A review of Eat Dust: Mining and Greed in Goa

Hartman de Souza has blessed those interested in Goa and its history with his must-read book, Eat Dust: Mining and Greed in Goa. It is no easy task to write about the mining industry. One can easily get bogged down by facts and figures, and thereby disengage the reader without painting the bigger picture of what mining means beyond extracting elements from the earth. With great expertise, de Souza weaves his narrative from a compelling blend of memoir, travelogue, and investigative reportage, taking the reader on a guided tour around Goa’s mines. This approach to the writing lends the human touch to this subject that it so desperately needs, drawing the reader in right from page one.

The book focuses in particular on the ongoing battle between the villagers of Cawrem and mining giant Fomento, featured regularly in the Goa news and kept in our consciousness via social media through the work of the locals and their supporters throughout the state and the diaspora. Importantly, Eat Dust also offers a reality check to those who still believe Special Status is in the cards—or ever really was—for Goa.

de Souza’s ability to vividly describe even the most grotesque and tragic images of Goa’s destruction will keep the reader turning the pages with wonder at what he has to say next. Take, for example, the following: “When they were done pumping the water out, there was still a small amount left in the pit. That water would, like a festering sore turn rancid and green with slime after a few days in the sun” (p. 18).

In de Souza’s impeccable writing, one cannot help but be drawn in by his palpable love for Goa. The frustration that can only come from such a deeply personal connection reaches a climax in the following account of his choice to run away to Pune as operations were about to accelerate in Maina and Cawrem:

I wanted to speak for the earth’s injured voice, but needed to run away from my own notes and the pictures in my mind. By early August 2008, they were beginning to eat circles in my head. I could even see them in my sleep. Those days, I felt like swinging at anyone who even suggested that the greed could be halted with our tactics and strategies. (p. 140)

Also commendable is the author’s boldness in spotlighting individuals who have either contributed directly to promoting the interests of the mining industry or who have shown the kind of preference for greed over ethics that has helped fuel the rampant apathy toward the obliteration of the environment. de Souza is not afraid to name names!

There is no greater time than the present to read this book. The title itself is indicative of the present state of Goa. On a recent trip to the state, I was struck by the number of people who now ride their scooter or motorcycle with their face covered, and the chorus of coughs I heard during mass. I, too, found myself inhaling dust while travelling short distances around North Goa. Perhaps we are all choking on development!

My only criticism of Eat Dust is an editorial one. Much of the material in the ‘Afterword’ is as essential to the text as the chapters that precede it, particularly the takedown of trickle-down economics. Just as the foreword is given the title ‘A Bird’s Eye View’, integrating it into the text (because some readers will skip right to Chapter One), this should have been accorded a descriptive title to clarify that its contents are integral to the larger text.

Nevertheless, Eat Dust engages and leaves the reader thinking about the future of Goa. What more can one ask of a book?

Who gets to define masculinity?

After my mom and I saw Tim Burton’s Batman in the theatre, she bought me the soundtrack on cassette. I listened to it endlessly. Undeniably, Prince created extraordinary music, and his virtuosity on the guitar was amazing. But to me, Prince was also a legend because he defied the rigid gender norms that we’re taught are so crucial to defining people. 

I remember watching him perform when I was growing up and being fascinated. Irrespective of gender or sexual orientation, it seemed like one couldn’t help but be attracted to Prince. He was sexuality personified. He may always be associated with androgyny, but to me, he seemed masculine, just not in the way he was expected to be.

But what is “masculine”?

This comic, False Equivalence, is a powerful one. Indeed, with those lovely eyes and fit, slender frame, that is an attractive Batman! And why should he make anyone uncomfortable? The comic resonated during a conversation with some female friends some time ago. While discussing attractive celebrities, my friends named very classically masculine men: Idris Elba, Clint Eastwood, Javier Bardem, etc. 

Very rarely will anyone come to me for recommendations on hot guys, but I added my two bits. I showed them a photo of Buzzfeed’s Eugene Lee Yang.

The response was, “Oh, you like androgynous guys.”

Among the many things I find attractive, I suppose androgyny is one. After Prince came my admiration for the glammed up rockers of the 80s and 90s, like Sebastian Bach and Bret Michaels. 

And then I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show for the first time. Women in fishnet stockings don’t do it for me, but when Tim Curry put them on, something magical happened.

But in what way is Eugene androgynous? 

Is it his longish hair? Something to do with his facial features? His lean build? His clean shaven face? Asian men are often characterized as androgynous. This keeps Asian actors from playing romantic leads in Hollywood films and on U.S. TV serials, and it is reflected in the racism the gay community has become known for. There is actually code for it on hook-up and dating apps and sites: “No rice,” “No spice,” etc.

