House of Braganca, the whole story, almost

 THE HOUSE OF BRAGANCA

 

(This is a yarn of pure fiction. Any likeness to anyone anywhere is purely co-incidental)

By Cyprian Fernandes

(Happy New Year)

Ferdinando Braganca was often asked, at college, if he was Portuguese, Goan or a half-caste. He said he was a Goan without a second thought. He thought to himself “So many Portuguese men have been in and out of Braganca women it is hard to tell when the local Goan or mestizas (half-caste) had a look in. Portraits of the various husbands and their respective wives hung on the walls of the sprawling Bragancas’ stately home. Of the husbands, the casual viewer would be hard placed to figure out who was full blood, mixed blood, or a lowly Goan “noble”. You see, they were all painted as having olive skin. The women all looked Portuguese white yet many were not full-blood Portuguese. Perhaps it is a myth of the time, legend has it that mestizas’ women were always more attractive than all women in Goa.

Ferdinando regularly smiled at the thought of the Braganca women and Goan women. One thing the Portuguese did well, he thought, was treating all women in Goa with more dignity than was the case anywhere else in India. It was the Catholic thing to do he told himself. No, he corrected himself; it was the Portuguese thing to do. He remembered with some joy the time he had spent in Portugal.

Talking about women, his mother, the regal Dona Isabella was nothing short of the queen of Bardez. A woman of stunning beauty with long flowing curls that jealously crowded her head and fell to the base of the spine. She wore long flowing gowns, and changed them three times a day, with each meal in fact and sometimes with each new social occasion. Her hair was forever shrouded in a hand-embroidered silken veil. This she sometimes pulled over her face, just below her nose, the shroud created a sense of mystery. She carried herself with all the airs and graces of any delightful queen of England. She did not walk across any floor; she glided over like a prima ballerina or a silken butterfly.

 

She looked as if she was walking, talking, smiling, laughing, singing, a masterpiece of a great old master painter. She was utterly and completely besotted with her husband. And he was with her. Yet her love for him was so great that she understood that his great appetite needed a little help from the three women he kept on the state. It was a Portuguese thing and she could only give him so much, she would tell herself. In any case, men did what men did and he always woke up in her bed. In any case, she had already given him six children. His father sent his four sons (at the appropriate time for each) for lessons in the art of lovemaking in Portugal. Ferdinando lost his virginity and the memory still creases a happy smile across his face. Safety first, his father had told him and one of his father’s friends had done the rest in getting him started on the path to sexual ecstasy by finding him appropriate partners at the bordellos. Each of the brothers usually returned from Europe (including Portugal) with healthy supplies of condoms and an assortment of pills.

Every time he thought of his mother, the sweetest of smiles caressed his face. Like his father, he loved that woman, as a son of course. He would spend endless hours on the balcony of his bedroom and watch her down below, holding court, charming her guests, sweeping every man off his feet and filling every woman in the room with an inner glow for having basked for a moment or two in her shadow. Virtually, every week, sometimes twice or more times, the Bragancas entertained. The after-dinner cabaret consisted of a variety of music and dance. The star spotlight was reserved for the latest Fado singer to visit Government House. The Fado is a song of lament, of longing, of heartache and pain and the dreams of joy. It is said the Fado has its origins in the songs of sailors yearning to return home. While the human voice cries from the heart, the guitar does it from the soul.

Ferdinando’s other favourite thing was watching his mother and father dance the Tango. The sheer drama Mai and Pai evoked was sensual, the romance, sometimes the hurt and the pain, Ferdinando found quite unbelievable. Mai and Pai never danced this particular dance with anyone else. They always captivated Ferdinando and anyone else because in this dance they put on display their love, passion, sensuality, and devotion for each other. It was so easy to see true love. As they glided across the floor, suddenly stopped, heads, bodices changing positions, a flick of the head, or hand gesture with the fingers doing their dance, the sway of limbs, the drama of the lip to lip, kissed, caressed, teased, a sweeping circle drawn on the floor by legs entwined, what ecstasy!! Mother’s body arched backwards on father’s bended knee, his face caressing hers, he held the back of her head with one arm while the other held the lower torso. Magic. And then the circles, circles within circles, spinning, spinning until the crescendo ends in a sudden stop, straight, upright erect, like two peacocks sizing each other up, almost ready to strike for the kill and then the anticlimax. There is no kill. Instead of a kiss, a lingering kiss lights up their faces, smiles, laughter, and applause. And more applause, louder, louder. The guests’ appreciation is recognised by the slightest flicker of the fingers (feigning the wings of a honey sucker) at the end of the extended arm.  It was a gesture as skilful as any moment in the dance itself. ‘Mai, Mai. You will always be the picture of rare and unequalled beauty,” he thought to himself.

While in Europe he took time out to put down his thoughts in a diary. His memories, especially of Mai and Pai, warmed the cockles of his heart and made him smile, broad-brimmed gorgeously.

 

House of Braganca (2)

Nobility, royalty and people of importance and respect graced the courtyard throughout the centuries. However, centre stage was reserved for the Fado (songs of Portuguese longing) singer. Many billions of tear droplets kissed the ground and the earth seemed to rejoice at the genius of the Fado singer in bringing every member of the audience to tears; the men, of course, did a very poor job of hiding their tears. They regularly waived their white silk handkerchiefs in the direction of the singer in recognition of the heart-tearing pain and agony, especially in the quest for a forlorn or unrequited love, with which the singer painted his imaginary huge portraits and his audience brought them to life in their own imaginations. Love and its pain, it seemed, made for the greatest aphrodisiac or the greatest turn-off, depending on which way your wind blew.

The Braganca estate had its own private chapel, a primary school, a fully equipped modern medical clinic and access to all the specialist services at the best hospitals in the nearby towns of Panjim and Mapusa. Their vast estate and business empire were self-sufficient in most things. They were generous too. They used to say there was a Braganca rupee in every church and school built in North Goa. The Bragancas took special pride in the Saligao church whose interiors were adorned with the most gold leaf seen anywhere else in Goa. Most Bragancas are buried in a private cemetery on the estate or in the nearby parishes of Sinquerim, Saligao, Baga, Calangute etc.

Perhaps the title of the greatest socialite to grace the Candolim estate must be reserved for Ricardo’s wife, the stunning beauty, singer, dancer, and painter, Dona Isabella. From the noble house of the Albuquerques, Dona Isabella, then a young, yet accomplished 18-year-old, caught one glimpse of the nobleman from Goa, didn’t give a shit that she mistook him for a full blood Portuguese, went up to him at a soiree, kissed him on the cheek and told an absolutely astounded and astonished Ricardo: “I am going to have YOU for dinner (not to dinner … no formal dining was envisaged) soon and then I am going to marry you.” True to her word, they were married within the month, much to the pain and anguish of the folks back home. They fell madly in love virtually from the very first moment she planted her lips on his cheek and they remained cocooned by that love until their last days on earth: each completely besotted with the other. Thus began one of the most famous romances the Portuguese and Goans were privy to in Goa.

