Something's fishy in Koggala!

He looked like a fisherman too – thin, tanned and half dressed like he was ready to jump into the water. But, he knew I was coming! Well, perhaps not me precisely, but a tourist looking for that great photo! That’s when I realised that what I thought was quite rare and offbeat, was now on the tourist circuit, thanks to some good marketing by Sri Lanka tourism and another iconic Steve McCurry photo. 

When McCurry shot the stilt fishermen in 1995 along the Weligama shores, it was a tradition on the decline – with better boats and fishing methods, fewer felt the need to sit for hours on poles to earn a living. But, what he achieved was to bring this old age tradition to the world. Sri Lanka has cashed in on it – hotels carry paintings of the stilt fisherman, you can even carry home a wooden replica of them as a memento (We did) – the fishermen of Koggala are now world famous. But, the awareness couldn’t stop what was fated. Fisherman continued to find more lucrative ways of earning their living and the authentic fishing method is on its last legs. But, here’s where the catch is (pun intended) – sometimes, the more lucrative job allows them to remain fishermen, at least for a flash!

The fishing stick made of Kitul

The fisherman who approached me spoke in English. Pointing to four more of his kind sitting on poles fairly close to the beach he said, “We are fisherman, this is our job. We have families to support and you must pay 100 rupees to each fisherman if you want a photo.” Adjusting for what was obviously not his native tongue; the intonation was still rather rude and presumptuous. I ignored him and continued towards the beach for a photo. But, a quick shout from the leader and the four fishermen clambered down the poles. It was quite the farce really! A few minutes earlier, I had paid 600 LKR to shoot 3 fishermen posing on the poles. But, then they didn’t demand money, rather requested. As I walked away, the thought that I might have already missed the bus began to sink in. It appeared that all that remained were mere mannequins; locals posing as stilt fishermen for a photo. The scoundrels!

Caught! A fisherman get his catch

It was later that evening, when we decided to drive back down towards Weligama (just for a scenic drive along the coast), when I found them – they were perched modestly on stilts (ritipanna), just the two of them. My presence didn’t seem to bother them and they continued to pick out tiny sardines from the blue waters of Koggala. As waves collapsed upon their stilts, they responded with adroitness in balance. With a whip of their kitul stick, they plucked them out with ease - their catch now gleaming in the setting sun. I spent half an hour taking shots, and not a single fisherman approached me for money, which is why I paid them when leaving. Yes, I paid them; because at the end of the day, these fishermen will go home and evaluate whether or not they should fish or perform like circus clowns. I know what I want I would like them to do, for me and for the next generation of travellers. Thanks to two strangers, I could share Steve McCurry’s reality.

TIPS

• The fishing stick is made of wood called Kitul. The stilts are also referred to as Ritipanna and the fishing string is called thangoos.
• Search long enough and you might just spot the real fishermen – they fish a little after sunrise and before sunset
• Don’t miss the beautiful beach at Weligama – it is a bay so you get sunrise and sunset there
• Go whale watching at Mirissa, a short drive from Koggala. 

Hampi - Time travel

“I don’t think she blesses foreigners..”. The two lanky, twenty something white men had quizzical looks ingrained with disappointment. Ofcourse, for anyone watching the little play, it was quite the amusement; not that racism is funny, but I guess a racist elephant is.

Lakshmi blesses a devotee

Lakshmi, the elephant is quite the crowd puller.  Barring a few walkabout appearances, her day is primarily chained to a pillar in the southern mandapa in the main courtyard of the Virupaksha temple. Her mahout sits behind wielding a short stick which he uses to communicate with the elephant through taps.  Devotees bring fruits and other food for Lakshmi and if you hand over some money, she places her trunk on your head as a blessing. The two foreign tourists had done everything right, exactly as the Indians had – they found a coin after much digging and searching through their wallets and backpacks and handed it over; yet she stood perfectly still as if nothing had happened! The mahout then clears the confusion – “Give ten rupees”. Ofcourse! He was holding out for more and the signal hadn’t been given to the animal. Like all other experiences in India, this one too came at significant premium to foreigners.

