Panaji and Old Goa

PANAJI (PANJIM)

We are currently sat in an exquisitely restored typically Goan house waiting for some dinner.  The Portuguese influence pervades all the buildings here, and the inside of the restaurant is coloured in bright terracotta orange and lemon paint, with wonderfully crafted dark wood furniture with intricate flower designs, including the heavy door and a cool, grey, veined marble floor.  The walls are adorned with pictures distinctly European in their subject matter, as are the ornaments and statuettes in the alcoves within the walls.  The atmosphere is intimate, and the friendly waiters are clearly enjoying the music that is being played loudly – if my ears serve me correctly I believe it is the Venga Boys, but I could be wrong.  I understand Vasco De Gama conquered the beaches of Goa in the 16^th century enthusiastically singing ‘I wanna have sex on the beach, come on everybody!’ and thus brought Euro-pop charm to India.

After almost a couple of weeks happily entrenched in Palolem, we finally got the gumption to say goodbye to the Goan beach holiday.  We could feel the next 6 months slipping away into a pleasant sandy coma with the days coming and going as gently as the tide.  But, it was getting much busier, and we were getting upset that ‘our’ space in the sea for frolicking was being increasingly encroached by the ever growing number of tourists; many of whom were Indian, and would ask to pose with myself and Alex while friends took picture of us.  It was like getting hounded by the paparazzi.  Our departure was made even timelier by the guest we had on our last night.  At about 1 am Alex was tickled into arousal by an amorous intruder, and he awoke to a cockroach whispering something about a ménage a trois into his ear from his pillow.  Alex was not impressed, as the torch clicked on the roach stared back at him with incredulous curiosity.  ‘What you don’t want me here?’  it seemed to ask, its little antenna wiggling around suggestively.  Alex chased him off the bed with a slipper only to find a number of his much larger mates having a party around my backpack.  They all legged it, apart from one unlucky beast, when they saw the slipper being swung towards them.  The rest of the night Alex took vigil to ensure our decency remained intact, and we were not sullied by the naughty little pests.  Every hour or so the violent twitching of a man determined to remain untouched by the filth of the roach, followed by the click click of the torch alerted me to the fact that my man was protecting us, if not letting me get any sleep while doing so.  (There is also the story of a thoughtful rat that left me the present of a little poo on my pillow, but I feel these incidents could become numerous over the next year to recount every one.  Hopefully Alex’s responses will become more accepting in nature as we continue our travels – the diary of neuroses is getting very full!)

But I have digressed.  Panjim; what a stunning city.  It is the capital of Goa and has been since the mid-19^th century.  As I mentioned earlier the Portuguese character is absorbed into many of the buildings.  You see the beauty of the city flaking in its once startlingly coloured paint, now fading, peeling from the walls of the old buildings, contrasted with the freshness of the new houses, faithful to the old style of architecture.  The houses themselves are vibrant, even those in their age, crumbling into the narrow streets that weave through the town, reminiscent of a medieval Europe.  There are tall arched windows set into flat, smooth walls, and on the upper floors verandas with wrought iron, or stone balustrades stretch along the buildings.  Along the broken roads that snake lazily around the houses, there are vivacious greens from the weeds breaking up the tarmac, and even in the abandoned looking houses, mould blackened from the humidity, nature enlivens the exterior with beautiful greens and the occasional flower.  Bright, bright white churches, placed here and there around the lanes and roads seem to defy the process of time happening around them, standing as beacons around the fading glory of the city.

It appears to be quite a small, but wealthy city; we have spent a couple of days wandering around it now and have yet to stumble on any extremity of poverty, that is not to say there isn’t any, but it seems to be either better hidden, or at a lower level than other places I have been to.  We have found some incredibly opulent areas though, with great colonial style mansions, many faceted buildings standing strongly atop hills looking proudly across the town below.

We like it here; the environment is unthreatening and friendly, at night it is well lit, Diwali lanterns flutter gently in the warm night breezes and many coloured fairy lights adorn the houses.  During the day, as long as one stays amongst the back streets, it is atmospheric and the history seeps into to your pores, clogging you with nostalgias for times gone by (the main roads are busy and really noisy with the cheap car engines and endless horns).  I think I could stay here for a long time, it feels familiar and inviting; but we are moving onto another beach shortly to meet with friends coming for a two week holiday from England, not before we go and explore Old Goa though.  It is said to have rivalled Lisbon for culture in the 17^th century.  I can’t wait…..

OLD GOA

Well it turns out I could have waited.  All that is left of Old Goa is a few large cathedrals that were built in the 17^th century, each one a grander version of the preceding one.  It looks like the Portuguese had a cathedral off.  There was none of the atmosphere and feeling that oozes out of Panjim, apart from one small section of road.  There you could see the faded grandeur of what once existed; and if that one section of road was anything to go by it would have looked truly awesome.  However, despite its lack of vibe, it has been designated a world heritage site and there were tourists aplenty suffering the brutal midday sun to go and look at statuette after statuette of crudely executed, sad looking Saint Francis of Assisi. 

By the amount of times I was asked to be photographed I don’t think the Indians were that impressed by the pride of Indian Catholicism either.  I think I was the most photographed ‘attraction’, second only to a dead saint lying in a box that apparently never decomposed despite being dead for the past 5 centuries.  I am not sure what that says about me or the Indians.  I have resigned myself to this draw of fascination, and have started charging people 5 rupees to have their photo taken with me.  They find this a little bemusing, but I do insist they part with their change if they want to pose with me.I then pass on the 5 rupees to the next beggar I come across that asks me for money.  And this is not just young men who approach me, women, children and families all ask as well.  There are those that don’t ask too, some even go to the great lengths of orchestration in order to make it look like they are being photographed with me.  For example, and this happened a couple of times, people would pose just ahead of where I was going to be walking, their friends ready to take aim, and as I passed they got their shot.  Everywhere I looked I saw eyes quickly averted and cameras flashing.  It was amusing enough today, but I am not sure how patient I am going to be if this is a regular occurrence over the next year.

As for Alex, he’s pretty happy, he’s found Jesus.