Goa : A Lesson in Life. Chapter 5: Mapusa

Instead I decided to jump on a bus, I’d seen ‘Mapusa’ appear on many of the road-signs, so figured it was some sort of traffic hub, perhaps a large town or city. I gathered myself and crossed the road outside Anjuna Palms, noticing a cafe/bar establishment. Out of curiosity I wandered over. Like quite a few establishments nearby, this had a trendy, hippy vibe to it, with a bright interior of hand painted imagery and national flags, almost Jamaican in style. Long benches where situated throughout to accommodate the passing travelers and party-goers, but at the moment, off-season, everything was eerily empty and quiet. I noticed also an adjoining internet cafe, very handy, but I could see some activity outside, the bus was on it’s way.

I’d thought Mapusa was pronounced ‘Ma-poo-sa’, but as the ancient coach flew past, a dexterous young man lurched out of the window, ‘Mapsa’, ‘Mapsa’. To which the gathering crowd acknowledged him as the driver slammed on the brakes covering us in a plume of dust. I noticed the bus was covered in ornamentation and brightly, intricately painted. Despite it’s obviously poor condition, there was a lot of love spent on it. The interior cranked up the ornamentation even further, with religious, joyous daubing and over the top chintz, even the odd miniature statuette. Goans had a strong, mostly Christian faith, which was evident all around.

Another thing about Goa, and maybe India in general was the social position of men and women. As I entered the cramped coach, the women, regardless of age, gave their seats up for the men. At first I refused, but the women seemed all too happy with the situation, so rather than risk insulting them, I squeezed my frame into the child-sized seats, red-faced, and acknowledged their kind gesture. The driver/assistant double act really was something else, harking back to the golden days of 2-man driver/ticket inspector buses back home, but this was true Indian style, with the agile, ‘inspector’ (for want of a better word, although that hardly does him justice) hanging out of the bus at regular intervals, like a racing side-car passenger, calling out the destination of ‘Map-sa’ to any unsuspecting wandering locals, as the driver turned on a sixpence through the ever more winding roads and narrow dust-paths. The coach seemed ready to disintegrate, but we had the Lord Jesus covering our backs, or so it would seem. As we sped towards our destination, the coach became ever more crowded, until we were packed in like sardines. No stress-heads here though, in fact the main concern in people’s faces was how comfortable the visiting westerner was, with the lack of leg room pushing up my knees to almost chest height.

Occasionally, we would come to an abrupt halt. Cows, as it turned out, were highly respected, revered even, probably for religious reasons. In any case, they were free to roam, unchecked, wherever they liked, even on busy roads. The incessant sounding of horns all died down as a herd of cattle slowly trundled by, as though we were in the presence of royalty. I looked on, with my now familiar bemused expression.

My first impressions of Mapusa weren’t great, it was an exceptionally drab looked town, maybe even soviet-looking in nature, but also reminding me of the regular images of middle-east war-zones on the news back home. A dour, commercial district of ugly concrete without any outstanding architecture of note. To sum up: Completely depressing. As the packed-in passengers eventually squeezed their way out of our ridiculously decorated ride, a wall of heat smashed me square in the face, almost flooring me there and then. As I gathered myself i noticed we were in an outdoor coach terminus, with each individual coach personalized with it’s own unique branding, like a classic coach show of some description. Looking over to the Terminus building itself, I was shocked to see what looked like dead bodies, both animal and human, just laying on the ground, on closer inspection though, it turned out this was just the way to deal with the intense heat, like a family dog on a hot day at the park, but the imagery of the apparent dead bodies against the depressed, grey backdrop left a lasting impression on me, as though I was seeing the aftermath of a nuclear attack.

“You want food?” he said in impeccably accented English. I wasn’t really all that hungry but I agreed to get out of the crowds. The boy had the same expression as just about every other Indian boy I saw in Goa. Open, honest, energetic, determined, bright, focused in the moment. This lad had more energy than most though, as he berated me with questions about England and how I was liking Goa, with seemingly genuine interest. We soon found ourselves in a welcomingly spacious cafe/diner, a haven from the crowds outside. I crammed myself onto a bench as the boy enthusiastically set directly opposite, along with another, leather faced older man, who had suddenly appeared. I was in no mood for any more games though, and this was beginning to look like another Mumbai-style ‘con’. So I ordered a coke, and went into a polite, calm shut-down mode.

Undeterred, the boy continued to pretend to be my best friend in Goa, as the older man, perhaps his father, looked on in knowing resignation of a failed job. I settled up and found myself back in the crowds, needed to get out, so I asked the boy the whereabouts of the nearest internet cafe. Music to his ears. Like a well trained guide-dog, he navigated me smoothly through the maze of stalls and back-alleys and back out into the main street, towards a clapped-out husk of a multi story office block. My reflexes stopped me dead in my tracks as my sense of trouble kicked-in, but then I noticed the comings and goings of others on the steps before us, so I made my way up the tight, unstable stairwell.

Eventually, after many a close call on the stairs, and encouraged by the boy, I was met with the wild, curious eyes of a room full of locals as I emerged, lurching almost doubled-over from the tiny, tight doorway. The boy led me over to what looked to be the only available space in the packed ‘Internet-cafe’ with it’s child-sized wooden seats, and again I somehow squeezed my cumbersome frame in. I felt like a giant amongst a children’s playschool, and almost completely ill at ease. Forgetting why I was here in the first place, I humoured the technology for a while, which was even worse than back in Calangute, toy-like even, but my immediate problem was the boy and the elder, who peered over the wooden divider at me, unflinchingly watching my every move, I could almost feel their gaze on me as I tried to ignore them in vain.

Scrambling back out of the ‘Internet Cafe’, I picked up the pace a little in an effort to politely lose them, I was doing ok here, no panic like back in Mumbai, no exchange of funds and now I had my bearings. But this was their turf, and as I ploughed back through the crowds of the market they had caught up again. Cards on the table time, with the stand-off being at a convenience store amongst the market, and the old man claiming they had successfully completed a ‘tour’ of Mapusa for me, to which I rejected with a laugh and a sigh. I wasn’t backing down here, I was wise to it now, but I entertained them for a little while longer. In the end I bought the boy a Sprite on my own terms, out of my own kindness and because, just like the lad in Cafe Day yesterday, I admired his attitude. I’ll never forget the look of pride the elder guy had for the boy as I handed over the bottle, a look only a farther could give to his son, and we left it there as I made my way back to the coach terminus.

No signs, tannoys or maps here. All I could do was listen out for the cry of ‘Anjuna’ and hope. In fact, I had no idea if the coach even went back to Anjuna from here. Thankfully though, as the dusty heat was beginning to take it’s toll, I could faintly make out similar mutterings in the distance, and as luck would have it, I also noticed the ticket inspector from our outgoing journey dangling out of the door like a monkey on a climbing frame. I joined the queue which looked much too large to fit onto one small coach and turned back to the opening in the wall leading through to the market. The boy was stood there beaming at me, with his newly acquired bottle of Sprite in one hand and waving at me with the other. I had just enough time to wave back as a sudden wave of sadness came over me. This here was a very bright lad, multi-lingual, streetwise, on the ball. I wondered what sort of future he would have in this town. Maybe a childhood spent in the market did him good, but it seemed such a waste of his obvious intelligence and talent. Back home he would of really been someone, but as the coach pulled away my final hope was that he could at least hold onto his positive attitude for as long as possible.