The portal

But blessing or not, Lakshmi symbolises all that is good about the sacred centre in Hampi – the fact that it is active, alive and in use. At the heart of it all is the Virupaksha temple. Situated at the end of the defunct Hampi bazaar and at the foot of Hemakuta hill, the Virupaksha temple is a fortress! Her Gopuras pierce the skies with statues and etchings of mythological characters as her high walls demarcate the land. But pass through the main Gopura in the East and it’s like a travelling through a  portal back in time.  The first courtyard is actually quite uninspiring – it has a barren tree in the centre very much like the white tree of Gondor, a pillared hall in the corner and a ticket counter to enter the main section of the temple – except for a few priests or sadhus around, its bereft of the rituals and most of structures that make the land holy.

Priest at Virupaksha temple

The next courtyard though is buzzing– not only are people flocking to see Lakshmi, but there are the shrines which are the hub of spiritual activity. There is always something happening – the priests are either performing a puja or preparing for one – and there are multiple shrines. All of this is ofcourse amidst architecture from medieval India – the great pillared halls, the intricate carvings on pillars and ceilings alike and the paintings, some of which have been restored to their original splendour –entities for which most travellers set aside admiration time, even if they come in the guise of pilgrims. And if you still don’t find this interesting enough, the monkeys of Kishkinda are always around to remind you of Hampi’s place in the Ramayana. While they lord over Anjenadri hill, the site of the Hanuman temple on the other side of the river, their numbers are anything but sparse throughout Hampi. Wonder if they would be willing to bless the foreigners!

View of Hampi from Anjenadri hill

Virupaksha temple from Hemakuta hill

TIPS

1. Stay near the Hampi bazaar – its gets you close to the real deal. The royal centre is photogenic but dead. However, opinion is often split on which side of the river you should stay;
• Hampi side – No time limits, ok guesthouses, only veg food and no alcohol and close to the main attractions – good base if you want to get under the skin of Hampi.
• Across the river (anegondi side) – Better food and dirnk, better guesthouses, but need to cross over each time – last boat at 6pm and ferries may not ply during the monsoons when the river is high.
2. Explore Hampi on foot – it can be tiring, but it lets the place sink in
3. Watch Lakshmi, the elephant being given a bath at 8am everyday in the Tungabhadra to the North of the Virupaksha temple.
4. For an excellent view of Hampi, visit Anjenadri hill on the other side of the river. 

The wild side of Bombay

Flamingos at Sewri

Sunrise at Sewri

Pink - Flamingos at the mudflats

Fewer flamingos come to the mudflats every year as their habitat gets destroyed

1. Flamingos are typically at the mudflats from Feb to April
2. BNHS (Bombay Natural history society) organizes a day of flamingo watching (flamingo festival) – check their website for more (http://www.bnhs.org/)
3. The flamingos will be closer during low tide – time your visit (Sunrise makes for some nice photos)

Kanheri caves

Rooted - Banyan tree 

Vines on the way to the caves

Dried vegetation awaits the monsoons

Red neck

At the caves

Standing in Queue

Youngsters take a break after the climb - Bombay in the distance

Standing gaurd

Left foot

It was a hot Saturday morning!

1. The gates open at 7:30 am (it’s the same gate as the Sanjay Gandhi National park)
2. The walk to the caves is 7 km and is recommended except during the summer months. There are private vans which can take you for Rs. 33/- one way. Alternatively, there is the 188 bus from Borivali station that runs on Sundays.
3. Carry water as there are no shops along the way
4. Beware of monkeys J

The old guard of Malabar - A day in Kochi

A fisherman is in a pensive mood at the Chinese fishing nets

With a creak and a crank, the wooden planks see-saw upwards. Behind me the five fishermen are heaving and pulling down ropes attached to large rocks with cries of ‘hejala’. The nets rise, and with it the hopes of a catch. These are the Cheena vala, the Chinese fishing nets of Kochi in action. The eastern imports are huge spider like contraptions which are delicately balanced – lowered or raised with simple human effort. I am here for the sunrise and a few good photographs. The fishermen oblige but not without a small plea to help their cause. One of them speaks English and Hindi and explains that it’s a bad season and that they have families to support. He isn’t entirely wrong – in the past 30 mins they have lowered the nets about 4 times and not caught a single fish. In contrast, the fishermen who took their boats to deeper waters are returning with a huge catch to sell right behind the Cheena Vala. A quick look around and I notice that all the fishermen operating the nets on the beach are considerably old. Obviously this is a dying technique with no takers amongst the youth.

