Monsoon, muck, mockery

I met a distinguished gentleman in Italy, who drew a blank when I told him I was from Goa. He excused himself, drew his head closer and asked me to repeat the name G.O.A. Where was it? He questioned. And what was it all about, he wanted to know. He pushed a notebook in front of me, and much as I was embarrassed with his innocent ignorance, he urged me to draw my country, the states (he had heard there was some war threatening to break out) and then finally my sunny patch of sea, sand and `sucegado’ people. `Do you have five-star hotels? What is the local food? What do you eat?’ he was curious, as I took on the role of an ambassadress for my state (that should qualify me to accompany the Tourism Department on its phoren jaunts, no?). I painted a pretty picture to save face. What I cleverly refrained from telling him was what he would not like to hear – falling governments, shaky economy, uncivic, mannerless road runners, bombed roads (or are they land mines in disguise?), escalating prices, frequent power cuts, hungry taxmen, a sound curfew, dead nightlife, corrupt cops, ODed socialites, once-there-now-raped mountains, and how-can-I-forget, the looming visage of the River Princess threatening to dunk us in crude oil. On second thoughts, maybe I should have told him that. Nothing works faster and more effective than negative publicity at an international level. See how the charters are planning to divert their grave-diggers and plumbers to other destinations? Cheap reads crass.

Despite putting on a brave act, I cannot help but agree to the notion Europeans have of us – the only thing we commercialise are our beggars. Culture, colour, commerce have only exotic value, so throw in the snake charmers please. And if he wears a kitsch bandana, all the more better.

I fret easily, so I looked around the quaint streets of this Roman country to quieten my sense of unease. The grand squares, the little roadside cafes, the well-preserved nooks, corners and edifices of history, the well-planned town and commercial zones, the traffic systems, the parking areas demarcated for two-wheelers, taxis and private cars. Even the zebra crossings were safe! I drove a lot around the countryside. Green mountains rolled from meadow to meadow, castles dotted the horizons, wheat fields and grape vineyards dressed the soil in a green-gold blanket, pruned trees, lavish gardens and a countryside so beautiful, it must have been painted by God (hey, but he lives in Rome!).

Italy reveled in its tradition and old-world charm, whilst maintaining a very modern outlook. Strict construction laws translated into cosy villas (three floors and your monster is pulled down) designed to blend with the aesthetics of the culture. Old buildings were maintained and fortified, even the fountains had a story to tell, unlike our politically prompted `flowers’ that bloom in the midst of Portuguese architecture (now is that a `fountain’ I see opposite the Betim ferry?). Despite a low economy, people made sure they knew what their respective representatives were doing (sheer coincidence that I landed bang in the middle of an election). Files moved without palm greasing, and yes, `socegado’ applied without being brain dead. There was a charm about the place that was infectious and peaceful.

Did I do right in encouraging the gentleman to visit Goa? Born in a country steeped in its centuries old culture, architecture, passions and traditions, what memories would he take of confused Goa? And of its equally confused people? It is a shame. I took the long flight home with muddled thoughts crowding my mind. We are a population systematically assisting our inadequate and inept governments to destroy the `face’ of our land.

I arrived home to the monsoons tearing up the skies and a porter at the Mumbai airport demanding $30 for picking up my bag from the trolley into the car. The rain had flattened the freshly plastered roads in my city to resemble rubble. Uncivilised drivers drove through water-filled puddles while school children maneuvered narrow roads with their heavy school bags. The electricity board had exhausted the patience of the compressor threatening to blow up my refrigerator. The River Princess, after a fresh brat made a brattish statement, still continued to tick away an environmental time-bomb. The rickshaws had all hiked up their prices following a further increase in petrol rates. I was sold stale fish for fresh catch, and the kindergarten school where my little girl was enrolled to attend, told me that her seat had been neutralised because they had to pay the salaries of their teachers!!

Welcome home. Frown hard as I may, it’s good to be back home.

Ethel Da Costa
October  2, 2002

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