-------------------------------------------------------------------------- | Add your name to the CLEAN GOA INITIATIVE | | | | by visiting this link and following the instrucitons therein | | | | http://shire.symonds.net/pipermail/goanet/2005-October/033926.html | -------------------------------------------------------------------------- FULL STEAM AHEAD TO GOA: A TALE OF TWO (AND MORE) VOYAGES
By Cynthia Gomes James In Dallas, Texas [EMAIL PROTECTED] "What do you mean there are no steamer boats plying to Goa anymore?" I choked out the words upon learning about yet another change in my homeland, when I visited Bombay one year on Christmas break, after spending a few years in the US. One wish I had carried fondly, and so looked forward to, was a leisurely twenty-four hour sojourn on the Bombay to Goa steamer, just like I had done almost every summer, while growing up in Bombay. It was to be my way of sliding into a susegaad frame of mind, and reliving old times. In my mind, if you couldn't enjoy a steamer boat voyage between Bombay and Goa, why bother to make the journey at all? The decrepit old steamer boats I referred to, were the M.V. Konkan Shakti and the M. V. Konkan Sevak which had at different times been owned by Chowgule's Shipping Company, and the Shipping Corporation of India when I was a child, and were not even steam operated at that time. They were in fact diesel-powered vessels that had changed flags a few times. Actually, the Konkan Shakti and the Konkan Sevak were not the first vessels to ply passengers on the Bombay-Goa route. My parents recalled childhood voyages on two dirty old black tubs which were steam powered and belched soot and smoke into the Konkan sky. One of them was the S.S. Champavati and the sister ship was the S.S. Rohidas, both owned by the Bombay Steamship Navigation Company (BSN). Later, Chowgule's entered the fray with the diesel powered M.V. Konkan Sevak, M.V. Rohini and M.V. Sarita. The M. V. Rohini, which was in the best condition of the three vessels, had a colourful history that ended with a dramatic demise on the low seas. It was involved in a smuggling incident, and while the operators were trying to evade customs and the coast guard, the captain inadvertently sailed into a rivulet in the middle of the night along the Maharashtra coast. Unfortunately, while sailing back out, the tide was low, and the vessel hit the rocky coast, ending up as another sunken ship on the ocean floor. As for the M.V. Sarita, in addition to performing her humble duty of ferrying thousands of seafarers between Bombay and Goa, she also performed a more gallant duty during wartime. Old timers from Panjim will recall that the noble Sarita was anchored near the Mandovi Bridge for the duration of the war with Pakistan, and every time there was an air raid signal, her horn would sound the warning for the residents of Panjim. Shortly after, the M.V. Sarita was renamed the M.V. Konkan Shakti. During my lifetime though, I only recall voyages on the Konkan Shakti and the Konkan Sevak. These grand old dames stoically sailed the Bombay to Goa route daily during fair weather, usually from October to May, except that there would be no sailing from Bombay on Tuesdays and no sailing from Goa on Wednesdays. This day off allowed each vessel to have its Biblical day of rest and rejuvenation each week. So on the other days of the week, you could safely assume that the two ships had set sail from Bombay and Goa respectively, unless inclement weather or mechanical problems arose. The peak season of course, was the steamy month of May. My dismay upon learning that there were no steamer boats anymore turned to interest, and my parents enlightened me that the Bombay to Goa steamers had been "temporarily" deployed to carry Indian Peace Keeping Forces (IPKF) to Sri Lanka in 1987 in order to assist the Sri Lankan government with the ethnic conflagration there. Rumours had swirled that the ships would be put back in operation on the Bombay to Goa route later, but those sea warriors too became casualties of the conflict, with the sounds of hundreds of voyages silenced forever. Upon being reassured by my parents that there was an alternative way of making the trip by sea, I set about trying to get a reservation on the spanking new catamaran service being operated by Damania Shipping Company. Actually, the term catamaran (sometimes distorted into 'kathmaram') is local speak for a passenger liner whose hull is designed along the lines of a catamaran to produce a hydrofoil effect that results in great speed. As expected, the latest status symbol was a hot ticket, and according to local lore, was booked up for months and months. Everyone I talked to raved about the catamaran even if they themselves had not traveled on it. "Arre, why do you want to spend twenty-four hours on a dirty old steamer boat and get bitten by bugs? If you take the catamaran, you have breakfast in Bombay and you can have evening tea in Goa. Plus, they give you nice, clean food, they show the latest English movies, and the boat is air-conditioned. What more do you want?" My relatives and friends were all eager for me to try India’s newest travel sensation, which was supposedly as modern as what I must have seen in America. So they began making calls to friends who had "contacts" ranging from a minister's nephew, and a notorious hoodlum's driver, to someone who worked