Hejala - the fishermen draw the nets up

The younger generation has unfortunately turned Cochin into a mini-Goa. Not that I dislike Goa, but unique is certainly superior to popular. Sample this – the previous night I headed to the Kerala café, a street restaurant near the nets. Reggae blasts from the speaker in the corner while the Malyali waiter looks a bit rasta himself. Soon he joined by a long haired Caucasian male dressed in a white lungi and white cotton shirt. The two keep thumping their fists together like they just robbed the bank of Kerala. Seated around me are North Indians who converse with the waiters in Hindi. It seems the Great South Indian guard that held my admiration for so many years is down. An assimilation into the larger Indian way you say- but like I mentioned, unique trumps popular.

Anyways, it was time for breakfast, but I wasn’t going to get any at 7:30 in the morning. Most of our enterprising Mallus are struggling into the morning. So I head back to my room to kill off an hour before I go to the Kashi Art café down the street to experience some more of the new age Kochi. As the name suggests, it’s a café-cum-art exhibition. With a nice airy Mediterranean feel to it, the Kashi Art café runs art exhibitions in its premises. Besides, the food ain’t too bad either. In fact, I soon realize that it’s pretty good as I dig into the creamy cheese filling of my omlette.  Regardless of the cosmopolitan infusion, Kochi still retains a lot of its original character, thanks to some well supported and preserved institutions by locals and government.

Murals at the river front

Mattancherry is one such example. Home to the Dutch palace and the old Jew town, it is a Malabar relic unlike any other. The Jews of Kochi, now just 8 (5 families) are an endangered lot. Jews are believed to have made their way to the Malabar Coast after the destruction of the temple of Solomon and have had a significant presence here. However, all that remains is a synagogue and remnants of the old Jew town, now filled with merchants selling all sorts of Indian art. It’s the same old clash you would witness in most tourist places in the country – the preservation of culture, of the past and of antiquity often finds itself competing with a means of survival for some. The synagogue is quite remarkable with its blue and white ceramic tiles on the floor and chandeliers above. Also remarkable is its emptiness!

Jew street

The Dutch palace is also worth a visit. It’s a museum today and is testament to the extravagance of the former rulers of Kochi. But with every step, I could feel the heat and humidity of Kochi suck the energy out of me. It was just too tiring to go through the placards on Kochi’s history and stand around to admire the murals. It was a quick 15 minute tour around the palace before going back to Fort Kochi for Lunch and some rest. I needed it – I was about to immerse myself into another dimension of the old culture.

Ethnic Indian work on sale in Jew town

Most states in the country have their own art forms and Kerala is no exception. In fact, the martial arts of Kalaripayttu and the dance of Kathakali are quite famous across the country if not the world. As the last act of the day, I head to the Kerala Kathakali centre for some martial arts and dance.  Three fighters took control of the first hour and amazed the audience with acrobatic somersaults, aerial kicks and a range of attacks and blocks with and without weapons including the Urumi which evoked some shrieks from the audience. At the end the announcer narrates a sad but familiar story – one of the dying art of Kalaripayttu. It’s not as famous as other traditional art forms and obviously not as glamorous as Kung-fu or Karate.