Why should earning the label “masculine” have more validity than any other, such as “androgynous” or “feminine”? It seems like a no-brainer: Anything associated with femininity is of less value because the patriarchal values that structure the world in which most of us live says so. Gender ambiguous or non-conformist people are beaten up, raped, and murdered every day because someone feels they deserve it. Anyone with any humanity will agree that this is wrong, but how many people will give thought to their own prejudices that are shaped by the same destructive system that empowers those people to carry out these crimes?

We are conditioned to think that a certain look is more attractive than another and that certain behaviours are acceptable only for a certain set of people—these things are not “natural.” People used to criticize my mother for dressing me in pants and not giving me dolls to play with. They weren’t interested in hearing that Mom actually had an array of different outfits for me, but I used to put up a fight whenever she opted for a dress, that once when she won the battle, I went to daycare and promptly opened the green paint and poured it on myself to ruin that outfit, or that I had dolls, but never wanted to play with them, unless they were Barbies and could be made to act out the various scenarios that I imagined. Why would I have wanted to push a doll around in a stroller?! Was I supposed to be a parent-in-training at three? Gender is largely learned, but the reality is that we and our tastes are incredibly diverse.

Fortunately, the world has had stars like David Bowie and Prince to tell everyone that it’s okay to be “different” and that men don’t have to look only one way to be beautiful. 

We need more such people—and also women with the same kind of power to effect change in our mindsets.

Kudos to anyone who is unapologetically who they are, be it masculine, feminine, or androgynous, or anyone who finds any combination of these forms attractive, in whichever body exhibits them!

Another Goa

On the surface, Goa may look like a small place, but it is infinite things to different people. When I’m in Goa, I stay in the northern part of the state. Though I frequent the tourist areas, I always prefer to frequent the businesses owned by Goans. As someone who has established a history with the state and connections with many of its people—and who feels strongly about the need for the state to maintain its unique identity—this is very important to me.

One group of visitors to Goa that I have long observed and formed opinions about is the British. I have even participated in arguments with them via letters to the editor in the daily newspaper O Heraldo over their sense of entitlement and complaints about visa rules and prices. Indeed—and though it is wrong to generalize—as a group, I have often found them to be a rather entitled lot. The highest currency is the British pound, and even when the exchange rate had risen to 100 rupees per pound, some British tourists complained in the newspaper quite regularly about how expensive everything was.

While travelling by air from Bombay to Goa in the company of British tourists, one often hears complaints about the local airports and staff. One also sees some interesting characters. I will never forget the time I saw a British gentleman, who must have been in his sixties, dressed in an outfit that looked like something he’d dug out of a clothing donation box, with a guitar and no case. He was explaining to a much younger woman that he was going to Goa to perform and teach guitar. He was also carrying some incense, which he appeared to be selling as an alternate means of earning money. To be honest, he looked like a homeless person. Perhaps he was. When my travel companion—a Goan and a music enthusiast—tried to ask him about his guitar playing, he just brushed her off. This kind of reaction is nothing out of the ordinary.

I’m reminded of an experience many years ago, when my Goan friend and I were planning a trip to North India, and we happened to be near the office of a tour operator, so we went in to enquire. The owner was British and his attitude was appalling. He spoke dismissively to my friend, as if he couldn’t possibly understand her accent no matter how many times she repeated herself, and he haughtily quoted a rate in British pounds. She gave that attitude back to him, even suggesting that his foreign accent was making his speech unclear, but he made it known that she wasn’t the kind of customer he wanted. As I have observed, many (not all, of course) of the Britons in Goa don’t seem keen on interacting with brown people.

This past week, I had an experience that provided further evidence of this. I was eager to have a good cup of coffee, so while in Calangute, my eyes were peeled in search of a sign advertising Lavazza espresso. I spotted one belonging to a restaurant specializing in Mediterranean food. Like most of the businesses in Calangute right now, the restaurant was mostly empty.The waitstaff comprised North-East Indians, and there was only one other table occupied—by British tourists. This was odd, as I never find myself in the same establishments as the British tourists;they can usually be seen frequenting the same establishments as their fellow countrymen.And then the owner came to the table—she was British. The only Goan in sight was the one drinking coffee with me.

The Agony of Watching 'Carol'

When I was an adolescent and young adult, I consumed any LGBTQ content I could find. In particular, I watched a lot of movies that fell into that genre—most of them incredibly bad. There were some nice stories centred around men, though. My favourite remains E. M. Forster’s novel Maurice (also adapted into a beautiful Merchant Ivory film in 1987). 

