Goa and Cochin

December 11 – Friday – Goa

After a quick room service breakfast, we hauled ourselves on to the bus which was sitting in one of the dirtiest ports I’ve ever seen - Mormugao. Iron oxide is the main product of Goa and ships were loading up while trucks delivered more and more from the hinterland. It was so dirty that the ship announced that no towels would be laid out on the pool deck – they’d get too dirty too soon.

Our Goan guide for the day was Ceasar, a Roman Catholic, and he was helped by a Hindi trainee as well as the Hindi bus driver. No sooner were we past the port security than Ceasar began a rant which would continue through the tour. The gist of his message was: the world under the Portuguese was much better; all Goans are ambitious and clean; all Indians are opportunistic and dirty. No matter where we went it was the same message provided with permutations and variations. It tainted the day for me since his political message seemed stronger than required for us first time visitors.

The immediate impression is one of lush, green, tropical scenery. Having just been in Dubai where without irrigation there would be sand, it was a huge contrast to see that if you stuck a seed in the ground within hours it would be a full blown plant. This alone made Goa lovely. While there was distinct poverty, it wasn’t the numbing despair of Bombay. The blend of the Portuguese and Indian cultures created wonderful churches where Jesus’ image had a strong similarity to some of the Hindi gods; where the bell tower would have the fluting of an Indian temple; and where the frescoes in the churches carried a distinctly Indian hue.

Our first stop was the Hindu temple Shri Mahalsa which is dedicated to the Goddess Mahalsa, the sixth reincarnation of Lord Vishnu. We walked from the bus through a phalanx of hawkers and beggars down a dirt path to the entrance of the temple. This site serves not only as a site for the temple, but it includes a small ‘hotel’ which allows believers of this particular sect of Hinduism to come and stay. The heat was merciless so we were glad to find shade inside the temple as we watched the various Brahmin priests and their rituals. This is very much an active temple and I felt a bit like an interloper as we watched the devout come in and prostrate themselves before the altar. They would then leave offerings which the priest would have delivered to the rear of the altar area, where another Brahmin would lay the offering in front of the gold sculpture of the god. All the priests wore a simple dhoti like object with one long string across their bare chest leading from the front of their garment, across their torso to the back of their garment. Once the devout had left their offerings they followed a clockwise path along a walled corridor which circled around the altar. At each wall face they would stop, put their heads to the wall and pray – once at the West, the North and the East before returning to the starting spot in front of the altar. No pictures were allowed inside this temple so I will have to remember this all with my mind.

Our next stop was a large church complex in Old Goa which at one point was the site of more than fourteen churches and a basilica – a true legacy to the Portuguese. It is one of the largest churches in India built in 1600, but its importance is that it holds the remains of St. Francis Xavier, the patron saint of Goa. The story goes that when he died they threw lime on his body to have it disintegrate, but it remained intact and a hundred years later when priests put a finger in a wound on the corpses’ chest it still bled and without any preservation his body remained intact. His body is to the right of the altar, now sealed behind glass because an over exuberant pilgrim had bitten off a big toe! For me the two interesting parts here were that in place of a crucifix over the altar, there was a statue of St. Francis, who looked more like a turtle with the chest looking like a carapace; and a huge pulpit, made out of a single tree, on the side of the church, where the sculptures had a distinctly ‘Jewish’ look about them. What a schnozzola on those angels…hardly angelic.

We crossed the road and looked at the Cathedral dedicated to St. Catherine of Alexandria, which had been completely white-washed inside, covering over years of beautiful frescoes from the 1600’s. Ceasar was beside himself telling this story of how the ignorant Hindi … or the government…or someone….didn’t have any sense of the beauty of the place and had ruined it forever. Me and churches are not a match, and I grew bored quickly…and it was insufferably hot. Luckily it wasn’t a long visit and soon we were off to visit Panjim , the state capital of Goa. It became the capital in 1759,when Old Goa was struck with cholera and malaria, the governor decided to move the capital.