They had six children: Teofilio, who managed the estate and business empire in his father’s name, assisted by his younger brother Tomasinio. Both would have preferred the warmer climes of southern Europe and would one day migrate there with their families. The elder daughter Selena Isabella became a nun and has spent her life at the Vatican in Rome. She used to regularly visit both Goa and Lisbon. I am not sure if she is still alive now in 1975. The younger sister Catarina Ana eloped with a Goan toddy tapper and was never seen again. A third sister, Louisa Mirella, married a Brazilian and now lords over Rio de Janeiro. And then there is Ferdinando, the last of the brood. He has no interest in the family business, or its riches and his father has always said, that while he is a good young man, his head is always in the clouds, more correctly, in foreign lands and adventure and new experiences.

The Braganca brood were privately tutored at home. The boys matriculated at St Paul’s College, Belgaum and then went to university in Lisbon. The family-owned several palatial properties and businesses in Lisbon. The girls were sent to finishing ladies' schools in Lisbon. All the boys were sent to Lisbon to lose their respective virginities under the guidance of the friends of the family, of course. Mai, Dona Maria, schooled them in all the school social graces, singing, music (piano, guitar, etc.) and dancing, of course. Teofilio and Tomasinio have their father’s panache, gay abandon, rhythm, and dancing come easily to them. But Ferdinando was extra special. He wore his mother’s alluring smile, oozing charm. He would walk into a room of strangers and in no time at all he was the man of the moment. His head was a mass of solid golden locks. Unintentionally, he was a heartbreaker. That did not bother his happy-go-lucky lifestyle. He was the apple of his mother’s eye and he loved her so much.

While the Bragancas were no racists, they preferred Portuguese as the language of the house. As employers, they treated their workforce with a lot of care and attention but with reservation. However, anyone caught breaking the law was left to the mercy of the local courts. Pilferers, thieves, and wife-beaters were all instantly disciplined or sacked. The children grew up with a smattering of Konkani which they learnt growing up with the Goan children of workers on the estate. The boys who all went to St Paul’s College in neighbouring Belgaum polished their Konkani there. However, they never spoke it at home. At college, all four brothers were referred to in the Konkani slang of “Paklo” (white).

At college, Ferdinando was often asked if he was Portuguese, Goan or a half-caste. He said he was a Goan without a second thought. He thought to himself “So many Portuguese men have been in and out of Braganca women it is hard to tell when the local Goan or mestizas (half-caste) had a look in. Portraits of the various husbands and their respective wives hung on the walls of the sprawling Bragancas’ palatial home. Of the husbands, the casual viewer would be hard placed to figure out who was a full blood, mixed blood, or a lowly Goan “noble”. You see, they were all painted as having olive skin. The women all looked Portuguese white yet many were not full-blood Portuguese. Perhaps it is a myth of the time, legend has it that mestizas women were always more attractive of all women in Goa.

Ferdinando regularly smiled at the thought of the Braganca women and Goan women. One thing the Portuguese did well, he thought, was to treat all women in Goa with more dignity than was the case anywhere else in India. It was the Catholic thing to do he told himself. No, he corrected himself; it was the Portuguese thing to do. He remembered with some joy the time he had spent in Portugal.

Talking about women, his mother, the regal Dona Isabella was nothing short of the queen of Bardez. A woman of stunning beauty with long flowing curls that jealously crowded her headed and fell to the base the spine. She wore long flowing gowns, changed three times a day, with each meal in fact and sometimes with each new social occasion. Her hair was forever shrouded in a hand embroidered silken veil. This she sometimes pulled over her face to just below her nose, the shroud creating a sense of mystery. She carried herself with all the airs and graces of any delightful queen of England. She did not walk across any floor; she glided over like a prima ballerina or a silken butterfly.

She looked as if she was a walking, talking, smiling, laughing, singing, masterpiece of a great old master painter. She was utterly and completely besotted with her husband. And he was with her. Yet her love for him was so great that she understood that his great appetite needed a little help from the three women he kept on the state. It was a Portuguese thing and she could only give him so much, she would tell herself. In any case, men did what men did and he always woke up in her bed. In any case, she had already given him six children. His father sent his four sons (at the appropriate time for each) for lessons in the art of love making to Portugal. Ferdinando lost his virginity and the memory still creases a happy smile across his face. Safety first, his father had told him and one of his father’s friends had done the rest in getting him started on path to sexual ecstasy by finding him appropriate partners at the bordellos. Each of the brothers usually returned from Europe (including Portugal) with healthy supplies of condoms and an assortment of pills.

Every time he thought of his mother, the sweetest of smiles caressed his face. Like his father, he loved that woman, as a son of course. He would spend endless hours on the balcony of his bedroom and watch her down below, holding court, charming her guests, sweeping every man off his feet and filling every woman in the room with any inner glow for having basked for a moment or two in her shadow. Virtually, every week, sometimes twice or more times, the Bragancas entertained. The after dinner cabaret consisted of a variety of music and dance. The star spotlight was reserved for the latest Fado singer to visit Government House. The Fado is song of lament, of longing, of heartache and pain and the dreams of joy. It is said the Fado has its origins in the songs of sailors yearning to return home. While the human voice cries from the heart, the guitar does it from the soul.

Ferdinando’s other favourite thing was watching his mother and father dance the Tango. The sheer drama Mai and Pai evoked was sensual, the romance, sometimes the hurt and the pain, Ferdinando found quite unbelievable. Mai and Pai never danced this particular dance with anyone else. They always captivated Ferdinando and anyone else for that matter because in this dance they put on display their love, their passion, their sensuality and their devotion to each other. It was so easy to see true love. As they glided across the floor, suddenly stopped, heads, bodices changing positions, a flick of the head, or hand gesture with the fingers doing their dance, the sway of limbs, the drama of the lip to lip, kissed, caressed, teased, a sweeping circle drawn on the floor by legs entwined, what ecstasy!! Mother’s body arched backwards on father’s bent knee, his face caressing hers, he held the back of her head with one arm while the other held the lower torso. Magic. And then the circles, circles within circles, spinning, spinning until the crescendo ends in a sudden stop, straight, upright erect, like two peacocks sizing each other up, almost ready to strike for the kill and then the anticlimax. There is no kill. Instead of a kiss, a lingering kiss lights up their faces, smiles, laughter, and applause. And more applause, louder, louder. The guests’ appreciation is recognised by the slightest flicker of the fingers (feigning the wings of a honey sucker) at the end of the extended arm.  It was a gesture as skilful as any moment in the dance itself. ‘Mai, Mai. You will always be the picture of rare and unequalled beauty,” he thought to himself.

While in Europe he took time out to put down his thoughts in a diary. His memories, especially of Mai and Pai, warmed the cockles of his heart and made him smile, broad-brimmed gorgeously.

one of life’s dilemmas. I guess I will know more in a day or two. I am not due to start work for a week but I will pop in and make myself known and work things out from there.”

