The Pro Files: Outtakes in Latin India

When that long weekend approaches, the typical Bombaywallah will often turn to the easy promise of three days and two nights of beach nirvana that is Goa. Boasting over a 100 km shoreline, dotted with beaches and lagoons from its majestic Northern outpost of Fort Tiracol, down to the azure and white magic of its Southern extremities beyond Palolem, there is something that would fit the aesthetic and wallet of any and all.

But what of Goa without its beaches? As that anniversary weekend approached and the default Goa getaway loomed large all over again, this question gnawed at me. After a gazillion Goan getaways of all shapes and forms, what if we tried something else? A beach-free Goan holiday. The prospect of Goa without water proved daunting enough to take on, and I began to research a worthy alternative. It has always intrigued me how different Goa is from its immediately neighbouring states, be it food, music, costumes, or people. It’s almost as if one crosses that imaginary line that separates Indian states, and poof… it’s a different country. And really, in more ways than one, it still is.

The Portuguese inquisition in Goa was a success by default. Only 30 percent of the population is Catholic, yet all of Goa looks like it is so.

Goa-based writer and social commentator Bennet Paes says it like it is. The Portuguese may have left more than fifty years ago, but the crumbling yet majestic architectural, epicurial and musical legacy that they left behind has not dissipated. When I delved deeper, I understood what could be the alternative Goa experience that just might counter the sandy beaches less than 10 miles away. The latin roots of Goa. At the heart of it all, one word seemed to jump out.

Fontainhas.

Bairro Das Fontainhas, or the ‘quarter of Fontainhas’, sits at the foot of Altinho, an affluent hilltop area in the centre of Goa’s capital city Panjim. The more I read about Fontainhas, the more fascinated I became. William Dalrymple had described it as a “small chunk of Portugal washed up on the shores of the Indian Ocean”. Years ago, on a visit to Goa to attend the annual film festival IFFI, my wife and I had stumbled into a street art festival in the latin bylanes of Fontainhas. Young women singing fados by candlelight in bars where sangria flowed like water, caricature artists drawing lampoon portraits of Indian and foreign politicians and celebrities alike, delectable street cuisine with churros and chorizo on offer in myriad bylanes, it was as disconnected to an Indian experience as we’d ever had in the subcontinent. It seemed the perfect destination for that rare Goa visitor who wanted none of that sandy beach heaven.

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Although the French sounding ‘Maison Des Fontainhas’ did sound a misnomer, its promise of a refurbished colonial homestay in the middle of the Fontainhas district allured us enough to take the plunge. It was an inspired choice. From the moment we arrived after an energy sapping 14 hour drive from Mumbai, with a car breakdown to boot off Satara that set us back 3 odd hours, we knew had come to the right place. Immaculately restored and reeking of good taste, we settled in and hurried out to catch a meal as it was nearly 11 pm, and ours was a bed and breakfast, no provisions for meals.

Stepping out into the night confirmed that we had indeed transported to another place. Narrow lanes with cobbled streets. Stairs that spiralled down between wooded villas. A beautiful white church sprung surprisingly off an alleyway, resplendent by moonlight. Not a car seemed in sight, barely any traffic at all. We walked a few blocks and arrived at a quaint Portuguese villa that announced itself as ‘Linda’s Viva Panjem’. As we entered, it delighted us to find a raucous atmospheric diner, replete with a live band, brimming with local and foreign patrons. At the helm of affairs, sat a regal lady who masterminded it all. Presumably, Linda. We sat down to a happy meal of shrimp starters followed with vindalho and steak mains, and polished it off with Crème Caremele. When the bill came, it was below ₹500. It was a gulp moment, considering we’d even bunged in a gin and tonic apiece in that. A comparable meal in Mumbai or Delhi would easily set one back by ₹2500. Later, I spoke with the owner Linda De Sousa, who was affable and easy, even inviting me to visit her home up the street anytime by day to talk about her proud ancestry in Fontainhas.

The next morning, we woke to birdsong outside our verendah. Later over breakfast, we were greeted by one Luis Da Silva, who was married into the Menezes family whose ancestral home we were now staying at. Luis managed the hotel, and through him, we learnt that the original family patriarch was Hallelujah Menezes, who started a hardware store in downtown Panjim four generations ago. The Menezes family still lives in Goa, and recently reinstated their family mansion to its former glory as a boutique hotel. Business seemed to be good, going by what little I could sense. Apart from us, there were several English couples, a Japanese solo, and some others I could not place, but possibly East European in origin. It was a little bit like The Grand Budapest Hotel meets The W. Understated, plush and comfortable.

