The real celebrations flourish far from the tourist hot spots
Viva Re Viva! That’s the cry that Goan’s welcome carnival with. When I first moved to Goa that was the only festival I knew and so I went along to Panjim to see what it was all about. What had begun as a delightful local festival with opposing groups bombarding each other with talcum powder had been adopted by the Government with a view to promoting tourism. The only thing it seemed to promote was alcoholism. There was float after float sponsored by liquor companies. There was a desperate attempt to ape the Carnival in Rio with half the budgets and a quarter of the imagination. King Momo was obese, Queen Mimi desperately needed a make over and there was a commercial flavour to the whole thing that left a bad taste in the mouth. In the succeeding years it went from bad to worse, with two competing government agencies holding separate official carnivals, and nobody quite knowing what was going on.
And then – quite by accident – I discovered Shigmo. This is the traditional Hindu spring festival and falls very close to the Carnival. But what a difference! It is entirely a home made affair, and village after village turns up to perform. What you get is a feast of the real thing – real people proudly displaying traditional dances. Hundreds of dancers stream by, carrying burning torches, bells, and elaborate flags. Myths and legends are on display on every side with giant figures and elaborate tableus. This year there was a twenty foot high Ravan, a Hanuman who actually flew and entire armies of the most wonderfully crafted demons, heroes and kings. For over four hours celebrants streamed past to the beat of thumping drums and clanging bells, displaying a pride in their roots and culture that I had never seen on display in Goa before. It was awesome in its scale and passion.
Also by accident I discovered another festival unique to Goa that comes with the onset of the monsoons, and is aptly dedicated to St. John the Baptist. I attended my first ‘San Jao’ festival at Siolim. Gaily decorated boats sailed past on the river with banners that read ‘Boys football club’ and ‘The Menezes Family’. They contained everything from Zulu warriors, to a group of magic mushrooms in fluorescent hats, to a boat full of Elvis look alikes. They made things more entertaining by leaping into the river as they floated past the stage. The first time a whole lot of them plummeted into the water, my heart skipped a beat for the seventy year old man who was among them. But having leapt in, all you did was stand up – the water was exactly waist deep. The parish arrived after mass, and wave after wave of men yelled ‘San Jao! Viva San Jao’ and leapt into the river. The women moved among the guests with baskets full of chouris sausage, bread and fruit. To get into the spirit of things you had to be wearing a coppol. This is a crown made of flowers and leaves. The contents of entire gardens were visible on the heads of some of the populace.
Then the big moment arrived. San Jao was on his way! Everyone rushed to the banks for a sight of the boat. San Jao was escorted by a Roman Gladiator, a cave man with a club and a Fairy Queen with cardboard wings. He himself was in a ferocious false beard and a fur rug tied around the middle with lots of string. The rug hadn’t made it all the way around him and his white shorts were prominently on display. Not that it mattered to the crowd as they roared ‘Viva San Jao!’ Finally it rained, local star Remo arrived to play, and the crowd joyously took to the floor.
In Goa you can see Christmas coming from weeks away. Houses are industriously cleaned and given a coat of paint, Santa Claus arrives two weeks too early and gives the dogs such a fright that they refuse to come out from under the bed, and you are woken at night by the sound of carol singing. At midnight mass you can scarcely breathe for the smell of mothballs and scent. All the men’s suits have been taken out of storage, but the ladies are in gowns stitched especially for the occasion. At midnight every church across Goa rings it’s bells and the night is loud with acclamation. This is the big Christian celebration for which family scattered around the world finds its way back home.
But far more endearing are the little chapel feasts held around the year. Every village in Goa has a cluster of small chapels, and the exploring tourist will suddenly find himself wandering into a celebration. A long neglected little chapel will be decked up in flowers and branches. A group of the local faithful will appear to pray and light candles. The feast will end with the distribution of boiled gram and jaggery.
Luckily the government has not yet managed to make any of these festivals official, so they have not been ruined by being converted into tourist attractions. The true spirit of celebration lives on in Goa in the festivals that flourish far from the tourist crowd. (ENDS)
========================================================= First published in the Indian Express - November 21, 2010