Kalaripayttu - fighters in action

Layers of colour

The next hour was the most interesting part of the evening – No, not the Kathakali dance, but the makeup session for the dancers that precedes it and yes, it takes an hour! For an entire sixty minutes, the dancers put on their own make-up for an audience. Everyone looked on, absolutely astounded by this exotic display, as the dancers applied layer after layer of colour. I on the other hand, wondered how two men could sit there every day for an hour and dump colour on themselves, that too in public. More importantly, traditionally, Kathakali performers were male. It’s only in recent years that female dancers have joined the troupe. So not only were they putting on make-up, one of the dancers was to play the role of a woman. Weird place this – a macho martial arts form is losing popularity, but men would rather colour themselves for an audience. If this is God’s own country, then we all came out wrong I guess. Nonetheless, it is still remarkable that locals go the distance to conserve their culture – I guess the old guard is still around.

St. Francis Church

Tips

• There are plenty of homestays in Fort Kochi including the Vasco homestay where Vasco Da Gama is believed to have lived. They are the best budget options here. I stayed at the Oy’s homestay which was just above the Oy’s Café. However, some of them are just inns and not necessarily in a home.
• DO NOT miss the fish in Kochi
• St. Francis church (where Vasco Da Gama was once buried) and the Santa Cruz basilica are good examples of Indo-Portuguese architecture. They are close to each other and a visit wont take up much time.
• The Kerala Kathakali centre is your one stop destination for all art forms of Kerala. They even have courses.
• Close to the Jew town is a spice market, just in case you want the authentic stuff

The city beautiful - a day in Chandigarh

‘God must play with Lego too’, I thought to myself. Well, I’m certainly not suggesting that a French architect-planner is God himself, but his masterpiece in North India certainly looked like a city made of Lego building blocks from the air. Chandigarh, perhaps India’s finest planned city, Le Corbusier’s masterpiece and capital to two states looked alarmingly orderly. I know it is a planned city, but it seemed so predictable – equal sections containing structures of similar height, straight roads which met each other at perfect right angles and plenty of green – I’m guessing just the right amount to keep the oxygen at 20.95%. Perfect you might think – perhaps – But perfect is not always beautiful, at least not to me.

I had to put my discovery of the city on hold though. The primary reason for my being here took the first bite of my time, as I headed to the dusty town of Zirakpur on the outskirts of the garden city for the wedding of my good friend AS (Yes, the valley of flowers trip http://www.riaanrove.blogspot.in/2012/09/the-valley-of-flowers.html). I spend the rest of day, meeting old friends, enjoying some local cuisine and feeling like a dwarf, before I return to Chandigarh to find accommodation for the night.

It rained for a good part of the night and I woke to a perfect concoction of weather, sights and sounds. Spring was on the horizon. Dead brown leaves decorated the pavements but a little higher up the bark, the yellows were outnumbered. The greens have it! The greens have it, I say. The sky was overcast, the ground was damp. The morning air had the last breath of autumn, the smell of wet mud and a wiff of parathas and chai. What a day to explore the city!

The end of autumn 

The open air rock show

The rock garden in Chandigarh is really the work of one man, Nek Chand Saini, who started fashioning models out of scrap in a gorge near Sukhna lake in 1957. Today it is an amazing collection of rock art amidst a dramatic setting of cascading waterfalls and reflective ponds bordered by dense foliage and arboreal delights – moss covered high walls to shape paths, roots protruding out and spreading themselves from the upper sections and the odd bird call. If not for Chand’s sculptures, it would have made a perfect setting for an Indiana Jones movie. Tuck away at least 2 hours to explore this 40 acre garden - it really is one big open air art show.

Read more at http://www.nekchand.com/visit

Walk in the forest

Waterfall in the rock gardens

A French connection

Children pose for a snap at the open hand

The ‘open hand’, another gift of Le Corbusier is apparently the emblem of the city. The funny part though is that nobody really knows where it is. After directions from several people including some police officers, I find myself at Sukhna lake only to realize that I’m at the wrong end of the road. But finally, about 20 mins later, I am moving past some tight security towards the site. The open hand is in the main capitol complex near the high court and is one dreary sight! Not to take anything away from the Frenchman – it is an amazing structure. It stands a good three storey high, sits in another one of Chandigarh’s gardens and turns majestically with the wind – yes, it functions as a wind vane! Unfortunately, there is nobody to marvel at her beauty and I mean nobody, save the few kids playing cricket in the pit at her base. I expected to see a fair crowd (It was a Sunday!) busy clicking away, getting their portraits at the symbol of their beloved city. None of that here, none of that anywhere for that matter – Chandigarh, for an Indian city is really quite empty. Well, either that or nobody gets out. The hand just stands there begging for attention.