for another local shipping company. After numerous phone calls and vigorous string pulling, I finally managed to get a "first class reservation" through a friend of a friend in the travel business. I was still peeved that I couldn't travel on a steamer boat, but decided to keep an open mind about the only other marine option I had available. I even managed to muster up some heartfelt gratitude for the favours my friends had called in on my behalf. And so, a few days later, I reported at the "departure lounge" at Ferry Wharf (Bhaucha Dhakka) about an hour ahead of the scheduled departure at 0730 hours and "checked in my baggage". I was greeted by smiling, uniformed attendants who showed me to my numbered seat among rows of 160 other seats on the First Class upper deck all facing the stern and confronted by a movie screen. Right from the start I was struck by the vast difference between this passage and previous excursions on the steamers. There were no hordes of unruly people scrambling with blankets and bed sheets to reserve a precious piece of space that would be home for the next twenty-four hours! No red clad coolies promising to do on-the-spot "reservations" for you in exchange for a few bucks. No haggling with them about the right price for the right spot. I could spot very few Goans among the passengers boarding the catamaran, and everything was strangely quiet. It was as if all the passengers had made a pact or signed an affidavit that there would be no loud, unruly, steamer boat conduct and chaos aboard the esteemed catamaran. The passage on the catamaran cost about forty times what the minimum fare on the steamer boat would have cost, and so we were all acting appropriately high class. As I settled into my comfortable seat, I smiled at the passengers on either side of me. On my left was a coy young Gujarati couple from Walkeshwar, who I learned were going to Goa on their honeymoon. The bride had apparently tried to achieve the look of letting her hair down on holiday, while retaining the demureness of a newly-wed Indian maiden. Her floral printed polyester blouse was buttoned to her collarbone, and it dutifully covered her torso all the way down to her bottom where it gratefully handed over duties to a pair of crisp blue jeans and spotless Nike sneakers that had probably been bought for her by her new husband. She proudly displayed gold bangles alternating with green glass ones, and a shiny new mangalsutra (necklace worn by married Indian women), while a gajra (garland) of fragrant mogras circling a loose bun, teased her neck. In hindsight, the enduring fragrance of the mogras, which I missed sorely in America, was one of the high points of my journey on the catamaran. To top it all off, there was the customary vermilion sindoor in the parting of her hair, like a bright red flag that said 'stop' to any man other than her husband, who might fancy her. The proud groom wore a polo shirt with a Reebok logo, blue jeans, and Nike sneakers, all of which appeared to be nothing new to him. What was new about him was his mint condition, blushing bride, and his air of having a grownup responsibility placed on his able shoulders. His hair was Brylcream groomed, and every few minutes he would carefully run his fingers over it to ensure that each strand was where he had placed it. The honeymooners eagerly shared with me their itinerary for the next nine days, looking at me expectantly, for my opinions on the tourist spots they had chosen. They also plied me with stories of friends who had honeymooned in Goa. "We have heard that it is a lover’s paradise where you can be absolutely free. Nobody minds if they see you holding hands in the park, because Goanese people do it all the time." I politely informed them that the correct term was Goan, not Goanese. Then the groom leaned across his wife to engage me in a conspiratorial whisper, "In fact we have heard that Goans are so bindaas that they go even further than that while in public -- you know, like in the film Bobby", his hushed tone tasking me to keep this scandalizing tidbit from his innocent bride. The shy doe with her downcast eyes and perked up ears piped in, "But you must be used to all that in America, no? The bold dressing and the free attitude? That is why Goans find it easier to adjust there?" Oh Lord, I thought, as I attempted to make a non-committal but friendly response by smiling, raising my eyebrows, and shrugging my shoulders, all at the same time. On my right was an elderly Maharashtrian gentleman who was making the journey to visit his son who had moved to Goa on a job-related transfer. He was a striking looking man with a full head of neatly combed silvery hair that sprung from a high coffee brown forehead. He was dressed smartly in a pair of well-ironed trousers, a full sleeved pinstriped shirt and a hand knitted woolen vest. It was clear that he had dressed well for the trip on the fancy catamaran, but it was also apparent that he was used to traveling comfortably. I learned that he was a widower, and a retired officer from Mazagaon Docks, the ship building company. Upon hearing that I lived in Philadelphia, he was immediately interested in whether I had visited Baltimore, and if I was familiar with Edgar Allen Poe. For the next several minutes we discussed his Poe favourites and he wistfully informed me that he would like to visit Baltimore someday. Our