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CHRISTMAS IN GOA
BOMBAY-GOA, THURSDAY, 18 DECEMBER 1952 Rose 5.15. Bus came to Taj Hotel and drove in darkness to aerodrome. Sleeping figures on Bombay pavements. In aeroplane some rich Indians on way to Poona villas. English ‘geographer’ from Bangalore. Arrived Belgaum 9 a.m. No aerodrome. Merely a level strip of earth bordered by old trees and the atmosphere of a picnic assembled round waiting car and bus. An Indian told me I need not take the train to Goa. A ‘luxury’ bus was going straight there. We drove in the bus to a little hotel. I asked him the way to lavatory. ‘You must use my house.’ He led me to minute bungalow in hotel grounds, through an unmade bedroom to a thunderbox. He was the manager of the hotel. At bus station in Belgaum a youth distributed leaflets in English denouncing tyranny of Portuguese rule in Goa. No one paid any attention. Two hours’ drive to frontier. Goan youth vomited. Wireless at frontier post and little restaurants. Long puzzle over my passport. New, better bus beyond frontier. Portuguese post very easygoing on control. Booth selling beer and whisky. Drove two hours downhill through jungle. Then a glimpse of Old Goa, a good waterside road to Panjim. Goan youth went out of his way to show me my hotel. Mandovi. Manager out. I was not expected until next day. 5 o’clock hot but not insupportable. Went shopping. Ordered a suit 94 rupees - 6 1/2 guineas. Vainly sought cigars. Currency all Indian. Have not seen Portuguese notes. Hotel small steel and concrete skyscraper with marble enrichments still under construction. Noise inside and outside (where the quay is being built with mechanical drill) appalling. Very weary. Wrote notes to Governor and Patriarch. Early bed with sleeping draught. Sailing ships outside window - dhows from Muscat collecting betel and rice and bringing petrol.
Friday 19, December 1952 At 8 took taxi to Goa. Entered Bom Jesus, full of pilgrims. Tuscan tomb very cramped. Convent adjoining full of pilgrims cooking in the cloisters. Space between B.J. and cathedral full of booths selling refreshments and objects of piety. Great crowds, 25,000 daily, children and women in Indian clothes, men European clothes some with sodality capes. Queues for ‘kissing’, i.e., veneration of St. Francis. On steps of cathedral greeted by priest - Father Ribeno. ‘Mr Way?” The Patriarch had driven round Old Goa seeking me. With Ribeno and Mr Merese, half owner, editor, and writer, with his brother, of the single-sheet evening paper. Ribeno showed me Franciscan convent full of pilgrims, remarkably clean, and old Patriarchal Palace adjoining. Some fine rooms and gallery of good painting. Franciscan church occupied by Exposition of Religious Art. Natives still reverence statues, kissing and leaving coins even when in museum. (St. Catherine in Bom Jesus has lately had her feet set on a cloud instead of on a Mohammedan.) Veneration of body in cathedral sanctuary, panels removed from silver reliquary, body (now spoken of simply as ‘the relics’) protruding and one brown stump of toe emerging from white wrapping. Body fully vested, one grey forearm and hand, and grey clay-like skull visible. I postponed my own veneration until I could make it more privately. Mr Merese drove with me and solicited call at his office - charming wooden verandah. Brother. Woman purchasing festival stamped envelope. Beer, sandwiches. Elderly tieless toothless man Dr. Fred Da Sa joined us. He said he spoke all languages perfectly and had saved Gandhi’s life by performing illicit operation while in prison. He said, ‘All English gentlemen like shooting. You will shoot with me on Sunday. I have a beautiful place with a tennis court. I always miss when I shoot.’ ‘Then you like pigling?’ I took him to mean pig-sticking but he meant suckling pig. He insisted on me and the editors lunching with him on Sunday. Returned hotel to find Indian Vice-Consul with invitation from Indian Consul-General. I agreed to have tea with him that afternoon. Also humble official, also Da Sa, from Government House to ask if I wanted anything. I said I wanted a car and gave him a copy of Holy Places. Heavy siesta. Invitation to lunch next day with Patriarch. Tried on a suit and ordered shirt and pants. 84 rupees. Tea with Indian Consul and wife (broken arm) very elegant and cultured and lonely in Goa. Returned hotel to find Merese again, presenting me with copies of his evening paper containing description of my morning’s visit to Goa. All I could read were my own comments. ‘Beautiful. Magnificent. Really fine.’ Gave him ‘Campion’ (Waugh’s book ‘Edmund Campion’ on the Jesuit martyr.) Da Sa dropped in to present me with a life of Churchill written by himself in Portuguese and to show me W. Churchill’s autograph. Then a tremendously boring journalist who wanted to improve his education by asking me my opinion of H.G. Wells as a thinker. I told him C. Sykes and R. Knox were greatest English thinkers. He stayed with me until 9. After dinner Goanese manager of hotel (drunk?) told me he wished to write a book about the theory of politics with special application to Goa. He was well content with the political condition of Goa. Slept well and naturally. Saturday 20 December 1952 Government car came 6.30. Drove through exquisite cool morning to Goa. Already as crowded as day before though booths not open. Communion in cathedral. Recognized and accosted by bearded Jesuit who led me to head of the queue for ‘kissing’. Kissed. Drove back to shave and breakfast. While shaving Da Sa popped in to say, ‘All the people in Goa are asking if you have slept well.’ Noise absolutely infernal. 11 o’clock to Government House. Brief interview in French with Governor-General. Met many officials including Hindu archivist Pissurlencar. Fine old house. I should mention all my callers slip into my room without notice. Perhaps they knock but in the hubbub I have no warning of their approach and the door will not fasten. Lunched at Patriarch’s Palace. Patriarch fine-looking spruce alert old man. Archbishop coadjutor there and Bishop of Madura. Three household priests. Five courses. Five wines including Portuguese champagne. I gave him Holy Places. Not impressed. Bishop of Madura rather tight. After lunch straight into book. White visitors are as rare as in Ireng country. Learned that Indian Consul is Christian so left card. Vincent Coelho. Sunday, 21 December 1952 Mass at 8.30 in Panjim Church. Men in choir or porch. Body of church all women and children. At 10 o’clock Merese brothers arrived in car with Jesuit Father Irene Lobo. Ferry across river. Populous shore of well-kept bungalows. Goans houseproud. These largely residences of absentee servants in Africa or Bombay. Mr. Fred Da Sa modest house. Wife and five children. He joined party and we drove to Calangute, stopping on way at prosperous house of Pinto family for beer. They were cousins of Merese and, it transpired, of Lobo too. Visited a fine old Franciscan church and convent now secular priests’ house. Wine and compliments. Luncheon prepared with pigling from Da Sa’s in rather horrible bathing…beach among half-naked policemen. Father Lobo entirely delightful. He has established a retreat house, one of several, at Baga where strict weekend spiritual exercises include Friday penitential via dolorosa with leader carrying heavy teak cross. Lobo full of smiling goodwill. ‘Here we have no courtships. It is all Christian.’ The parents arrange the marriage, inquiring about piety, dowry and syphilis. The castes do not intermarry. The husband is usually abroad for most of his life and mother becomes head of household. No divorce. Even under Masonic rule pre-Salazar when divorce was legal very little used. Siesta and left Lobo returning with Merese 5.50 to find message that car will call for me at 6 to take me to Governor’s Palace. Bath, change, drove long distance to seaward to governor’s fine villa in park. Picturesque ancient soldiers. Smart ADCs. The rest less smart. The ladies sat in two rows in the centre of the drawing-room with Govenor-General’s wife at apex. Shook hands with each in turn then led by His Excellency to verandah, given whisky and surrounded by journalists. One rough fellow seizing food, ‘The Governor’s house is our house.’ Left at 7. Accosted in hotel by a Mr da Costa, engineer of ancient family. Ostensibly to consult me about his children’s education. Sly conceited fellow. Took me out for some ‘good coffee’ into what proved to be a government-sponsored exhibition. Portuguese products - dentists’ chairs, etc. - round a bright square with wireless coming from Albuquerque’s statue. Other statue in city is remarkable bronze of Goan (died 1815 in Paris) hypnotizing a woman (check). We sat in cafe frequented by Portuguese officers and officials. Youth with insolent-pansy manner named Hall. I took a great dislike to him and told da Costa he was probably a deserter from the army. He has married the wife of the Indian C-in-C Capiana. Drank brandy. Boy Hall sat with us ostentatiously distrait. From ‘The Diaries of Evelyn Waugh’, Penguin Books. Evelyn Waugh is the well-known English writer. Waugh’s widely acclaimed novels include ‘Black Mischief’, ‘Brideshead Revisited’, ‘Vile Bodies’, ‘A Handful of Dust’ and ‘Scoop’. (To be continued)
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