Brumming About

Sunday 17 February

The moped - and time to spare with no appointments to be late for - give me a rare sense of light-headed freedom. I am still learning to lean into corners without wobbling or slewing across the road. Just when I think that man and machine have become one, I stop on a slope, forget how heavy it is, and it crashes to the ground dislodging the wing mirror. I find a mini-market for super-glue, which seems to do the trick. 

Mackerel on the tarmac

I've discovered the 'ped's lockable luggage compartment, so no longer need to carry a backpack and can let my shirt flap free. First off, I head up to the next stretch of beach, take a dip in the surf (it's windy) and dry off in the sun. The tarmac lane down here is quiet, and used for drying fish, from silvery whole mackerel to thick reddish steaks of filleted big fish. As I approach one such display, a lean dog appears from the undergrowth, checks that the fishwife is not looking, and jogs off into the paddy with a big strip of fish flapping from his jaws. I'd always wondered how all the feral dogs survive. 

Then to church, it is Sunday after all. Benaulim's star architectural attraction is the Church of St John the Baptist, built 1596, on a low hill behind the village. (This was the so-called "golden" era of Goa, which was ruled by the Portuguese from 1510 to 1961.) The church is closed on Sundays, but open for Mass at 5 pm, so for now I head back to the Tansy to sort out my train ticket for tomorrow, then on to the beach (again). 

Evening Mass. Note chairs for overspill.

I get back to the church 10 minutes early (!) for evening Mass, but the church is already full (500+) and rows of plastic chairs are being assembled as an overspill outside the west doors. But I sneak in and find a gap on a bench along the wall. I'm pretty conspicuous, the only white-bearded white face, and definitely the only male in (swimming) shorts! The men, to a man, have sombre grey trousers, and the girls and women wear smart western style dresses. The little girl in front of me is draped in satin like a Jane Austen bridesmaid with delicate lace ruffs round her shoes. 

Songs of Praise, Goan style

The service is familiar, if mainly for the order of proceedings. The Goan language (Konkani) seems to be linked to European languages by no more than its script, and the only word I recognise is Amen. My sermon-meter clicks into action and registers a full 30 minutes of loud hectoring, with only a single joke (laughter) when the priest pauses mid-way to drink a glass of water. I can grasp a few words only, as he preaches in "Engoan" - i.e. Goan with the occasional English idiom thrown in, e.g. ".....goan goan goan womb to tomb goan goan goan well he would wouldn't he goan goan goan". (I'm not just making this up.) The collection is taken in plastic washing-up bowls. There is music in Cliff Richard style (simple, joyous, inclusive) apparently taken from the Catholic Charismatic song book (there's an English version too) accompanied on something that sounds like a cross beween a melodion and a Jew's Harp. As Mass ends, a life-size purple-draped figure of Christ bearing the cross is carried out, shoulder-height, and a procession forms to follow it up a winding path to another white chapel on the opposite hillside, intoning the rosary through a megaphone all the way. I should say that the church is beautiful, a rectangular Renaissance hall, light and white with an elaborate gilded altarpiece and big bulbous pulpit.

Every minute of anger you lose 60 seconds of joy - Tony. (From the wall of Dinah's Restaurant. Who's Tony?)

Caption competition?