(original PDF attached) Just a little over five hundred years ago, in March 1510, the ruthless Portuguese naval tactician Afonso de Albuqerque mustered an armada of 23 ships loaded up with 1200 armed men, and sailed up the Mandovi river to try and seize the prized trading port of Sultan Yusuf Adil Shah of Bijapur. His initial assault foundered and failed. But when the Europeans returned with considerable reinforcements a few months later, they overwhelmed all resistance, slaughtering at least 6000 of the 9000 Muslim defenders of Goa. On December 1, this tiny colonial foothold in Asia was formally enshrined as the centerpiece of the Estado da India Portuguesa.
It was a highly consequential development. Within a decade, Albuquerque and his successors dominated trade routes across the Indian ocean, establishing fortified strongholds from Africa to Japan. This sweeping maritime empire was administered from Goa, which became the end point of Carreira da India shipping routes connecting Lisbon to India, with stops in West and East Africa and Bahia in Brazil. Thus was unleashed the epochal “Columbian exchange” which remade the world forever, as goods, humans, technology and ideas flowed unstoppably in all directions. Imagine Indian food without chilies, potatoes, tomatoes and corn. All these staples first entered the subcontinent through Goa. By the dawn of the 16th century, the riverside city was transformed twice the size of contemporary London or Paris. While that heyday subsided as rapidly as it occurred, something quite unique took its place. The Portuguese had lost the ability to project significant financial or military power into their Indian ocean possessions, but still managed to retain them because of old alliances with their European rivals. But the only way they could administer this rump colonial state was through stringent negotiations and painful compromises with native elites. This meant that by the 19th century, Goans were effectively ruling themselves, with their influence extending to Macau and Mozambique as well. Right alongside these power politics came bold cultural assertion, and the flowering of an unprecedented and many-layered Luso-Indian cuisine, music and dance forms, and artistic vernacular. And so begins the story of Goan architecture. In his landmark essay, caustically entitled ‘That is Not A Portuguese House!” the Panjim-based architect (and current Secretary of the activist Goa Heritage Action Group) Raya Shankhwalker writes, “The use of local materials, crafts and skills make the Western influenced Goan house a unique architectural expression.” However, “In recent times an incorrect, even absurd nomenclature has gained popular usage to describe them. The catch-all phrase 'Portuguese House' is bandied about a lot -- anything with stuccoed walls and clay tiles on its roof is addressed as one. This terminology seems to have sprung up to coincide with the seemingly unstoppable demand from people from the rest of India and abroad to own these. Ill informed brokers have coined the term, which reflects a deeply ignorant conception of the complex, multi-layered evolution of architecture in Goa. It is wrong, even offensively wrong, and extremely irritating to see the term actually gain popularity instead of being discarded.” It is unquestionably true there are no houses or churches like that of Goa anywhere in Portugal, just as the temples built in the colonial period are markedly different from those right across the state borders. The late architectural historian Paulo Varela Gomes had piercing insight on why this is the case, “The architectural and artistic distinction, in houses as well as churches, has generally been explained with the concept of ‘encounter’ between East and West, ‘fusion’ or ‘influence’…a ‘mixture’ or a ‘blend’ of Western and Oriental ‘motives’ or ‘traits’, the dose of which varies according to time, place, and circumstance, almost like a recipe for a dish, the end result being original and somewhat exotic, but always something which is ‘this and that’, a sum, a combination, a hybrid.” In this regard, Varela Gomes forcefully asserts another view, “To me, this explanation, as all others based on ‘influences’ and ‘contacts’ fails to account for the character and integrity” of Goan architecture. “It is true that, analysing the buildings in parts, this entablature here, this door frame there, this tower, this vault, one can see Portuguese vault composition, Flemish vaulting orornament, Bijapuri tower design, Konkan stucco patterns and ornamentaldesign.” But the “overall buildingsdid not result from the sum of their constitutive parts. Theirbuilders and patrons knew how they wanted [their creation] to lookand how they wanted it to be experienced…To anyone with architectural or artistic sensitivity,these [buildings] don’t seem to be the end-result of a compromise, but theaffirmative artistic statement of a cultural position.” It is