice everyday and sometimes, four times. Here, too, there were Goan teachers and on meeting my parents and sisters felt free to complain about my transgressions in school, at the GI, which our whole family frequented on Sundays. Fate played its second card then. My father lost his Government job again as a result of Africanization. With no prospect of getting a permanent job and with having the bleak future of having to leap from job to job every three months, my father decided to throw in the sponge and head for home, Goa. The small pension would tide us -- my mother, father, younger brother and self -- by. So we went about the job of making preparations to come to Goa. It was to be a sea voyage once again. Lists were made of things to take home, furniture and household items to sell. One of my father's most prized possessions was his Phillips radio. No TVs then. We couldn't bring it to Goa -- no electricity. So we had to exchange it for a teeny weenie transistor radio, which worked on batteries. Much responsibility was thrust on me in those days. Being all of thirteen years, I had to run to the bank, the Immigration Department, the Indian High Commission. I was quite cheeky then. Goa had been liberated then. Our adults, having been brought up in a different tradition, mostly looked upon Indians as "dirty", little realizing that we ourselves were Indians. In East Africa, we had a special status, being Portuguese nationals. We Goans proudly called ourselves "wagoa" while the other Indians were called "wahind" which was a generic term for Indians and Pakistanis. Strange to say, even the Africans accorded us with a separate status, mainly because Goans, almost to a man were Catholics -- the rare exceptions being people like Molu Dessai. I had a little run in with a chap from the Indian High Commission. I went to collect our passports. This "muhindi" kept holding it back. I think he expected a bribe. How was I to know then? At my age? And being unwise to the Indian ways of the world? So I cheekily told him off saying, "Is this why you liberated us. To harass us? I want to see the High Commissioner." (This was soon after Goa's Liberation). That gentleman was stunned. He quickly handed me the passports remarking, "In Punjab, little boys like you don't talk like this. I quipped, "We are not in Punjab." I suppose I must have sounded quite rude. But these exercises -- bank work, dealing with public officials, carrying large sums of money, gave me a new sense of responsibility. I was able to shoulder much of the responsibilities of my house in Goa later on. This was an excellent training exercise. And so the day dawned when we had to leave Africa for Goa and a new life. Well that's another story and so I'll defer it for a future day. ENDS -- [1] http://boppin.com/2005/05/skokiaan.html [2] "Skokiaan" is a popular tune originally written by Zimbabwean musician August Musarurwa (d.1968) (usually identified as August Msarurgwa on record labels) in the tsaba-tsaba big band style that succeeded marabi. Skokiaan (Chikokiyana in Shona) refers to an illegal self-brewed alcoholic beverage typically brewed over one day that may contain a dangerous ingredient, such as methylated spirits. Variations on the tune's title include Sikokiyana, Skokiana, and Skokian. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skokiaan --- Tony de Sa is a retired headmaster, having served one of Goa's oldest educational institutions, Sacred Heart High School, Parra, for most of his adult life. He is a former Tanzanite, having lived in Moshi and Dar-Es-Salaam. Tony de Sa, can be contacted via phone +91 832 2470148 email [EMAIL PROTECTED] or mobile +91 9975 162 897 The writer plans to put together a book about Goans in Africa. He writes: "Goans played a significant role in the development of Africa. So there's a whole world out there waiting to hear about what Goans did in Africa: Their clubs, the jobs they held, the lives they led, the moments when they were forced to leave their beloved Africa either by Africanization or by the fiat of dictators like Idi Amin; anything but anything about Goans in Africa, not only East Africa (BEA), but all parts of Africa. What I have in mind is a collection of 25 to 30 articles of 2000 to 2500 words each which would be put together in the form of a book. It would be wonderful if contributors could enhance their writing with maps, photographs, etc." ----------------------------------------------------------------- GOANET-READER WELCOMES contributions from its readers, by way of essays, reviews, features and think-pieces. We share quality Goa-related writing among the 10000-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. 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