At the architecture museum

To understand the history and foundations of Chandigarh, I head to the museum complex in Sector 10. Another one of Le Corbusier’s creations, the complex houses museums of the evolution of life, an art gallery and most notably, the museum of the architecture of Chandigarh. Even if you aren’t really into architecture, expect the museum to impress you. I was certainly quite in awe – partly because of the elaborate plans of the city that her founders drew up, partly because of the new facts I uncovered. With the partition as a trigger for ideation, inspiration of a garden city from Europe and a battery of architects on a quest for glory (and not money), the story of Chandigarh is right out of a National Geographic documentary with twists and turns, targets and misses , with it all coming together at the end. And while, Mr. C takes most of the credit on this one, he just added the finishing touches as I found out. The first plans for the city were drawn up by American architects Albert Mayer and Matthew Nowicki, and guess what – while their plans also outlined independent and self sufficient sectors, they intended to make it a real garden city with non-linear roads to add to the beauty. Like I said, perfection isn’t always beautiful! Nowicki’s death however, made way for a new set of Architects with Corbusier at the lead, to redesign the city according to his ‘body and spirit’ principle.

Buddha's foot (the one above)

Out of sheer curiosity, I made a quick pit stop at the Government museum and art gallery, 50 m away from the architecture museum. It had the usual, some local fabrics, pots, idols. But the section on Gandhara was something I wasn’t prepared for – 627 relics, primarily Buddhist statues from the ancient kingdom of Gandhara which existed about 2000 years ago in the region of Punjab. It had everything you would expect to see in perhaps a more ‘Tibetan’ museum including Buddha’s foot. Most of the Buddha statues I have seen in India are perched comfortably at nothing less than 6,000 ft. Never did I expect to find these relics in the fertile plains of the five rivers – talk about predictability!

TIPS

• Visit the rock garden at 9am sharp, when it opens. It can get quite crowded as the day continues
• The Government museum and art gallery has a souvenir section on the ground floor which opens after 2pm. Looking at the prices, I’m pretty sure though that they aren’t original.

Bussing it around in Goa

Standing at the entrance is an uninterested looking chap. Uninterested with what? The weather, job, perhaps life itself! He’s sporting a black bandana and a Sunburn Tshirt, but doesn’t look like he’s here to part-ay. As soon as I grab a seat, he moves towards me and makes a short gesture with a flick of his head upwards and similar one with his left hand which is holding a bundle of notes. Ah! He must be the conductor of the bus! So that’s Sunburn bandana’s problem – working on Sunday morning while his friends clamber out of their previous night’s hangovers.  The party doesn’t seem to have stopped in this bus – playing on the speakers is a mix of remixed Bollywood songs and some Latin-Afro-American music featuring Pitbull and other dawgs with their distinct ‘oo’s, ‘ahha’s and other similar grunts and snorts. Every now and then, the rickety bus encounters a speed breaker which provides a metallic rattle and lifts us a bit into the air. Then of course there are the intermittent whistles from Sunburn bandana whenever he needs the bus to stop or move. Quite the jam session! Now if they could only have some retro lights, perhaps the hero of this paragraph would stop being the Beefeater of Arpora! It’s an interesting start to the day nonetheless. 

Mapusa bus stand

If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m on a bus in Goa; on my way from Arpora to Mapusa (with Margao as my final destination). I always find myself in the opposite direction in Goa. Staying at Arpora, the beaches of Baga and Calangute would have been obvious choice to most. But I didn’t see myself meeting anybody other than some lazy tourists on the beach – the kind whose idea of celebration is to drink to the point that they can’t remember how they celebrated in the first place; to the point that the next day they feel the need to relive those same events they can’t remember. No traveller wants to travel to meet other travellers – Irony isn’t it? Locals define a place; they make it different; they make it worth travelling to. Public transport therefore beats the private wheeled cocoons hands down. Buses and trains may be hot and stop for everyone and the village cow, but they are firmly intertwined with the local life. It’s like a local extempore play, with actors getting on and off at every stop. Everyone is an actor, including me and the mannequin at the gate.