undeniably true that even in the tumultuous, unrivalled diversity in India, the “cultural position” of the Goans stands out. Uniquely poised between India and the West (even today, most Goans are pre-qualified for citizenship of the European Union via Portugal) their personal histories balance delicately between age-old village loyalties - such as the ancient ‘Communidades’ written about by both Marx and Kosambi - and jet-powered globalization, including two full centuries of relentless migration to the great cities of the world. Thus, the ostensibly quaint atmosphere of Goan villages are highly deceptive, because they’re actually seething with an unusual degree of cosmopolitanism, from very old connections to British India and East Africa to more recent globetrotting between the Gulf states, Australia and North America. All this is reflected in the architecture of Goan lives, and inevitably mirrored in the houses they have built. So what are the classic elements of the Goan house, which separate this marvellously distinct tropical architecture from everything else built at the same time in other parts of the world? First above all is location, always carefully chosen to align with monsoon patterns, the availability of breeze, passage of direct sunlight, and also for ease of access and felicity of social intercourse. These houses are built in communion with each other, each one a part of tight-knit neighbourhood living that includes shared resources. The destruction of an individual component is a tragedy that impacts the whole, but equally sad is their removal from the interconnected meaning, as often happens when otherwise well-meaning 21stcentury buyers fail to recognize the contexts that have inspired, sustained and burnished their prize real estate purchases. Another universal ingredient is laterite, the iron-rich red rocks and soil that define much of the landscape of India’s smallest state. Almost everything you see is built from it, from compound walls to temple towers and church steeples. While it is initially relatively easily cut in hillside quarries, the stones harden appreciably during contact with air, and have proven amazingly durable. One lateritic shelf on the banks of the Kushavati river, in the rural hinterland of South Goa, showcases startlingly beautiful Neolithic rock carvings that have endured rather wonderfully for at least 20,000 years. Again and again, in every aspect, the timeless heart of Indo-Portuguese built heritage returns to this very red soil, and its speckled stone. A third element is clay, terracotta and other ceramics. Whether tiny and modest, or soaring grand to rival the chateaux of European nobility, the character of Goan houses is defined above all by sloped roofs crowned by “Mangalore tiles”, one of the most remarkable building materials in the world. Originally conceived and designed by German missionaries in what is now Karnataka, these fired red clay tiles quickly became ubiquitous in colonial-era architecture from the Middle East to Australia. They are fantastically durable, eco-friendly, reasonably priced, and provide excellent insulation in the rainy and cool months, and equally outstanding ventilation when the weather heats up. Clay tiles underfoot, often designed in emblematic mosaics, are another traditional element that help to keep the houses (and their inhabitants) cool in the long summer months. While both these kinds of tilework can be seen across state borders, and indeed all through the western coastline of India, the vivid Azulejos of Goa are sui generis in the subcontinent. Born from medieval Andalusia, these iconic Islamic-Iberian painted and glazed ceramic tiles accompanied the Moorish exodus to North Africa and the Arab worlds, and the Spanish and Portuguese expansions from South America to Macau and Japan. One of the great works of public art is the foyer to Institute Menezes Braganza in Panjim, which are panelled from floor to ceiling with magnificent depictions of Vasco da Gama’s epochal voyage from Belem to Calicut via the Cape of Good Hope. Today, these emblematic azure tiles can often be seen at the gate or entrance of private homes, emblazoned with the names of the cocupants. The final signature design element of Goan architecture is nacre, often erroneously called “mother of pearl”, the shells of aptly named ‘windowpane oysters’ (placuna placenta). Traditionally used in South East Asian countries – most notably the Philippines – they were used as the substitute for glass in windows in Goa right into the 20thcentury. One reason is they were easily found, especially in the Zuari bay estuary, while glass was expensive and had to be imported. But the main reason was they suited the nuanced mores of Goans perfectly, letting in light but also maintaining privacy and purdah. It’s an imported idea using a local material in westernized houses to enforce Indian attitudes, the perfect metaphor for Goan architecture.