“Good luck old son, but I won’t be holding my breath.”

“Sorry. I did not even introduce myself: Ferdi Braganza.”

House of Braganca 5

“Russell Ferguson, British, farmer. You can call me Fergo. Been here since 1920. Love the place, love the country. The blacks are a bit of a nuisance, nothing we can’t take care of. Just a little thieving, really. We have a coffee farm just outside of Nairobi, at a lush green place called Limuru. Ask anyone for the way to the Ferguson Farm. Come any time, no fuss, and no ceremony. Our phone number is available via the phone exchange. Just ask them for the Ferguson Farm at Limuru. We also keep a few animals. We grow vegetables for the Nairobi market and a cousin of mine is working towards cultivating flowers for the local markets. But coffee is the big thing. Come. You will love it.”

“My ancestral home in Goa is a large estate. It has been in our family for more than 400 years. It is a family myth or legend that we trace our ancestry to the Viceroy Dom Constantino de Braganca. We have a long stretch of beach, crystal clear waters, silver sands, coconut groves, cashew, mango, guava, banana, and a huge variety of tropical fruit, rice paddies, spice gardens, acres of flowers… Our family has worked at Government House, Goa, as long as the Portuguese have been there. Many say that Goa, especially with the Portuguese there, is a very special piece of heaven. I hope I can show it to you one day.”

“What the heck are you doing here, and a humble clerk at that? Man, are you mad?”

“On the contrary.  I am just getting started. I have seen a bit of Europe. I want to see as much of Africa as I can before I head for the Far East and the Americas. I want to see the world, from all its aspects. That is why I accepted the clerk’s job. I want to learn how you Brits do such a good job of your colonies.”

“God man! You must belong to nobility of some of sort. Aren’t you letting the side down, disgracing your mother and your father, 400 years of your family’s history? I would not do what you are doing for all the gold in China, or Kenya, for that matter! I say shame on you.”

“Hang on a minute, old chap. I am simply trying to learn how the other half lives. Not the absolute bottom of the bottomless pits, just the people half way up from there. As I said, I am also here to learn more about British colonial administration in her colonies.”

“If I did what you are doing, my father would have me shot for being insane. My mother would never talk to me again and I would not have a single white man for a friend ever again. No white woman would ever marry me. No white men’s club would allow me entry. Madness.”

As they neared what looked like a large bungalow, Fergo said: “We are here.”

Just as Fergo was about to wave goodbye, after dropping the bags off, Ferdi told him:

“Thanks so much for bringing me here. I enjoyed your friendliness even though I might not have explained myself properly.”

“What is there to explain? You are a white man doing a coolie’s job, a job that is beneath you! That is your first lesson about us. The social graces and everyone’s place in the colony.”

“That is just it. The job is not beneath me because I am not a white man. Some of me is white, and maybe, some of me is Goanese. Exactly how much of either I have in me I don’t know. I feel Goanese.”

Just as Ferdi snapped out of his lost-in-thought moments, Fergo was fuming and as the redness of this kin increased to scarlet red, there was a fair chance he would explode, it seemed.

“Good Lord. You are nothing but a fucking half-caste coolie. You may talk white. Act white. Even think white. Even have the morals of a white man. But. You are not white. You are black in a fraudulent skin. A dishonest albino. You are diseased. Piece of shit. To think that a pure Aryan man allowed you to sit in a white man’s car … in the front seat, next to him … oh, the shame of it all. And, you shut your mouth. Don’t speak a word of today. You have contaminated the air I have breathed in your company.”

“But I am a devout Catholic.”

“Yeah but that is not good enough. It is not f******* Church of f******* England, not your true Anglican. The Pope is a shit like you.”

With that he tore into the early night’s shadows. The sun sets early in Nairobi.

Ferdi thought nothing of Fergo’s outburst. Ignorance, maybe. But he was not going blow his cover just because it had the right effect! Ha, ha, ha, he allowed himself a little chuckle.

Ferdi did not have time to tell him that his family is as white as it is possible to be white in a sun-baked, naturally black-skinned country. It is also without doubt the richest family in the land. Ferdi really does not ever have to do a single moment’s work in his life. Yet, that is his mission: to carve out a life all of his own, utterly, completely, irrevocably, HIS OWN.

After introducing himself and presenting letters of introduction from the Governor of Goa to the embassy/consulate staff, Ferdi was shown to his room where a servant was on standby to put his things away. The servant wore a crisp white uniform with a black roped band around his waist. He wore no shoes. While Ferdi helped himself to a neat Scotch, the servant set out on the bed Ferdi’s undergarments for a shower or a bath and clothes for dinner and his, whichever he preferred.

However, before doing that, Ferdi handed one of the consular staff a note and asked if someone could contact the person mentioned in the note and inform them that he was staying temporarily at the consulate. The note said:

Mr Alfonso Angelus de Cabral Fonseca

Mrs Maria Albina Agusto Messing

Reata Road, Nairobi

Angelus Fonseca was a contact arranged by his father.

The consul assured Ferdi a driver would see to it first thing in the morning.

Later they dined on something that looked like the Italian Minestrone soup, chicken caldin (a Portuguese/Goan curry) with rice, vegetables and salad. They toasted each other with the Portuguese Mateus rose wine and finished the meal off with a fruit salad before settling down to a Goan cheerot (Goan rolled cigars) and cognac.  Between puffs at the cheerot and seeps of the cognac he brought them up to date (as much as he could) about the “war” in Portugal which he had kept out of altogether, its impact on Goa and other matters of interest. During the war, the neutral Lisbon had been a hotbed of the spies and intrigue.

The consul, Antonio Cabral e Castanha, a career diplomat, cautiously approached the issue that had been perplexing his mind from the moment that the consulate had been advised that a man of such high nobility would be contacting the consulate. The question he most wanted to ask was: what are you doing here? And why are you working at Government House?

“So, what brings you to Kenya?”

“I have been interested in the British colonial system. While I was in London, I worked at the British colonial office where I continued my interest. When I left there, I thought it was time to see how the thing worked on the ground, terra firma, so to speak. Later, I will also be visiting our provinces in Africa, especially Mozambique and Angola.”

The consul and the others nodded … the conversation turned to Portugal, Prime Minister Salazar, Lisbon society, the women, etc. Tomorrow, a new life would begin for him.

This was a somewhat different Ferdi, of course, who settled down to a somewhat interesting life in prettiest Nairobi. Gone were the curls, the sparkling, laughing eyes and that eternal smile. Instead, his sparkling blueish-grey eyes led most Goans to call him “paklo” (whitey … a sometime derogatory term). He was an upright man, stoic even. In a white skin, he would have been the epitome of a member of the ruling British class, if not just British upper class, dressing for dinner at home, morning suits, top hat and tails, and all that. His shirt collars were white-starched as were the cuffs of his sleeves which sported an under-stated set of cuff-links.