At the Mapusa bus stand, I get into an express bus headed to Panjim. Express buses like the name suggests, make non-stop runs between two points. Two women enter the bus together – one thin and other, on the plumpish side. They looked like a female Laurel and Hardy. The two wouldn’t normally get half a look from most men, but here it was a little different – you see they were white! Almost immediately, a young man offers one of them a seat. Sensing a friendly local, a conversation ensues. White skin does plenty of weird things to an Indian man. For starters, it makes him overbearingly polite; and I don’t mean ‘I will draw maps and repeat myself 10 times over till you get the directions’ polite; I mean the ‘why don’t you jump on my back and I’ll get you there’ polite! And if you have a good set of teeth and fair and lovely skin, he might just offer you his services for the rest of your trip. The second phenomenon is more entertaining to watch. When talking to a foreigner, especially one of lighter skin than self, the Indian man instantaneously changes his accent. Not only that, he suddenly becomes very conscious of all the slang in his casual conversation. What you get is a forced American/British accent interspersed with the abrasion of the North or the rolls of the South, with frequent pauses to remember that correct English word that he learnt in the eighth standard. Imagine Appu from the Simpsons imitating the Queen of England and you will know what I mean! The local in the bus though had a fair command over the language, so the pauses were few, but the accent was a Konkani-American one. He must be of the call center tribe. These tete-a-tetes  never fail to amuse me and in this case managed to distract me from the rustic Goan vistas to my right – huge red tile-roofed Portuguese styled bungalows, with huge verandahs and a pariah dog running around to give the old brick some life. Compared to the beaches, the villages seem comatose. The only thing that keeps shouting out is the Billboards – pointing to some casinos or restaurant or pub; pointing to places where you can have a good time. I am about to have a good time myself – I’m on the Mandovi bridge and like the first time I saw her, I am smitten with Panjim again. Besides, it’s time for lunch and I fancy a stroll through the city. (http://www.riaanrove.blogspot.in/2013/01/that-60s-show-venite.html)

I choose the public (state) transport bus to Margao. The conductor wears light blue shirt and trousers and even gives you a ticket. I hate it. We stop every few meters, at some non-descript unmarked spot. All it needs is some lady in a floral buttoned blouse and black or blue skirt to wave her hand and the conductor to blow his whistle.  We stop for everybody and anybody, even birds! A few seats of me is a chicken. No, No, I don’t mean the Kentucky fried type, I mean a real chicken that looks like he’ll peck your eyes out if you go anywhere near it. It is on the lap of a young boy who looks equally irritated at having poultry on his lap – the look that says, “Don’t ask me why, my mother made me do it.” I wanted to ask him why, but I chickened out. It must be said though, that the bird and his keeper were quite at peace with the rest of the bus as the rest of the bus was with them. It seemed normal to everyone else. Wonder what zoo animals they keep shipping down here – maybe that’s why I got the ticket. Outside, the scenery has gotten dull – the bungalows are fewer and the billboards/placards are boring. Sample the sign outside a small local cafe, put up by Appy fizz (an Indian drink brand) –“Are we Go-an out?”  Are you sure Appy has some fizz? The only improvement is the paddy fields and small recurrent ponds with egrets are other water birds darting their heads into the water.

At Margao, I switch into another smaller private bus. The Latin rappers are back. But, margao is dead –Sunday turns most of Goa into a ghost town, and in the afternoon, even the ghosts want their siesta. The only place that seems to be open and alive is the Holy Spirit Church. Guess the only person working on the day of rest is God himself! The town is as dead as the bus stand. A few vendors sell T-shirts around the square and pilots wait for the unassuming tourist to turn up so that they can whisk them off to Colva or Varca. So much for my ramble in Margao! I ‘hmmm’ to myself; get a map from a tourist information centre and try to figure out the next bus journey.