literary chat was interrupted when we heard the captain clear his throat on the public addressal system. In barely a moment, all the mellow toned conversations ceased as we waited expectantly for the captain to set us free from the hustle and bustle of Bombay. The almost surreal voyage aboard this airtight "seaplane" began with greetings from the captain in English and Hindi, and announcements about safety and survival procedures. Two strapping young men who were easy on the eye demonstrated the use of life vests and pointed out the emergency exits and fire extinguishers. Now answer this question honestly: How many of us who traveled on the steamers knew whether there were life vests or fire extinguishers on board the Konkan Shakti and the Konkan Sevak? And if we ever happened to find one of these miracle lifesavers, how many of the passengers knew what on earth to do with them? I remember seeing a few life vests on the steamers being creatively used as pillows, foot rests, card tables, or lunch tables on which home made bhajias (fritters) or fish cutlets were neatly laid out on folded newspapers. Ironically, the presence of safety equipment was probably far more critical on the ramshackle steamer boats than on the newer catamarans. Once the catamaran crew was done with the announcements, we departed exactly at 0730 hours, starting off on our high-speed voyage along the Konkan coast, and the pleasantly smiling hostesses glided around offering passengers soft drinks, peanuts and magazines. Shortly, everyone’s attention was directed to the big screen as it flickered, and then came to life with a Hindi movie that would serve as part of the on-board entertainment as we skimmed over the 225 nautical miles between Bombay and Goa. Faced with the choice of catching up on much needed sleep, or watching a middle-aged Bollywood hero frolicking around a college campus with a nineteen year old nymphet, I shut my eyes and slipped into a reverie of my own. Slowly I began to hear familiar sounds getting louder as they made their way towards me through the corridors of my mind. Yes, there was the long deep horn of the steamer as it pulled out of Ferry Wharf, somewhere around 10 am, almost tipping over with the weight of nearly a thousand people all on the same side of the ship, waving to the unlucky ones who had to stay back in Bombay. And then the journey commenced with the sounds of half-hearted arguments over "reservations", babies crying, husbands reminding wives to ensure that the bags containing the lunch dabbas had made it on board, and mothers cautioning heedless children not to lean too far over the deck. Once the chaos of departure died down, the hours of the day unwound and stretched lazily, and the senses were pleasantly engaged by the sights, sounds, and smells of the languid trip to Goa. All the sojourners on board breathed a collective sigh of relief at leaving behind the madness of Bombay. The successful escape from the big city, along with the prospect of spending the next twenty-four hours together made us feel like we were connected, and an ambience of camaraderie pervaded the salty air. The twenty four hours ahead would be the only ones we would share together, and for that one day, we strangers were like family, out at sea, in the middle of nowhere, bound by a common home and a common goal. Instinctively, the knowledge of being at sea would make me suck in a deep breath, and inhale the soothing breeze that brought the smell of the sea, engine oil, and inevitably, wisps of hashish from the pipes of sweetly smiling hippies. On the return voyage to Bombay, the smell of feni or urrac would turn heads, as people gave in to the impulse of trying out the "good stuff" they had bought in Goa. The sea and all the feelings it stirred in me made every journey on the steamer feel like the first, and I never anticipated that there would ever be a last one. I was not alone in my fascination with the sea, and recall always having had the company of fellow passengers who were equally mesmerized by the waves, the wake, the horizon, and the sky, and could spend hours leaning over the deck, delighting in the feel of the ocean spray as it misted our eager faces like a blessing. This blatant worshipping of the sea would eventually draw out the jealous sun in all its searing heat and dazzling brilliance, as it vied for our attention. For the passengers who had found spots on the cheaper lower decks, or in the enclosed sections of the upper decks, there was no quarrel with the sun. For the people who had not been quick or lucky enough to snag the enclosed areas, and for those who had deliberately sought the open sections of the upper decks for a more al fresco experience, the sun and the wind gave them a voyage to remember. As for the passengers who had paid top rupee to be cramped in the few, microscopic cabins on the steamer, they just had no idea of what they were missing. As the morning sizzled its way into the afternoon, a flurry of lunch activity would begin to stir among the indolent travelers. Card games, Ludo boards, and the morning newspaper would be put away to make room for a home cooked meal. Little cloth bags and stacked aluminum tiffins would be ceremoniously opened and the aromas of roast beef sandwiches, fish cutlets, vegetable samosas, oranges, bananas, and chappatis would rush out and mingle with the salty ocean air. Parents