More often than not he wore a three-piece double-breasted, worsted wool suits in stripes of grey or white on black, white on blue serge, or occasionally stunning white suits or dinner jackets of black mixed silk or white shimmering shark skin. When he did wear his white tuxedo, he accompanied the ensemble with a diminutive (more skinny) scarlet red bowtie. In all of his life, that was perhaps his only extravagance. His leather shoes, either brown or black, had a shimmering glaze on them and at first step, it was not difficult for him to see his own face reflected in them.

Everything he did was precise, correct to within a hair’s breadth of ultimate perfection. He held his head firmly on his shoulders, his neck ever erect but when he turned, his neck appeared to swivel on his shoulders. He was two metres plus tall and in a crowded room he appeared to survey his surroundings somewhat like a tall peacock. He was a man of a few words, more economic by choice than reserved by sense. He was not bereft of humour but evidence of this was presented only by the economic twitch of the muscles in his cheeks. While his photograph may have depicted him as staid (as was the want in those days of the early 1900s), he was social but here again, there was an economy of engagement and effort.

Yet, for all his misunderstood aloofness, once liked he was an eternal acquaintance. This very explicit economy of action was also manifested in his drinking habits. No ale or beer of any sort passed his lips. He drank a single glass of the appropriate wine at the appropriate setting, dinner, cocktails, and sundowners, such like. Sometimes, in the company of men, he drank the lone double shot of the best Scotch whisky available at the event.

At home he allowed himself a solitary drink of his very private bottle of single malt which may have come his way by fair means or otherwise. He was educated in the ways of the holy malt by the leader of a caravan (who had probably come by it by foul means, perhaps stealing it from his super-rich white clients). Hamid Bin Aslam Suleiman did not know what it was but he was sure it would please Senor Braganca or if it did not, he would wear the full brunt of the starry gaze. It was not in Senor’s nature to encourage petty pilfering but on this occasion to pursue the matter further would cause unimagined pandemonium. He followed the lone Scotch up with a chaser of water, preferably with ice whenever it was available, for the rest of the event or the night, whatever might be the case…

Braganca was a very fit man but he was not a sporting superstar. He dabbled in cricket, soccer, hockey, badminton, snooker, billiards, and table tennis, whenever time allowed. There was never any bravado in success or calumny in failure. Sport was all matter of fact and necessary action to keep the limbs supples, the tendons gentle, muscles taught, hearty of breadth, speed in his legs and arms and his wrists oiled-and-greased, so to speak. He was a staunch Roman Catholic. He would have rather died than miss Sunday Mass or any one of the great days of the Catholic calendar. At work, he stopped for a few minutes at midday to say the Angelus (a devotion commemorating the Incarnation, used to be said three times a day) and in the evening he either went to church for Benediction (short invocation for divine help, blessing and guidance, usually at the end of worship service) or said a prayer wherever he was. He also recited the Rosary more often than not sometime in the evening, kneeling on a concrete floor for more than an hour each time. He would have gone to morning Mass but an early start at work put paid to that. He was a member and benefactor of the parish St Vincent de Paul Society for the poor and offered his service to the inner sanctum of his parish whenever they were required. Naturally, he prayed first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

He was a fish eater (the staple diet of most Goans: fish curry and rice) but he ate a little of everything else.

The reader may want to think that the author is leading you up the proverbial garden path. He is too good to be true, you may be saying to yourself, especially as I write his story in this day and age in 2016. Remember, 1947 was another time, especially for a young man coming out of the Portuguese colony of Goa which was quaint, to say the least and Catholic fundamentalist almost, ultra-religious even.

He was no saint but came close. He had his foibles and faults, but too few to stain his good character. Wonder what happened next ….

Braganca 6

Hot blood, cold showers and protocol

The first time he saw her at the swish Equator Club in Nairobi, not far from the Kenya Cinema at the bottom of Government Road, he was mesmerised. No, he was utterly stunned like he had been whacked over the head with a long-necked bottle of Tusker. While he was not unconscious, he was in a daze. He quickly reached for his glass of single malt and had a really good swig at it. At this moment, he said to himself, I will need another… quickly and purely for medicinal purposes. 

I have got to get back to my senses, he told himself. But, as we all know, there is no cure for the love bug. It is a kind of madness that strikes at the brain and causes enormous eruptions in every cardiac–related department of the brain known to man and animal alike. The birds the bees and every living element on this earth suffer the same pain at one time or another, I suspect. But was this love at first sight, just a twinge of lust or something else? The answer did not come to Ferdi immediately. On the other hand, he is made of sterner stuff and, instead of pursuing the lady in question, thought he would find sanctuary in a cold shower at his house.

 

He had gone to Nairobi’s exclusive “Europeans only” nightclub with a bunch of youngish society types associated with Government House and the upper ranks of the Colonial Civil Service. On the first day, he presented himself to start work at Government House His Excellency Sir William Severon  Randall-Scott had after a long chat convinced Ferdi to use his actual name “Ferdinando” and let it be known that he was actually a full blood Portuguese. “I have already heard about your little to-do with Ferguson. In fact, the community is buzzing with the news that there is a highly placed coolie at Government House. That will most certainly not do,” he had been told rather firmly, almost like a headmaster disciplining a child. The Governor had explained in the interests of official decorum it was proper “for only white men to be seen in the company of white folk in public and in private.” Ferdinando could, the Governor explained, visit Goanese establishments and clubs and socialise “only in an official capacity” with the lower-class Goanese people. It was not necessary or appropriate to pose as “one of them” to achieve his mission in Kenya. “You represent one of the great allies of his Britannic majesty’s government and we should wave that flag with honour and gratitude,” the Governor had said.

 

“On the other hand,” the Governor had said, “it is important that our Goanese subjects are made to feel special and valued. Which they are, indeed, as they are our most trusted allies in whose hands the wheels of the British Civil Service in East Africa are well-oiled, kept in ship-shape condition and run well to the credit of His Majesty’s Colonial Service. Always remember, however, that they are after only our servants. But valued servants, as I said.”

 

“I have sent Bill Jones our Head Clerk to explain to Ferguson that you were only pulling his leg.” The Governor had said.

 

A couple of days later, Ferdinando had a drink with William Rogerson, the visiting Colonial Office envoy and he raised the matters arising in his mind about the directives given him by the Governor.

 

Rogerson was quite precise, even a little brutal: “We must each of us know our own place in the scheme of things in His Majesty’s Government,” he said quite firmly. “You should not find that too difficult. After all, you are Portuguese, a people famous for sailing, navigating, discovering new worlds, colonisation and, of course, slavery. You guys have been in the business of master and slave for nigh on 500 years now. Surely, you must know the drill by now.”

