Hey dog,

Thanks for your mail back! To tell you the truth, I miss you too. Like this morning, during my long walk in the rain, missing a conversation we could so easily have had face to face instead of sitting in front of our computers.

I’m still in Goa as you can see.  Still walking in the morning like I am looking for something, and suffering, because of the rains which have been unseasonably heavy, and walking on Goan roads that have the habit of developing potholes; rows of them in some places, as if they were plants in the nursery, some way deeper than the others. As is common aniline most places in the country, nationalist road contractors and their politician friends, fix the roads good enough for two weeks so that they can bill and bill and bill till they can each buy a Mercedes and thick gold-chains for their fat necks.

As you will no doubt note by the end of this long-due mail, this is truly a “Time for Goa” in a happy way, even though things started off badly with the unseasonably heavy rains. In fact, matters got so bad that the Goans in Goa were joined by those Goans who have chosen to make their fortune elsewhere – which is how, for instance, my family across three generations found themselves in East Africa. (Which is, incidentally,  why I have an affinity with your love and passion for West African football, even though, apart from Zambia, no East African team has ever shown the style and class of Nigeria. There, that should make your tail wag!).

So, as the rains hit harder and harder, sympathising with the problem of Goa’s terrible roads and its even worse politicians, there were Goans with their allegiances to Portugal because that country has been good to them; a door you could say, to better avenues. They still cared about Goa’s bad roads and wonky development whether they come from Swindon or a suburb in Toronto where they have occasion to assert being Goan. Goans are known to be in Australia too, where they also have occasion to celebrate being Goan, and now and then, indulge themselves in the same good things you find in Goa.  One of the reasons in fact, that Australia looks at Goans there with a different light, is that many know that Australia itself, as this large continent we know, was discovered not by the British buccaneer, James Cook, but that great  Portuguese explorer Captain Cristovao Mendonca, who had also visited Goa. Goans of course, say he was a famous Goan sailor.

But not even this full-blooded support from the Goan population— both in Goa and the distinguished Goan Diaspora—could change things. There was no improvement. Nothing prevented Goa’s roads from developing potholes of all shapes and sizes. Totally fed up with their non-existent government’s prevarication on this issue, locals, Goans, and others took to planting shrubs and trees in the potholes to highlight their problems. Didn’t help. Good for the shrubs and trees though. Some of the ferns planted are doing brilliantly. However, both, as a dog of impeccable pedigree and a senior citizen of disrepute, respectively, we can agree on an important point, namely, that the poor state of Goa’s roads are consciously geared towards promoting a sense of equity.

So whether you drive a 9-series Beemer like the former MLA down the road who made his money and quit this lucrative profession, or if you are like one of the thousands that use Goa’s undeveloped bus-stands  in Margao, Panjim or Mapusa, travelling by Goa’s disgusting, jam-packed village buses (sourced from scrapyards and garages in the plains of Uttarakhand that arrive on Goan soil with jugaad turbochargers, recycled tyres and dodgy chassis), or riding a cycle—or just barely holding the edge of the road as you walk like you and me—you’re screwed!     

To add to the chaos surrounding Goa’s roads is the fact that the State and Central governments are pushing for a new six-lane highway along the already battered coast, and is also in the process of completing two new bridges, one of them, in Panjim, to add to two other bridges, one of which, had a span already fallen with a few people in cars, and a few people on motorcycles; and another bridge to span the Zuari river, adding to the bridge already there, but which in all likelihood, given Goa’s reputation with bridges, may just collapse at one or more of its spans…

What a six-lane highway with huge flyovers will do as it bores through or nearby traditional Goan villages, is anybody’s guess. I was in a village staying with some friends, where one of the things we talked about was what this spanking new highway will do to Goa. We were living not even half a kilometre east of where the highway will pass. (You will be happy to know that the friends I am staying with are all dog-lovers: the only problem they have is that they like cats too.)

All of them say though, that when the Delhiwallahs and Mumbaiwallah and Otherwallas take over the coast, buy up all the old Goan houses, take over the building industry, gobble up Goa itself and make of the ten kilometres inland along the length of the Goan coast what they have long done in Mumbai along its sea and rivers, then it’s time to move.