would call out to children who had wandered off to explore the ship, and families would quickly demolish the fare that had been carefully packed at the crack of dawn. The heaving of the steamer over the dancing waves pretty much mandated that the entrees be dry, (no curries or gravies), consumed quickly, and that you did your best to hold on to your food during and after the meal. Mealtimes on the steamer were also an opportunity to bond with the passengers nearby, as sandwiches were offered to the bachelor traveling alone, or fruit was shared with the children from the family traveling next to you. There were many passengers who were brave enough to trust the food that was served in the canteen (cafeteria) of the steamer boat. Suspicious looking, bland, watery offerings that lay on tired looking aluminum thalis. I remember the cheeky galley staff making the rounds of the ship just before mealtimes selling the 'john pass' (jevonn pass) or meal coupon for a complete meal in the canteen, with rice, a curry, a vegetable, and a dessert. They also had a uniquely memorable and effective call for tea at daybreak, accompanied by the clanking of cups and saucers, while running an aluminum teaspoon across a rack of little tea glasses, as they swaggered up and down the decks, jarring us out of a tenuous slumber. The canteen was a hub of activity even when it wasn't lunch or dinnertime. It was the place to go to for biscuits, soft drinks and beer, or just to enjoy the warmth. You could also get the latest update on passengers who were being seasick during particularly rocky channels as they, or their relatives rushed to the canteen to buy a bottle of club soda, or gingerade or a cup of black chai. Most notably, it was the scheduled housie (bingo) games that would attract the biggest crowd. An hour or so of playing housie was the one organized activity that passengers could turn to, for having something to do during the twenty-four hours at hand. It was also common to find strangers just hanging out with each other, exchanging stories about themselves over tiny cups of chai brewed in the galley. And for the young singles, the canteen was the venue where you could accidentally meet up with the cute boy or girl you had been eyeing earlier at the jetty. After lunch was done, and the empty tiffins had been rinsed and put away, the older folks would settle into the best possible comfortable positions and have a siesta. For others, it was time to stroll about, out of curiosity about the ship, the passengers, and the ocean. The conclusion of lunch was also the cue for groups of college students and other bands of fun seeking voyagers to get the party going. Goan revelers would belt out Konkani and Portuguese folk songs, and English pop tunes, to the strumming of guitars, and percussion courtesy of the nearest piece of hard luggage. For city-weary folks like me, the strains of the mandos and dulpods seduced us into feeling like Goa was just around the corner. In stark contrast, were the dying-to-look-cool non-Goan all-male cliques from Bombay, who stood out like scuba divers at an archeology dig. With their loud Hindi film music, enormous sunglasses, straw hats that they presumed were Goan looking because they had seen a Goan Catholic character sporting one in a popular Bollywood flick, and cheap filmi looking boots, they determinedly set out to convince everyone that they fit right in with the notoriously fun loving Goans. The ultimate giveaway would be the tipsy dancing, one hand on the hip, the other hand perching a beer bottle on the head, and the singing of the absurdly un-Goan filmi ditty 'Hanv Goencho Saiba, la, la, la, la, la, la.' ('I am the Lord of Goa', literally, but actually a mistaken use of the title given to St. Francis Xavier, the patron saint of Goa). SADLY FERRIED BACK The onset of evening would elicit a chorus of 'oohs' and 'aahs' as the multitude of city dwellers were treated to a stunning sunset over the Arabian Sea. The spectacle would last awhile as the weary sun slowly settled for the night, sinking into the welcoming bosom of the sea. Quite often we would pass by the sister ship making its way in the opposite direction and we would wave and call out to the passengers sadly being ferried back to Bombay. Even as the dilapidated steamer continued its languorous ploughing through the Arabian Sea, the evening would go by quickly, with the anticipation of going to bed at night and waking up within sight of Goa. Depending on the season, travelers would pull on sweaters, mufflers, woolen caps, and blankets, as the evening breeze grew cooler, and bunk down on the dimly illuminated decks after a quick dinner of leftovers, and making sure that their luggage was secure. There were others who would spend the night in the canteen, whiling away the hours smoking, drinking, and chatting with other insomniacs. For a few of us, the velvet night presented hours of magical moments as we stood on the deck, watching leaping dolphins as they chased after millions of diamonds that the moon had scattered into the sea. The witching hours would bring us to charming stops like Ratnagiri, Malwan, Vijaydurg, and Raigad, off the coast of Maharashtra, where the steamer would silence its engines, and dock just outside the shallow quays. We would catch the sounds of voices being carried willingly by the friendly night air, and oars coaxing the