 

For the next couple of days, Ferdinando appeared lost in the maze of his mind, almost a prisoner of that maze full of questions, doubts and conscience. For a start, he could not get out of his head the memory of those wonderful years growing up in Goa. 

Yes, the Goans treated him and the rest of his family as some kind of royalty but he grew up with so many young Goan boys and girls. He understood the different lifestyles, the caste and class systems and there were social barriers that were never to be crossed, or crossed for the entertainment or gratification of the master class …., but, he counted so many of the young Goans as his friends, he told himself. The Goan nobility, the fewer that were considered, noble were made welcome at his mother’s table and they broke bread and a few wine bottles together. His head continued to spin in that maze in his head.

 

Several weeks later, after a round of golf at the holiest temple of the European settlers in Kenya, the Muthaiga Golf Club, he found himself in the company of a group of British senior civil servants who were on secondment to Kenya. The group had found themselves a quiet corner, quite a distance from and even out of earshot of all the belligerence that was going on at the other end of the bar. The Muthaiga Golf Club was, after all, the settlers’ temple of sin, sex and matters never raised in public.

 

There was Michael Moore of the Treasury, Jim Morris of the Legislative Council, Andrew Darton of the Ministry of Agriculture, Hamish MacPhelan, Provincial Commissioner of the Northern Frontier District and an assortment of other civil service types.

 

MacPhelan was raving on about his head clerk, Jacinto Mascarenhas, who virtually ran the Northern Frontier District (NFD) on his own but in MacPhelan’s name. “I trust Masky implicitly (that’s what I should call him, for short, he had told me). He pours a decent glass of Scotch, cooks fabulous curries and if he was not a coolie he would make a fine Provincial Commissioner. And, what’s more, he has got my back at all times!”

 

“Do you socialise with your Goan clerks?” Ferdinando asked.

 

“Of course, the NFD is nothing but sun and more sun, dust and more dust, camel and more camel, more tribal skirmishes and more tribal skirmishes and the nearest white man to Marsabit, where we have our headquarters, is more than a day’s ride by camel. Mind, it is only a drink and a meal and office chit-chat. We each know our place in the scheme of things. I love these Goanese chappies but I would not trust some of those other brown skins, especially the shopkeepers!”

 

So, that’s not so bad, Ferdinando thought with his thumb and forefinger massaging the dimple in his chin.

 

Moore of the Treasury went one better: “I encourage all my young Goan employees. I have helped six of them with scholarships to universities in Britain. I think they are a damned good investment for our future in this country.”

 

Darton of Ministry of Agriculture agreed, emphasising his enthusiasm by somewhat boisterously thumping on the table. Darton was rather famous in these parts for discovering the cure for various diseases afflicting the humble potato. Without any children of his own, he wanted to someone to carry on his great work. He said he found that someone in a Goan boy called Teotinio Almeida. “He has just finished high school but he is a bit of a diamond in terms of his intelligence, diligence and dedication. And, he loves the potato. So I got him a full scholarship to my old alma mater Angharad University in Edinburgh, Scotland. He is going to be someone special in the agriculture business.”

"What's more, " MacPhelan said, "they shower us with presents, alcohol, gold chains and whatnot. It is a religious thing I think."

 

Morris from the Legislative Council was a little subdued on the subject. “You should never invite them to your club or to your home even though the Governor has one or two of them to a Garden Party honouring a British special holiday or His Majesty. You, of course, can be their guest of honour but protocols must be observed at all times.”

 

MacPhelan chirped in: “Sport is OK, but never invited into the club. Good thing they don’t play rugby.”

 

“What about sex?” Ferdinando asked somewhat timidly.

 

“Never!” came the resounding chorus followed by a lot of nudge, nudge, wink, wink. "Lots of farmers' wives for that," someone was heard to say!

So, he thought, it was going to be OK to be Goans, talk to Goans, eat and drink with Goans and do anything else as long as it was official business. And he must not invite any of them to his house, office or club.

So, what am I going to do about her? Ferdinando asked himself.

 

Braganca 7

 

Ethelvina Cabral, a widow who lived in River Road, Nairobi, to feed her family rented out rooms (including two or three or four beds per room for a family; otherwise she fitted two or three beds for bachelors who were long-staying customers which included full board and lodging). She also catered for overnight board and lodging.  Ethelvina also had other regulars and visitors who popped in for meals and her culinary skills in traditional Goan cooking were known throughout Kenya. Anyone coming to Kenya from Goa had her address written on a page in their passport.

On the other hand, two, three or four bachelors got together rented a room or a couple of rooms, and did their own cooking, laundry and cleaning. Otherwise, they ordered food from Ethelvina. This type of accommodation was called “mess” or “messing” taken from the British army’s “officers’ mess”.

In their leisure time, the bachelors played cards (three-card brag called flush, rummy, seven hands or an Indian board game called carom). At larger gatherings, they played a rather boisterous and hotly contested game called trouk. Gilbert De Souza, Mario Antonio Goes, and Raul Rodrigues were amongst the best-known and most respected of the three card gamblers. At the weekend, their sessions often lasting two days were legend. Equally, the rummy sessions also went their own marathon way.

Ethelvina’s menu which changed daily (it was a matter of what you see is what you get) included a fish curry, fried fish, and dried fish cooked in the embers of charcoal or fried. It was then shredded and served as a sort of salad with onions, tomatoes, coriander leaves, vinegar and finely sliced chillies. On other days, she would serve a chicken curry, a beef vindaloo, a goat or lamb curry or other dishes from the very large Goan cuisine. Some of the favourite starters included lamb samosas, beef croquettes, fish cutlets, potato chops (mash ball with mince at the centre and fried crisp) and lots more.  The meat dishes were not as common as the staple “rice and fish curry). And, of course, there was an almost inexhaustible supply of Goan sweets, usually reserved for Christmas but Ethelvina made sure that her guests tasted one or two things after lunch or dinner. Her pancakes with a filling of desiccated coconut and dark coconut jaggery were also very popular. For breakfast, her guests loved her butter chappatis with little scrambled eggs or eggs sunny side up. Or just with a cup of coffee or tea.

Fatty Francis Raposa was, of course, the Master Cutter in men’s clothing, especially suits, sports jackets, casual trousers and safari outfits. He was the boss and one of the most respected Goans in the colony. He was always impeccable fresh full white shirt- suit and tie every day.

Muljibhai Alibhai and Sons served an exclusive international clientele from far and wide around the world, consisting mainly of big game hunters, the occasional explorer, and the many clergy that appeared to proliferate darkest Africa. The bespoke tailors and outfitters also especially catered for the local hoi poloi in Kenya, particularly the rich farmers and their families.   Successive governors, ministers and their wives were personally dressed by Fatty Francis. He did not actually do the sewing; he had his minions to do that. He did the supervising as well as the exclusive task of cutting-to-pattern the cloth for sewing. Naturally, his reputation as a Master Tailor continued to grow to such an extent requests from loyal overseas clients would come by mail order. At Muljibhai’s the highest-ranking dressmakers, again under Fatty Francis’ supervision, were Robin Antao and Santan Pinto. Both were able to turn the most complicated of British and American designs into Kenyan Goan masterpieces. There was a chap called Joanes my father used to speak very highly of but I forget his first name. Another outstanding men’s tailor was a chap called Fernandes. His name began with A but I forget what it was. I remember it was really an uncommon name. Another name mentioned with honour was a chap called Costa Marie Carvalho.