Where though? They haven’t a clue…

I was still at this house close enough to the highway…when, in a matter of hours, the rising waters in Kerala had broken. At this same house, a young Malayali decided to load his mother’s SX4 with not even space to blink, and a wallet in his back pocket filled with bright pink notes. He needn’t have bothered about being a pessimist. In a single day, he was ready to leave. Mobilised by this gesture, his Goan friends got into the act. Hired trucks were loaded with materials and supplies and sent to Kerala.

There were enough people who worried that today, it was Kerala, tomorrow, another freak storm—perhaps next monsoon—our traditional wetlands, covered with mining waste and turned into ‘development’, will turn around an spit on us. Many offered prayers to the various Gods worshipped in Goa, saying it was their good fortune. Others, as they contemplated the bottom of their whiskey glasses, asked what will happen to Goa?

In Mumbai, Darryl D’Monte, was to grieve that matters may only get worse, writing:

“Yet again, in what is becoming virtually an annual visitation throughout the country, the wrath of nature has been compounded by human folly in Kerala. The state can blame the highest August rain in nearly 90 years, which is primarily responsible, but to put this in perspective, 771 mm in 20 days pales by comparison with the 944 mm which Mumbai received on July 26, 2005…While most have blamed the intense rainfall for the floods, one can attribute widespread ecological illiteracy for the failure to take steps to prevent such calamities. The Western Ghats, and Kerala in particular, are one of two internationally recognised biodiversity hotspots in the country (along with the Northeast, Arunachal especially). These are highly environmentally-sensitive areas and deserve to be protected from the reckless construction of buildings and infrastructure”.

Like anybody gives a shit, who are they trying to kid, dog?

I hope I am not boring you with all these unnecessary details, but you should know that the grand roots of this old man’s Goan ancestry and pride, who, today, sadly, finds himself caught between the prospect of an old age home and a wife who is too critical of his culinary skills, know that it is all about football for the likes of us, as we seek happiness. Like you have Nigeria, I have Goa…no, no…let me rephrase that more accurately…this whole great nation, India, has Goa, and you will soon know by and by, why this is exactly so…

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I note with great interest that you begin your mail to me with reference to the food you are eating courtesy the leftovers in your lady love’s entrepreneur-mistress’s upmarket fine-dining restaurant. In fairness, your writing on this gives me a considerable amount of grief, to which I will turn to later. With your uncritical attitude towards food, I find you anything but discerning. An African Hound of pedigree ought to have known better I would have thought.

I must, of course, preface this critique of food (for want of a better word) with stating that I have no problems with you having taken up with a certain young lady called Rosie who happens to be the daughter of a Cocker Spaniel and American Spitz and is rumoured to be quite attractive and charming. My sources tell me that she is known as The Lady Dog of Balewadi High…

But to turn to your rather eloquent description of the left-overs you had of—I quote in full—the “Medium Rare Buff Tenderloin Steak stuffed with Gorgonzola Cheese served with Mushrooms Sautéed in Coconut Oil and Seared Garlic, and Blanched Baby Corn tossed in Tender Fenugreek leaves”.

You seem to have enjoyed your leftovers immensely. “The juices of the steak were almost divine, as I gently chewed the medium rare tenderloin”; “The sautéed mushrooms and baby corn made an interesting counterpoint”; “The mushrooms, in fact, were so economically  sautéed, they were firm and almost crunchy, and the flavour of the garlic, what can I say about that? It wasn’t about being good for my coat—it had to do with taste!”

You have outdone yourself, you will think. In fairness, your take on this blasphemy of a meal, leaves me cold.

It is, of course, true that Balewadi High Street has succumbed to unsaid sanctions against the eating of beef, and so powerful has this lobby of grass-eaters grown, a good steak can be subverted, the “beef” in it replaced by “buff,” and people actually believing that the stodgy denseness of Buff Tenderloin (Buff Tenderloin?? Seriously?) can be cut fine enough to gently melt the Gorgonzola and make it into perfectly sculpted rounds?? You disappoint me, dog, you really do.

