The tin can
In the past week I’ve visited the nearby towns of Margao and Cavelossim. Margão is more like a small city here. I woke up at 8AM to catch the 9AM bus. You need to be at the bus stop at least half an hour earlier because 9 can mean any time between 8 and 10 – this is usual. Our bus finally arrived at 935, as it came about I found myself mentally checking if I had travel insurance…
We queued to hop on, it was 15 rupees p/p which is about 30 cents. As we are pushed onto the bus by Russian tourists, I find a seat next to an open window so I can take pictures. I take back my statement about the airport shuttle…this is a whole new level. The vehicle is an old patched up tin can with a shoestring holding the door closed – I’ll be surprised if me make it to town alive but I’ll at least be entertained.
A brief history
The scenery is something short of amazing, Goa is an old Portuguese state. It was occupied by Portugal hundreds of years ago and it adapted accordingly. I am told that when it was time to give out new family names, people stood in lines to get them and after every 10 minutes they changed the name. So to ballpark, there are let’s say, a thousand Diaz’es and a thousand Fernandez’es and none of them are related.
Portuguese was still forbidden in schools around 500 years ago which left the Indians to decide what language they should speak and teach. As the local Konkani didn’t get many votes, they went for their second national language – English.
Where was I… Driving through villages you see everything from huts made out of dried buffalo..erm..droppings to old Portuguese style mansions. You can recognise the latter by all sorts of carvings and pillars and use of marble around the house. All the houses are painted in all different colours of the rainbow. Everything you can possibly imagine – 10 different shades of green, then pink and purple and turquoise and yellow. They look like new. And there’s a reason for that.
Every year the monsoon season starts around May and the water causes a lot of damage which leads to people painting over their houses each and every year when the summer rains finish. They look spectacular from the outside and you’ll find the inside will mirror.
Venture out to Margao
After 30 bumpy minutes and 300 stops the tin can arrives at Margão. It’s hot and humid – 37 degrees as we enter the famous fish market. There’s every sea and river creature your heart could desire..but only one cat.
We avoid the fish and make way to the main market, it’s like a maze, you should have a tour guide going through it. A lady latches onto us, asking where we’re from and so on. This is the way they do it, leading the conversation to a point where they demand you to come and look at their shop. She follows us through the maze for about 20 minutes but we finally manage to shake her off.
Trips to tea shops and fruit slots, all sorts of spices and produce..we feel lost between the corner of curry and sari and make a “wrong turn”… We’re greeted by the pushy lady and once again make a run for it. As we continue to shuffle our way through I get nicknames like Blue Eyes and Madam Barbie Doll. The locals put their arms next to mine and tell me how pretty and white my skin is and not to go in the sun. Honestly it seemed some of them had to shade their eyes as I walked by because I was too bright for them.
Chai time
After three hours of playing Maze Runner we stop at a restaurant to have some food and beer. No matter where you go the food’s still excellent, not a drop of pepper out of place. The tourists next to us get handed two bottles of Coke which I can only assume were left over from the first edition.
As I step outside I’m immediately surrounded by beggars, they grab onto you to give them food or money. I’m taught to always say no. There are roadworks and construction taking place all around us. No bridges or leeways are provided for pedestrians. Want get to the other side? You jump and pray you don’t fall into the trench. Trying to get back to the bus stop, the traffic’s horrifying. At the busiest places there’s a traffic controller of some sort who every once in a while lifts up his hand motioning people to cross. It’s pretty much an if you’re late you die policy.
Driving miss Lazy
Back on the tuna can I squeeze myself onto the back seat of the bus. It has leather seats..I’m wearing shorts..it’s nearly 40 degrees..you do the math.. I learn that whenever you want a stop you need to let the bus attendant know who then whistles at the driver. The sound of it is so loud that even a local school boy rubbed his ears one time after the whistle..there’s a definite chance to go temporarily deaf if you sit at front.
As our stop got nearer I started to peel my thighs off the bus seat..I wanted to cry. Just in case, I glanced back to make sure I didn’t leave any skin behind…