Another old favourite is the film Love! Valour! Compassion! (adapted in 1997 from the 1994 play). And finally, there is The Wedding Banquet (1993)—one of the few narratives I can remember that wasn’t entirely about white people.

There were also The Crying Game (1992) and Boys Don’t Cry (1999) that helped initiate a conversation (albeit a transphobic one) admitting that transgender people exist.

The tales about queer women, however, were a little less enticing. Movies like Salmonberries (1991), whose only saving grace was the song “Barefoot,” Lost and Delirious (2001), and But I’m a Cheerleader (1999), I found unrelatable and generally boring. Even Bound (1996), which I admittedly watched repeatedly, wasn’t a particularly well-written script or tremendously acted film. But there was When Night Is Falling (1995), which did a far better job than any other movie at the time of dealing with the complexities of sexuality and identity. Where it really failed for me was in its faithful adherence to the melodramatic standard of films about queer love, similar to Brokeback Mountain (2005).

Many such stories have been either tragic (NB: Desert Hearts [1985], another snoozefest, was recognized as the first “lesbian” film where no one died in the end) or homonormative (e.g., The Kids Are All Right [2010] and If These Walls Could Talk 2 [2000])—that is, projecting the idea of a model queerness resembling heterosexuality, where life is depicted as a journey of falling in love, getting married, finding a sperm donor, raising a family, and enjoying a largely sexless existence. This is not what real life looks like for the vast majority of the queer people throughout the world—many of whom are still fighting for their very survival.

By the time the highly critically acclaimed Carol was released late last year, I had given up on the LGBTQ genre. I was tired of seeing the seemingly endless longing looks across the room, the tears, the infidelity to the opposite-sex partner or spouse, the sometimes awkward kissing scenes, the lack of sex (thank goodness for the TV series Queer As Folk [2000–2005], in that respect, despite its shortcomings), and the death. But I told myself I should see it before judging. So, I watched Carol—and sadly, it didn’t disappoint! I’m not sure what the critics found so spellbinding about it. In a word, it was excruciating.

First, the pace of Carol is tremendously slow. From the first scene, nothing much happens besides the introduction to the intimate relationship between Carol and Therese. We see a lingering touch. This is followed by a flashback to the first time the characters meet—a scene replete with those aforementioned longing looks. Carol is in a department store, where Therese works, shopping for a Christmas gift for her daughter. She goes to Therese’s counter seeking advice on what to purchase. This exchange sets up the class division between the two characters and also sheds light on Therese’s nonconformity to gender norms (e.g., she preferred trains to dolls as a child). After paying for an expensive, hand-made train set, Carol leaves her gloves behind, thus giving Therese an excuse to refer to the sales receipt and retrieve her customer’s address. After this, however, there is no real build-up to the development of the relationship between the two protagonists. Therese just enters Carol’s upper class world and starts spending time with her both in her home and out in public. The transition appears seamless, even though Therese is never depicted as someone who desires to ascend the social hierarchy. What we do know about her is that she wants to be a photographer. Even there, I didn’t sense any real passion for this art form. The character development in the film is just not there.

The film also fails to provide insight into how these two characters actually reach the point of loving each other. The dialogue is not particularly engaging for the viewer. I was so bored listening to them, I can’t remember anything poignant to suggest that any attraction grows from intense conversation or finding shared interests. In that respect, this movie reminded me of Brokeback Mountain, where the audience was just supposed to buy into the love story because we were told there was one, not because we actually watched love unfold between Jack and Ennis.

Also highly disappointing is that there is very little made of the important issues raised in the film, such as class, as I mentioned, and divorce and child custody, patriarchy, and homophobia. One of the main conflicts in the film is that Carol and her husband are going through a messy divorce and he is seeking full custody of their daughter. The significance of this part of the plot, however, seems to be forgotten toward the end. Given the era (the 1950s), where divorce was rare, especially on the grounds of adultery with someone of the same sex and a father pursuing child custody, one would expect more to be made of this. It was as if the director forgot the story wasn’t set in the twenty-first century. Further, there is no exploration of why this particular extramarital relationship with Therese pushes Carol’s husband over the edge, when he has already accused his wife of having been unfaithful in the past and has wanted to stay with her anyway.