In any case, the particular dish out of your lady love’s kitchen brings with it a whole gamut of issues to the “cultural appropriation’” of food. Let me explain:  One article I came across was actually titled The Cultural Appropriation of Food: Reflections of a Middle-Aged White Guy!

He’s very articulate: “First,” he writes, “I guess I have to explain what the cultural appropriation of food is. Oh God. Seriously? You clicked on this story; don’t you know already? Fine: It’s the cooking/selling of food from one culture by a person from another, usually culturally/economically more dominant culture. Happy? Of course not. My definition is, in your point of view, either total bullshit, because anyone should be able to cook anything they want, or it’s gravely lacking in righteous fury.”

I avoided the English on food because everyone knows the English axiom as far as food goes, is, when in doubt, boil the bloody thing. So this is the Irish take on someone like Jamie Oliver. JP McMahon, the writer in question lays the issue out neatly. Not ‘nuanced’.

“One the one side,” he writes, “we have accusations of racism and neocolonialism.” And if I cut his corners, “On the other side, we have assertions that culinary influence knows no borders, and everyone has the right to use food how they see fit.”

Wondering which position is the right one, he answers “Neither, in fact. Or both. There is no absolute law of food.”

Not that different from the Canadian, Casey Richardson, who meets a restaurateur, Darren Maclean, the chef and owner of a Japanese restaurant that focuses on that culture’s concept of using local ingredients. Maclean tells her: “It’s not like I set out to be a Japanese chef. Or set out to be a Chinese chef or Indian chef, I set out to be just a great chef. So there was no mind but great chefs follow what tastes great and you develop a personal style using things that you enjoy.”

Of course, since I am in Goa, I’m seeing how an upmarket culinary scene grows here, driving out the smaller authentic Goan restaurants. These were usually places where the wife of the house cooked dishes she learnt from her mother (or mother-in-law if she’s not a dragon), while her husband looked after the bar and served at a table.

If they don’t close down, they downsize. The husband and wife return to the flat above and watch serials, and hire three Nepali boys to run the restaurant serving authentic “Punjabi, Chinese, and Goan Cuisine”. Or, if they are really savvy, re-do their restaurant, and target well-heeled tourists and ignoring what was once loyal local customers.

Goa may be a little complicated, because the perpetrators may be your own. Goan food, authentic Goan food now is a very upmarket commodity, either as it is in family homes, or given a ‘twist’ and paired with food from a different culture. Like your lady love’s restaurant!

So where does one get the authentic Goan cuisine? Well, there are two types. One is not that different from the experiences of South Africa, and given how Goa is being ‘appropriated’, the parallel may be in the South African experience, and how Ishay Govender-Ypma

writes:

“History has shown that the food prepared by slaves, be it in the American South or the Western Cape has shaped our palates but much of the recipes and stories published for profit have been done so by white writers. These profits, even if recipes were taken with “consent” (for how can your servant ever consent?), are based on a legacy of appropriation.”

Somewhere in that paragraph, lies Goa’s problems with preserving its cuisine in its restaurants.

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Anyway, the tourists don’t know the places, thank God, because they’ll push the prices up and chase us off. Like the three gentlemen, senior citizens like me, who invited me for a drink (or two) at a local place walking distance from the football ground where we had previously watched a good match.

The first time I met them, the beef was cooked by Marcello, His younger brother, Mariano, served at the bar. They only open in the evening, after the football match. The three gentlemen who I thought were talking of Bibiano, a new Brazilian star on the horizon, were, in fact, talking of a Goan superstar, BIBIANO FERNANDES, the coach of the Under-16 team, which, I am more than pleased to inform you, is finally going to put India on the footballing  map. Before he coached this team, he was the Under-15 coach and also did brilliantly.

And now the good news. Just a month left dog, and Bibiano’s Indian warriors will ensure that India qualifies for the Fifa Under-16 Fifa World Cup in Peru, in 2019!!! Hey, dog, has Nigeria qualified?

Every evening after the football match, eating Marcello’s superlative Beef Rolado, as authentically Goan as you can get, and sipping whiskey, we shall talk of how a Goan coach is the ‘Chosen One’…

Cheers,

Hartman