That 60's show - Venite

One of the two dining rooms in Venite

“You should try the soup! It’s sooo good. 30 years ago there was an old lady who used to run the place…and it was so cheap!” – My parents can go on and on about the Venite restaurant in Panjim. It was their favourite spot on their honeymoon in 1982 and the topic brings back good memories.  I visited the restaurant about 14 years ago and was impressed with the simplicity of the place. And now, whilst passing through Panjim on the way to Margao, I had a chance to have lunch at Venite once more.

I love Panjim! There’s something about the slow and wide Mandovi; that stretches time with her flow; that supports both commerce and entertainment; that in a way similar to many European cities defines the city on her banks. Panjim for her part doesn's shy away from her past, in fact she embraces it! The colonial churches, houses and other buildings are not just preserved, they are used; used by Konkani speaking Goans who love their way of life. Panjim is good meaty pie – a fine Portuguese crust with juicy Indian filling. You really need to take a good bite to get both. So, my decision to lunch at Venite was more than just a time rewind, it was a chance to stroll down Panjim’s streets as well.

Venite is at the start of the 31^st January road in Panjim. It was founded in 1955, in Portuguese ruled Goa and bears those marks till today. The first two minutes are encouraging. The menu card to start off has gone from a black and white printed, torn plastic covered sheet of paper to a coloured sheet that is well laminated. It even has a short paragraph on the history of the place. Across the corridor, the other dining room houses a renovated bar and a wall covered in graffiti lending a more contemporary feel to the space. But Venite is not about the present. 2012 Venite is standing her ground in the 60s. The wooden flooring that was taken from old shipwrecks, the cute little balconies overlooking the street, the plain old formica covered tables are still around and going strong. It’s a contradiction when compared to Goa’s restaurants and café’s- there’s no fancy theme, no jarring music, no foreigners dressed in rags whose idea of conversation is a permutation of the words ‘like’, ‘errrm’, ‘totally’ and ‘super’. Instead, I can hear soft music over the even softer voices of the customers, except one who ‘hello’s me as I walk in. Venite doesn’t just take you back in time; it makes you feel at home. In fact, it is this homely feel that can be easily mistaken for apathy.

Fish nets and fish facts

Seating for 2 on the balconies

I order Goan sausages with rice and a cola. A few minutes later I am served my cola in a highball labeled MANSION HOUSE French Brandy. Well, I am obviously not going to get a glass that says ‘Coca Cola Open happiness” – getting happy takes on a whole new meaning in this state. But to be served in a glass that in all probability was a freebie with a bottle of alcohol whose brand I haven’t heard of can so easily be taken for negligence. Later, I am served my lunch – the presentation is good, but the napkin is absent and the knife looks like it would prove more useful in the kitchen or in the hands of a Bihari thief rather than my own. I don’t know if its oversight or intentional (I’d like to believe it’s the latter), but it kind of comes with that comfort in places you can call your own – your Mum has just made the most delicious meal and you pull out the most used, the least eye-catching utensils, not because you want to save the better lot for another time, but because it doesn’t matter! It really did feel like I had a meal at home – I relished the sausages and wasted most of the vegetables.

The new bar

Time for desert and I had my eye on a Goan bananas with rum caramel. At first, I was quite puzzled with the ‘Goan bananas’ part. I mean were they supposed to peel off their skin and sunbathe till tanned and brown?! A quick google search on my phone tells me that Moira is famous for bananas and the waiter confirms that the Goan bananas are indeed the ones from Moira. I go for it. The bananas floating in the golden brown sauce are not so much a visual treat as they are a sugary harmony. But I am served with two spoons that don’t match – Venite has done it again. The empty plate is replaced by a bill handwritten on a plain piece of paper – nothing fancy shmancy – more of note from the owner reminding you that you owe him 400 bucks. As you might have guessed, credit cards are not accepted too. I pay my bill, take a recommendation for port wine from Henricks the waiter and go on my way; beyond the Latin quarters, past the promenade and out of Panjim.

I hope that Goa preserves her capital; I hope that Venite stands the test of time, literally.

My meal