There were several bespoke tailors in Nairobi, Mombasa, Kisumu, Nakuru and one or two other places in Kenya in those days. Muljibhai’s employed around 25 tailors, mostly Goans. Their main opposition Ahmed Bros employed just as many. There was also the more exclusive British settler-owned Esquires and the Italian-owned Gianni’s. They provided bespoke tailoring for men and women. They were also among the first to import off-the-rack finished suits, shirts (albeit in small numbers), and exquisite full leather shoes. This very fine shop was owned by the patriarch of the Gianni family, himself a former World War II prisoner of war. Esquires, on the other hand, prided itself in dressing local farmers in the best traditions of tailoring for the landed gentry of Mother England.

Virtually all the tailors catered for the white people. Most Asians got their clothes made by tailors at their homes. Several women sewed dresses for any occasion and often each dress was one to die for. The quality of embroidery and knitting produced by Asian women folk in Kenya was something to behold. Particularly stunning were the traditional Western wedding gowns, the exquisite saris and other traditional wedding clothes from India. In the Goan community, I always found the magnificent outfits worn by infants at their christenings or baptisms to be unforgettable, as were the white dresses worn by girls at their First Holy Communions. The boys’ all-white outfits were not to be sneered at either.

Among the Goans, it seemed as if every Goan mother was a seamstress. Soon, it even seemed as if every daughter was a seamstress … because most girls appeared to wear a new dress at every dance or feast day. There was certainly a new dress for Christmas, New Year’s Eve and birthdays, of course. If they were not new, then they were “renovated” hand-me-downs.

Peter Santiago was daydreaming about his favourite Ethelvina dish, Spanish mackerel caldin (an exceptionally delicious coconut curry created with a variety of herbs) as sat at his bench finishing off button holes in a blue serge jacket. Like everyone else in the room, he too was ejaculated from his momentary dreaming. THE screaming phone appeared to wake everyone in the room out of their concentrated silence. Fatty Francis Raposa (as opposed to the other Francis, Skinny Francis Raposa) came to the phone and in his own quiet soft but uniquely authoritative voice, picked up the telephone phone receiver and said:

“Good morning, Francis Raposa, Muljibhai Alibhai and Sons, Nairobi, how can I help you?”

“Raposa, can I speak with Shorty Abbelino Gomes?” the caller asked rather arrogantly.

“Gomes is not allowed to use the phone. Give me a short message and I will pass it on to him.”

“Tell him that Ferdinando e Sousa Braganca is in Nairobi and would like to meet him. My telephone number is Nairobi 4451.”

“Abellino does not have a telephone number and may not be able to call you.”

“Do you have his address?”

“Yes. It is Ethelvina’s boarding and lodging on River Road. It is the top storey above Baboos General Grocery Store on the corner of River Road and Reata Road. He is usually home after 6 pm. Does he know you?

“Yes. My father informed him that I was going to be in Nairobi for a short time.”

“Tell him I shall send a driver to get him one of these days.”
“Driver?”

“Yes. My driver.”
“Okay, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Abel,” Fatty Francis called out in a voice that was not exactly a shout but it was loud enough for the others in the room to hear. When Abel was almost nose-to-nose with him, he told him in Konkani: “Telephone came for you from someone called Ferdinando Braganza. Do you know him?”

“Yes. Yes. He is my patron’s son (patron someone who is much more important than the humble landowner). What did he say?”

“He is going to send a driver to get you. I gave him Ethelvina’s address. Why is he going to send you a driver? He gave me his telephone number.”

“Senor Braganca is a very big man. We used to play as children but he has been to university in Lisbon and has held very big jobs in Europe. He has worked for Prime Minister Salazar. He must be a very important person. His father had told me Ferdinando might be coming to Nairobi.”

“Well be very careful,” Fatty Francis warned him.

Abel bowed his head in respect and as an acknowledgement of Fatty Francis concern for him.

He looked around at his dumbfounded fellow tailors. Every face, it seemed to Abel, had a hundred questions waiting to ask. Instead, Abel went back to his sewing machine and after he had placed the piece he was working on under the needle (so to speak), he wondered: ‘What is that Salazar spy up to now?’

Braganca 8: An incident at the Goan Gymkhana

The fortunate son

Over the next few days, Shorty (real name Abellino Valerian Gomes from the Salcete, Goa, village of Velsao) often found his mind travelling into the fanciful, especially that bit about travelling in a real limousine as a guest of His Excellency Senor Ferdinando e Sousa Braganca, one of the highest-born Portuguese he had come to know while he worked on the Braganca estate and empire in the northern Goa village of Candolim. Abel had jet-black hair but he was fair-skinned. He was the only fair-skinned member of his family. There were whispers about his parentage but his mother and father would not tolerate any nonsense from anyone.

He daydreamed about sitting in the back seat, feeling the luxury of the soft leather seats and the sheer exhilaration of actually driving in a car. Wait a minute, he told himself, I have never actually sat in a white man’s car, or a brown man’s car or any man’s car for that matter. The nearest I have come to a car is sitting in a wooden bench at the back of a Kenya bus. A bolt of reality struck him and he quickly jumped out of his fanciful dream but he could not really stop himself … at least a white man would drive the car, he told his fanciful self.

When the driver, Joseph Kamau, did arrive one evening he was as black as the night. He had gone to Baboos and the owner, H.R. Shah commonly called Baboo, had directed him up the flight of stairs. Ethelvina herself had opened the door and shooed him away, telling him in her broken Swahili, that she did not need anything that day and had quietly shut the door. Kamau knocked again and again Ethelvina opened the door and tried to shoo him away. This time, however, Kamau said: “Bwana Gomesi.”

Ethelvina: Gomesi nani? (Who is Gomesi)

Kamau: Gomesi ametumwa kwa na Bwana Braganca (Gomesi has been sent for by Mr Braganca)

Ethelvina: Braganza hapa iko hapa (there is no Braganza here).

Kamau: Mimi kuchukua Gomesi kwa Bwana Braganca ( I am to take Gomesi to Bwana Braganca).

Ethelvina: Hapana jua weh weh no sema nini ... Kariukiiiiii, kuja kuja hapa pesi pesi (I don’t know what you are saying .... Kariuki, come, come quick.)

Kariuki, Ethelvina’s man-about-the-house (aka cleaner, cook, washer upper,  a general dogsbody who did anything that was required under Ethelvina’s supervision and a policing eye) told Ethelvina what his fellow Kikuyu tribesman wanted. Kamau waited downstairs.