When you arrive in Panjim, you know you’re not in traditional India. All the architecture is Portuguese with rickety balconies, red tile roofs and open courtyards - all appropriate to a hot southern climate. It is here that churches out number temples - mainly because of the Goan Inquisition of the 1500’s where Hindi would be slaughtered if they didn’t renounce their religion…that does tend to put a damper on one’s fervency since it’s a whole lot easier to renounce your temples in order to live another day.

We drove through the town having things pointed out – including the trash on the streets left by the irresponsible Indians (If one were Goan, one would always put trash into receptacles, dontcha know). This was not my favorite tour, what with an opinionated and fairly pompous guide, too many churches and way too much heat, and way too long without any food break. I was glad to return to the port by four pm where Bob and I ordered a room service lunch since service in all other venues was nonexistent.

Our next port of call on Saturday was Mangalore. And if I thought Mormugao was dirty it didn’t hold a candle to Mangalore where the dirt of the iron oxide was just as thick. We concluded that we didn’t need to see anything here so we stayed on board and had a relaxing day. There comes a point when one is sort of toured-out and the thought of getting up early to ride a bus to another site is just not thrilling. The highlights were going to be a tour of a cashew factory – one of the main crops of the area. Instead a fellow-passenger picked up a bag of kernels along with all the literature on cashews so I could enjoy the product without the tour. At the end of the day we were all grumbling about ‘why the hell did they stop here?’ There was almost no redeeming quality, we didn’t refuel with oil, and most people just stayed on the ship. One couple took a taxi to town, and were back in about an hour. I’m planning to write this down in my critique, since it’s been the worst stop to date.

Sunday we awoke with a whole new attitude as we sailed into the harbor of Cochin, at dawn past the famous Chinese fishing nets. The air was sultry and we were off for a boat ride into the tranquil back waters of the area. Armed with mosquito repellent, sun screen and umbrella, we boarded our bus with our beautifully dark skinned guide whose name I never got. Shock absorbers were definitely shot, but we didn’t care as we jostled our way through Sunday crowds going to a church festival, or to do errands. We drove for about an hour past coir factories, teak and bamboo lumber yards, and rice paddies, until we reached our destination along one of the inland canals.

Cochin is made up of a series of small lakes, estuaries and canals where in most places the only means of transportation is on water …either in a large houseboat, a motor launch or many various sized canoes with entire families aboard. We boarded our boat and for the next hours, relaxed and watched people washing their clothes or themselves in the water, ducks moving in large flocks through the water, people going by with their boats loaded to the gunnels, and others going to the many churches, and even a large wedding. We passed rice paddies with people up to their thighs in water, large coconut palms providing a canopy above us while taro grew along the water’s edge. It was idyllic. To think that this is India is almost impossible – it is so tranquil, quiet and beautiful. The state of Kerala, where Cochin is located, is one of the more prosperous states and you can understand why. I kept thinking that I’d rather be dirt poor in Cochin even if I did have to wash my clothes the same way as the Dhobi Ghat in Bombay . Even the animals looked healthier with goats and cows tied to a post and obviously well fed in this lush green area. We learned that the herds of ducks that we had observed were actually farmed for their eggs which are a delicacy in the area. Never have I seen that many ducks in one place.

We were sorry to leave our boat, but it was time to return to the ship, so we once more boarded our bouncy bus and got back to the port. Nautica had ‘singled up the lines’ and it was just minutes before our ship left the pier. We sailed out into the Arabian Sea, having a beer on our veranda, chatting with our neighbors about the day, and watching a beautiful sunset.

This was a perfect day with no historical monuments, no significant statues – just a wonderful Sunday ride on the water. We have seen the last of our Indian ports on this visit, and absolutely no retail therapy occurred. I came into the country carrying the same 400 rupees with which I entered. This is a good and a bad thing – I would have liked to bargain for some of the cheap knick-knacks carried by the hawkers, but we were always busily off to the next site, and there was no time for independent shopping expeditions. Harrumph. All the trinkets with which I was going to spread Christmas cheer are going to have to be bought in the next three ports. Our trip is drawing to a close, and I’m loath to see it end.