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.