When Abel in his only three-piece blue serge wedding suit with the regulation white handkerchief in the jacket’s breast pocket, met up with Kamau on the pavement downstairs, he asked: Wapi motor car? (where is the motor car)

Kamau signalled for Abel to follow him. When they had walked some 20 yards, Kamau climbed aboard the driver’s seat and held out a welcoming arm for Abel to join him in the front and only seat. Abel did so with a reluctance that bordered on pure disdain but certainly on gross disappointment and heartbreak. You see, the engine was a donkey and the “car” was a cart. It was 6 o’clock on Thursday night.

As the cart hobbled its way along River Road, past the Khoja Jamat khana on the corner of Victoria and Government Roads and onto Ngara Road, it was quite a pleasant sort of journey, albeit a slow one but few people noticed that in that day and age. The night was lit by a joyous full moon rendering the two candle-lit lamps on either side of the cart quite useless. Conversation was difficult as Abel’s Swahili was as bad as Kamau's non-existent English. When Abel asked Kamau where they were going (via sign language), Kamau pointed forward and said: Hapa tu, hapa tu, Karibu sana (here only, here only, close by). That “hapa tu” took two hours to get to the destination after they had travelled along Ngara Road, turned left on the road that led to the maternity home, right by the Kenya Museum, past Salisbury Hotel and its beautiful swimming pool, the almost secretive Santa Cruz Goan Club, and a final right turn to the “Gym”.

Kamau dropped of Abel and headed of home somewhere in the dark of the night. Abel climbed the stairway to the Gym’s main entrance. There he was met by the club’s unofficial gatekeeper, Kario Bangi, whose job it was to ensure that only members entered the club and the riff-raff and blow-ins were kept out. Kario had a fantastic photographic memory. He knew every member and their families. When “non-member” Abellino Gomes stood in front of him and told in his somewhat broken English mixed with broken Swahili that he was a guest of Mr Ferdinando Braganza, Kario quietly informed him that Mr Braganza was himself a guest and could not sign in other guests. Gomes, he said, was to remain outside while Kario informed the club’s General Secretary, Mr Santimano de Araujo.

A few minutes later, de Araujo came and greeted Abel in Konkani (the Goan mother tongue, while Gomes spoke the southern Goan version, de Araujo spoke the northern version, but they had no difficulty in understanding each other).

Abel had to wait a few more minutes outside, de Araujo told him to proceed indoors and pulled together the club president Reginaldo do Fonseca and club treasurer Raoldao de Nazareth. “He is a tailor, we can’t let him in. It is against the rules,” de Araujo told his two senior colleagues and they agreed noddingly. “But we cannot say that to Mr Braganca,” Fonseca said quite sternly. “We can’t ask Braganca to leave and take his low-caste would-be guest with him.”

Nazareth agreed and suggested: “Why don’t we explain to Braganca and put the ball in his court?”

They agreed and not too far from the main doorway searched the club for a sighting of Braganca, the very special visitor to the club. In the far right hand corner, there was a game flush (three-card brag) in full swing. Ben Almeida was obviously in good spirits and perhaps in the winning ... he was doing his usual “attireh foreh” or words that sounded like that, were supposed to be Portuguese but no one could tell.

On the other side of the room, the rummy game was also in full swing but this was a rather quiet and sedate affair.

In the middle of the hall, there was a group seated around a large table, each with a book or newspaper in hand. This was the “reading room” or more correctly the “reading group”. Around the rest of the club, there were groups of men seated at tables, quietly sipping away at their beers. Now and again, someone would boisterously raise the volume of his voice and he would be quickly shooed down.

In the background, almost non-existent to the trained ear, the much loved Konkani songs of stage and cinema by some of the most loved singers and musicians serenaded familiar ears.

Lucy Delgado simply loved the club. Being a young teenager, she and her friends had an absolute ball (pardon the pun) with the sports (the girls especially enjoyed badminton and tennis) and the many, many social functions. One of the largest and exclusive feasts celebrated at the club each year was the Saligao Feast. Some of those who attended often told me it was almost as if it was like spending a day at the Mae De Deus Church and in the village of Saligao, Goa. Mae De Deus was always one of the prettiest churches in Goa. Most of its interior in the front of the church, especially around the high altar, was decorated with gold leaf. The upkeep of the church was maintained by Saligao villagers individually and from funds raised at the annual feast. The day was usually sold out because the food, singing, music and the Mass were so good.

Mae De Deus usually boasted one of the best choirs in Goa. They were always up-to-date with their musical instruments, and public address systems and their Masses usually stood out with a mix of grand tradition and a pinch of modernity. Like most churches in Goa, there was one setback: priests tend to talk, very loudly, table-thumping, bible bashing and more often than not very boringly, especially to visiting ears.

It was not long before our intrepid officious trio spotted the “very special guest” Mr Braganca.

“But I only want to sit down and have a quick chat with him,” Braganca told them.

“With sincere apologies, Mr Braganca we cannot allow that to happen. It is against our rules. Gomes is a tailor. Uneducated. Does not speak proper English. He is of a vastly lower caste and is exactly the kind of person we have to keep out of the club,” Fonseca told him. “You cannot afford to be seen to be socialising with his type,” he added. “You cannot afford to be seen to be socialising with his type,” he added.

“If we let him on to the premises, our members are likel to revolt and abuse the club committee in public and every opportunity, even in public. It would not surprise me if someone like Luis Castellino and his hardline Portuguese rightwingers complained to the Governor,” de Araujo said with the greatest of misgivings.

“Could I not just have a conversation with him in one of your rooms?” Braganca appeared to plead with the trio of club henchmen.

“No!” they said firmly in one voice.

“Well, I won’t be coming back here again,” Braganca said.

“Don’t. If you must,” de Araujo said as a matter factly.

Braganca went back to the people he was with, made his apologies and headed for the exit.

Outside, Braganca and Abel greeted each other like long-lost brothers. They had not seen each other for more than 15 years. They had played as children on the estate. Much later Braganca and his brother had gone to St Paul’s School in Belgaum. Abel had remained behind helping his father as a farm labourer. In between, he had found time to learn tailoring both men’s and women’s. In Nairobi, he chose the more lucrative men’s clothing industry. After exchanging little bits of news of Goa, Abel was guided to the car. As his hand reached for the passenger’s side door, Braganca guided him to the back of the car, lifted open the boot guided a shocked and stunned Abel inside and then shut the boot with a sturdy thump. Before closing the boot (or trunk as the Americans call it), Braganca had told Abel he would explain everything in a few minutes. Just as the Gym officials were putting their foot down about not letting Abel into the club, Braganca also very quickly remembered the Governor’s words about not socialising with people who were not of his race. He felt relieved that he would not be visiting the Gym again in the near future.

Abel had been looking forward to riding in a big car. This was that big car. But, in the boot? That is ridiculous, he told himself. What to do? He thought, somewhat surrendered to his predicament.