Finally, despite portraying Carol as an experienced, almost predatory, woman, there are no kissing or love scenes until an hour and fifteen minutes into the film! Yes, I can pinpoint because I got fed up listening to the blah blah blah and seeing those drawn-out looks and forwarded! I was so exasperated with the movie that I said, “If nothing’s happening, at least there should be a hot sex scene!” It isn’t that hot, by the way. In fact, it is slightly bizarre. This is where, I would argue, Cate Blanchett distances herself from her character; she looks slightly uncomfortable kissing Rooney Mara, and then suddenly, she is like a fish to water when she simulates oral sex. Perhaps this was intentional; if Carol is the promiscuous woman her jealous husband insinuates she is, perhaps she is more accustomed to performing other acts and less comfortable with the intimacy of kissing. However, given that the rest of the film lacks nuance, I doubt this is deliberate. It is also important to note—without giving away too much—that this scene serves a particular purpose to move the plot along; it is not, in fact, the climax of all the melodrama leading up to this point.

All in all, Carol is the same old formulaic, unrelatable, excessively white, boring story we must all be accustomed to. I want more, and I expect better. I think the only way this might happen is if I write my own screenplay.

Buying in and tuning out

In the 15 years that I’ve been travelling to Goa, it has undergone dramatic change. But one thing remains constant: The most enchanting thing about Goa is the Goans. I’ve met many warm, kind, fascinating, and passionate people in this state. They have welcomed me into their homes, made me laugh, and made me think, whether about politics, language, history, art, music, philosophy, the environment, etc. And this has made me re-examine my relationship with my own homeland, Canada, and my identity as a Canadian.

In Canada, the close ties of our indigenous peoples to the land seem self-explanatory, but among new Canadians and those of us who descend from immigrants, identity and community are under-explored issues. Fortunately, my time with Goans awakened me.

When I first came to Goa in 2001, I was struck by the exquisite beauty of the lush green fields and trees, the red earth, and the calming seaside. I was equally taken with the peaceful nature of the local people. Why would they be anything else, living in such idyllic surroundings? But rapidly, what had been a refuge from fast-paced, overcrowded, polluted, dirty Bombay was evidently becoming more of the same. There were more people and cars, buildings sprouting up everywhere, and garbage being dumped left and right. In Panjim the other day, I was aghast at how aggressively people were driving, accompanied by the fervent honking so familiar in Bombay. What’s the rush?

This no longer looks and feels like the serene Goa I fell in love with. But that’s just it. As the demographics of Goa have changed, so too has the tone here.

No one in their right mind is opposed to development, and there is no reason why outsiders shouldn’t come here. Having lived in Bombay for several years, I know how captivated Indians are by Goa. Everyone wants to vacation here when they get leave from work, and the delight on someone’s face when they talk about preparing to take their first trip here can be rather endearing. Given the romantic image of Goa, one would expect the love to be visible as the population of this tiny state grows. Instead, I see Goa choking in a flurry of concrete, dust, waste, egoism, and indifference. Those who can sit quietly in their villages and avoid this transformation, do, and those who can’t deal with it and have the means, leave.

There have been complaints about the people questioning the government’s development plans (e.g., mining, the Mopa airport, the Tiracol golf course, the Defence Expo), as if they are simply troublemakers. If the locals have a problem, their perspective should be heard. After all, if you argue that they will be the ones to gain, isn’t it equally true that they are the ones with the most to lose?

It is here that my perspective as a Canadian, who rarely observes any sense of community back home in Ontario, influences my understanding of contemporary Goa. As people increasingly settle in this state, the less investment they might actually have in it. Sure, they may have made a personal investment in property, but what is their relationship to Goa and with the people for whom this has always been home? Arguably, their stake is often at the individual level, whereas most of the current struggles of the Goans are collective ones. The only way for Goa’s newer inhabitants to see the viewpoint of their neighbours is to listen to them. In Canada, the government and the corporations have long been in conflict with the indigenous communities whose land they wish to exploit in the name of development, and the other Canadians (those who notice, that is) tend to critique from the sidelines. It is easier to stand back and label people “anti-development” than to engage with them and try to comprehend their cause.

In 2006, I noticed the garbage piling up on the slope connecting Mapusa and Siolim. It was around that time that apartment buildings started popping up throughout Siolim, and I remarked that the urban and rural worlds were likely colliding. People from cities, such as Bombay, are accustomed to putting their dustbin outside their door every morning and the garbage being taken away. So, they would likely expect the same thing in flats here—but many were occupying buildings in villages, and the infrastructure was simply not there.

People continue to fling garbage bags in the bushes, on the roadside, and in the water. Where is the appreciation for this place? How can anyone be in these magnificent surroundings and treat them with such disdain? Along with capitalism, individualism has taken over Goa.

What is a place once its people have been erased from the picture? Sometimes I worry that in Goa, we might soon find out.