water to make way for rowboats that carried passengers to and from the ship. Sometimes I would doze off listening to the lulling song of water lapping gently against the hull of the quiet steamer as it waited patiently for these nocturnal movements to transpire. I cannot remember a single voyage when I did not stay awake most of the night, walking around the ship, gazing at the sea and the sky, enjoying the wonders that I seldom experienced on land. Every moment was too precious to waste in slumber. Just how precious, I realize now in retrospect. Much as I relished the night at sea, I would be impatient for the morning that would bring the first heart stopping sight of Goa -- the simple grandeur of Reis Magos and the Aguada Fort and lighthouse, the pristine white church facades nestling among lush palm groves and riotous gul mohar trees, the golden strips of sand glinting in the morning sun, and the grand entry into the mouth of the awesome Mandovi river. The excitement level would reach a peak as children and adults alike registered all the sights that announced undeniably that we were in Goan waters. Bags were hurriedly repacked, pieces of luggage counted and recounted, women and children would make one last dash to the famously inadequate restrooms, and sleep tousled hair would be tamed, so as to look presentable for relatives waiting at the Panjim jetty. As the steamer made its grand approach into the harbour with a compelling blast on the horn, impatient passengers would stream to the lower deck exit with their baggage, trying to hasten their first moment on Goan soil. "Your attention please." My nostalgic journey within a journey on the catamaran came to an end as the captain announced that lunch was being served, and that we would arrive in Goa, shortly thereafter. As the hostesses began their rounds with our catamaran-quality meals, I roused myself from my pleasurable nap. The newly weds on my left were practicing how to act like native 'Goanese' by shyly holding hands in public. The distinguished grandfather on my right had nodded off over a crossword puzzle. Watching the hostesses distribute the shrink wrapped, super hygienic, well planned, vegetarian and non-vegetarian lunch trays, and hearing their dulcet, measured tones as they verified each passenger's meal preference, I felt an urge to hear the sound of an aluminum spoon clanging noisily against a glass, just inches from my ear. Once the lunch trays were collected, a general bustle grew among the passengers as people checked their watches, bags, hair, and makeup, in anticipation of arriving in Goa. I got up and took a walk around the catamaran, squinting through the glass at the magnificent ocean rushing by at a clip of about thirty knots. Tinted windows on the catamaran made a mockery of the vision of Goa before our eyes. Where the open decks of the steamer had allowed free communion between the seafarer and the sea, the catamaran effectively isolated its passengers from the ocean and its wonders. As I shook myself out of my daydream and disembarked at Panjim at 1500 hours sharp, I felt strangely cheated. It felt unreal that I had been in Bombay a scant seven and a half hours ago, and had reached Goa without having seen the red-hot sun melt into the sea. I collected my luggage and walked out into the hazy, humid afternoon, my spirits lifting as I was stopped by taxi drivers with Konkani music playing on their car stereos, asking me if I needed a ride. I turned eagerly towards the calls of 'Chorrisam zai bai?' ('Do you want sausages, madam?') and 'Aambe zai bai?' ('Do you want mangoes, madam?'). Without skipping a beat, my heart responded, 'Voi, Voi, mhaka soglem zai.' ('Yes, I want it all'). I paused for a moment, and savoured the familiar sights at the Panjim jetty. I saw the motorcycle pilots with their yellow and black machines lined up across the street, and heard the sounds of passengers bargaining with taxi drivers for mutually acceptable fares. I scanned the riverfront, eagerly taking in the sparkling whitewashed buildings, sitting like fresh wedding cakes decorated with lacy wrought iron balconies and topped with scalloped red tiled icing. In the distance I saw the neatly laid out traffic island that commanded you to stop and admire the impressive Secretariat building that presided over the avenue adorned with gulmohar and acacia trees. I felt a Goan breeze waft in from the sea and stroke my cheek gently, as if saying, 'Assun di, chol atam, tum Goeam paolem.' ('Let it be, come on now, you’ve reached Goa'). I drank in a deep breath of my promised land and it finally dawned on me that trips to Goa would never be the same again. Where in the past, the spell of the holiday used to take hold as soon as I left Bombay on the steamer boat, from now on, the magic would begin only after I set foot in Goa. ### -- ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ABOUT THE AUTHOR: The writer is an expat based in Dallas. She has written earlier for Goanet Reader. GOANET READER welcomes contributions from its readers, by way of essays, reviews, features and think-pieces. We share quality Goa-related writing among the Goanet family of mailing lists. Please do send in your feedback to the writer. Our writers share their writing pro bono. Goanet Reader welcomes your feedback at goanet@goanet.org and is edited and compiled by Frederick Noronha [EMAIL PROTECTED]