Braganca drove to the Portuguese consulate, parked the car and let Abel out from the boot. He knocked on the door and the Consul-General let them in. After greetings and introductions, Braganca took Abel into the Consul-General’s office.

“I must apologise for having put you through this uncomfortable experience,” Braganca told Abel.

“Why did I have to hide?” asked the quizzical Abel.

“You know what the colour bar is. I work with the Governor and we are not allowed to socialise with anyone except Europeans,” he said.

“Isn’t that coming to an end ... they are removing the ‘Europeans Only’ signs.”

“Yes, yes. But it will take time.”

Abel wanted to know more about Goa and the estate, his parents, his brothers and sisters and all the other people that once worked and lived on the estate.

“Everything has already been sold. Many of our people were given their own plots to build or cultivate. Many still live in and around Candolim. Some have gone back to their ancestral villages in South Goa. It is no longer the place of my childhood although the great house is still there but with a new family,” Braganca explained.

“Yes, I know. I have been back several times. It is not the same but my two brothers and their families are still there and live in the same old house which has now become their ancestral home. Your family was kind enough to give it to us,” Abel said gratefully.

Roque Antao who works at the consulate as a clerk was called in to translate:

This is what Braganca told Abel:

“That is what I want to talk to you about. I am going to give you two official letters. You are to take both letters to my family’s former advocate (advogado), I think he was called in the past).

“Our family has decided to bestow upon you a coconut plantation, a paddy field, a large piece of land with a big house and fruit trees, all very close to Candolim Beach. In fact, the coconut palms are on the beach itself. There is also some money that has been left for you at the State Bank of Goa in Panjim.

“There is, however, one condition: we, as a family, will not entertain any questions. Is that clear?”

“Do you accept?”

“Yes”

“Sign here...” he had already opened the document at the appropriate page.

“When you present the documents to the advocate, he will make sure everything is taken care of. I wish you a great and prosperous future. May you always be blessed, dear Abel.”

Abel joined his, as if in prayer, and bowed his head several times in thanks.

Braganca asked Antao to drop Abel home. Moments later, Braganca joined the Consul-General for a well-deserved single malt scotch.

THE NEXT DAY

Braganca 9

Braganca is sitting in his office at Government House, Nairobi. He is listening to a variety of birdlife that frequents the gardens. He is also admiring the manicured lawns. Just outside his window, there are rows and rows of rose bushes and the scent is quite intoxicating. Twenty-four men and women work full-time to keep all of the gardens at their Chelsea Flower Show best.

The phone rings. He sort of reluctantly picks up the receiver. At the other end of the line is de Araujo from the Goan Gymkhana. For a moment, after the first hellos, the line is silent. Braganca is convinced that there will be a very humble apology forthcoming. Instead, de Araujo asks: “What was the date yesterday?”

Braganca is taken aback. Why? He is perplexed and reaches for his diary and there it is … April 1 … There is a half-hearted laugh before the line goes dead.

Braganca 10

Mai, whose son am I?

Two months after receiving the news of the fortune bestowed upon him by the Braganca family, Abel (aka Shorty) boarded the SS Karanja at Mombasa for the voyage to Bombay and then by bus to Goa. The first part of the journey, from Nairobi to Mombasa, was by train belonging to the East African Railways and Harbours. The pioneering Mombasa to Kampala, Uganda, railway was nicknamed “The Lunatic Express”. Its history is worthy of several volumes for another time, another place. Suffice to say, travelling third class was no dream come true and they said in those days “it is, what it is”. Fortunately, Abel had the three seater bench all to himself and the help of some clothing for a pillow he slept through most of journey until they arrived in Mombasa the next morning. 

 

WHEN colonial powers ruled over the whole of the Eastern African coast, the British India Steam Navigation linked India and Pakistan with Kenya, Tanganyika, Mozambique, South Africa and the Seychelles islands. Operating one of the largest fleets in the world, BI also had ships that plied from India to the Middle East, Australia and the Far East.

Two of the most popular (it would seem) steamships to ferry passengers between East Africa and Karachi and Bombay were the SS Karanja the SS Kampala. Each of the ships accommodated 60 passengers in First Class, 180 in Second Class and 825 in Third Class.

According to one BI brochure: “Each of the twin ocean liners offered a covered open promenade wrapping around the public rooms, beginning with the First class music room and veranda cafe, followed by a cocktail lounge, card room and library. Second-class public rooms were aft, and the dining rooms were just below. First and Second class shared blocks of interchangeable cabins, while Third class bunks were completely separate. There was no air-conditioning, but only forced-air ventilation, which was fine while the ships were underway but could be stifling in port.

“Entertainment was typical of the times, consisting of afternoon teas with violin music and perhaps dancing to an Indian band or a film or quiz in one of the public rooms. But what could be more enjoyable and relaxing than a day simply spent on deck reading and watching the sea go by?”

 

When the author was at primary school, a friend, Emil de Santiago, wrote about his own experience on another ship: 

 

Besides the S.S. Amra, there were the S.S. Kampala and the  S.S. Karanja ships that plied to Bombay, Goa and Mombasa and down south to Mozambique. The ships also made the journey to England for the homesick British settlers who longed for their rainy country.

 There were two gangplanks leading to the ship separated widely apart. The one on the left was for first class travellers where the ships’ officers welcomed you wearing white gloves. There was no second class. The riff-raff of society like us travelled on deck. There was no one to welcome us on the gangplank.

 

The wiry coolie lifted the large, heavy, metallic trunk perching it on his head with comparative ease and made his way on the gangplank to the hold of the ship claiming a place on the bunks for my mother, brother and me. The second coolie carried the two thin beddings of bedsheets and pillows all rolled separately. These were placed on the bunk beds assuring our stay across the Indian Ocean.

The next task for my mother was to arrange for food for the seven-day journey. This was easily arranged with one of the ship’s Goan cooks for a price. The meals were excellent Goan cuisine but for the first two days, the thought food was revolting. Sea sickness created waves of turmoil in the stomach that you had to run to the deck and stay there emptying your stomach into the ocean from the rail. There was no cure for sea sickness, but my mother gave us hot water to drink the eternal cure for Goan ailments.

 The bunk area was not very airy. It smelled of human sweat and other ships’ dank odours mingled with the continuous noise of the ship's engines. My brother and I shared a bunk bed – we were seven and nine years old. The only solace we got from the sleeping quarter was that the ship’s porthole was in line with our bunk bed. It was a relief to see the ocean and a close-up of flying fish as the ship sliced through the water.

While on deck, it was strange to see a white man on the upper deck point a gadget (with his eyes glued to it) at the people. On the gadget, visible in white letters read BBC.

I assumed they were the man’s initials. After the seasickness, it was a smooth journey. Like kids, we ran and played with other kids on the deck while the man with the BBC letters continued looking at us.  

Finally, it was home – Goa.