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.