We stepped out after breakfast into the Fontainhas morning, to be transported into medieval Iberia all over again, only this time in broad daylight. The narrow, sinewy lanes were flanked by majestic old villas, with elaborate Azulejo tile work on their doors announcing the occupant’s surname. Andrade, Vaz, Botelho, Pires, Affonso. Many of the old houses had been converted into boarding houses. The kind of people ambling about seemed distinctly different from the typical foreign tourist one saw in Goa. These folk seemed better dressed, and seemed to be living here. We befriended a few, and realized that most of them were artists and writers. The old Latin quarter seemed to draw a more literary crowd. It helped that Fontainhas itself was blessed with a number of art galleries. It felt appropriate, as in the old old days, the Lyceum (University) was situated at the top of the hill. Students would board and lodge at the foothills in Fontainhas. The little village of Fontainhas sprung up around then, and its student artsy roots still ring true to this present day.

Later in the morning, we rented a scooter and rode to the top of the hill to a neighbourhood called Altinho. It was Panjim’s diplomatic quarter. Most of the lavish bungalows seemed to be some embassy or the other, and of course, who could miss the magnificient Consulado Geral De Portugal. As we rode around the bend, we saw hundreds of hopefuls sitting their turn on the picturesque steps cut into the hill across the consulate gate. All Goans born prior to 1961 are legitimately allowed to apply for Portuguese citizenship, and choose to emigrate. Perhaps the consulate takes a kind view on younger emigrants too? Most of the folk we saw seemed a lot younger. It was a solemn sight. Many had candles, and some were carrying crosses.

Near the top of Altinho, we discovered a wonderful art gallery and modern Mediterranean cafeteria called Sunaparanta. It was really a wonderful space, where a series of moving image exhibitions were on. What’s more, a melting pot of local artists and literati seemed to be gathered here, discussing (what else) art, music and politics over coffee and cigarettes. In short, it was everything a modern art space usually is. What made it truly amazing was its majestic setting. A lavish Portuguese villa with large spacious rooms that have been sparingly converted into exhibition spaces. A central courtyard on the first floor serves as the café, and doubles up as a performance space. The views are amazing. From the top of the hill, one can get a 360 degree panorama of the entire lay of the land. The Mandovi river stretches out towards the Arabian Sea, as mangroves and silted sandy beaches dot the landscape on all sides.

Later that afternoon, we navigated out of the mesh of lanes and alleyways of Fontainhas, to meet some friends downtown for lunch at an old Panjim institution, the Ritz Classic. A few twists and turns and we were out of the wormhole called Fontainhas, and right in the midst of chaotic Panjim CBD. It felt almost impossible to imagine that a few blocks above, life can be so different. It was frenzied compared to Fontainhas, although by Indian small town market area standards, I suppose it was still rather muted. Ritz is the seafood destination Panjim locals are maniacally passionate about. There is good reason for this. The freshness of the Gomantak style seafood on offer here can’t be beat. At honest prices, and an oodle of homely charm to boot. We braved the throngs of seafood lovers who were waiting to pounce upon every seat that got freed up. Although the lunch was worth it, we silently vowed to never leave Fontainhas again for the rest of our little vacation. A much needed susegaad followed, helping us digest the shonak bones and frayed nerves in equal measure.

Later that evening, we spent a lovely time at the Panjim Inn, one of the original boarding houses of Fontainhas, and perhaps its most famous. The owners Jack and Miriam Sukhija, spent a lot of time with us, talking us through the early years of Fontainhas, and its history. Although we never met them, Panjim Inn was started by Jack’s parents who were both doctors in the British army. The ancestral house belonged to Jack’s grandmother, who belonged to the Valles family. When Colonel Sakhija went to Italy for a 3 month sabbatical, he saw small chapels restored to a hotel. That’s when he decided to build his wife’s ancestral home into what today is Panjim Inn. Elegant and authentic, we were charmed by its environs, and smitten by its history. Any trip to Fontainhas should include a visit here.

The next morning was the Sunday. In a scene out of a Spaghetti Western, the townspeople of Fontainhas all gathered around the Sao Tome church. The pastor was singing hymns in Latin. The small and beautiful church was just the right size for its old and withering community. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. The banter and bonhomie was infectious. It was a genuinely touching scene of old friends catching up, discussing the neighbourhood waste management issues. News of who was where, doing what, did the customary rounds. We were greeted with genuine warmth as ‘The Indians’.

We ambled about through the day, visiting the exquisite Velha Goa, where we were stunned at the artefacts and glassware on display. Chandeliers and exquisite table crystal. Handmade candles and soaps from the finest in Lisboa. Azulejo tile work with nuanced depictions of biblical passages. Less upscale, but equally prolific is Marcou Artifacts, where we ended up meeting a horde of photography students who were filming like Sabbath was already upon us. Sometimes, it’s good to save the best for last. We celebrated our last night in Fontainhas at the atmospheric and enchanting Venite. Mediterranean cool aged with crumbling decadent magnificience. But smart. Each detail, right. Every gourmand would approve the quality of the plates on serve. Except, prices. A third, of course.

Towards the crack of dawn when we finally boarded our jeep for that gruelling drive back to Mumbai, it startled us to find that the local bar was still alive. But nobody was fighting. Few locals were singing, and slapping time. As we pulled away into the night, we put on our best Fado voices, and sang along.