89. Who the Bleep cares about Gulf Goans?

The day I announced the publication of the book, my family gave up on all pretence of normalcy. They gave up on food and got used to living on berries. I emerged occasionally from behind my laptop where the world-wide Goan community from Goa to Kenya, Kuwait to London and Canada were peering through my computer screen; cheering me on, swinging into action like determined foot-soldiers and spreading the word about the book.

Whatever happens next, I have lived one glorious moment which proved that whether we are Ponjekars or Kuwaitkars, mundkars or bhatkars, Christao or Konkne, we are all Goenkars. We are not hideous crabs with pink, envious pincers wanting to bring others down. We have an inherent sense of community that rises above all else to celebrate each other's achievements.

This week, I've chosen an extract from my book, Into the Diaspora Wilderness, pertaining to the Gulf region. My memories of the Gulf, go back to when the place was little more than an arid, hot desert with tiny hutments dotting the landscape to attest to the presence of man. Huge, bulbous flies would attack the eyes and the smell of goat droppings everywhere clung to the humid air.

The following is an extract from a chapter titled "Early arrivals in the Emirates".

There were a few Goan families with young children (in the Emirates). They quickly bonded, meeting often after work, unannounced, for a drink of Scotch whisky or Heineken beer, enjoying the hearty camaraderie that comes with the company of fellow Goans. The bazaar with its raw pungent smell emanating for miles, skinned goats hanging from loops, vendors animatedly shouting above the din did brisk business in imported meat, vegetables, fruits and local fish, although the fish had a peculiar petrol taste. There was little by way of entertainment, other than house-parties and the one open-roofed cinema house, filled to the rafters with Pathani and Keralite men. One could as well watch the movie from the back of a truck as seated in the hall.

Possedonio Tovar and Manuel (Manu) Pereira were early arrivals in Dubai. Manu's son, Romulus Pereira, went on to distinguish himself in the United States as an inventor in the information technology sector and as a business icon. Such success would come later. Then, there was not much to look forward to other than trudging to work in the torrid heat of an Arabian mid-afternoon sun after a four hour siesta break.

The tall, patrician looking Possedon is the son of Diogo and Umbelina from Chinchinim. He had been working in Bombay for the State Bank of India for some time when he heard of vacancies with the British Bank in Dubai. He was interviewed and selected.

He arrived in 1957, his memories as clear as if they were in motion on a celluloid screen. There were no roads. Cars did not have license plates. Hurricane lanterns hung from poles as street lamps. Water arrived on donkey-back. There was no electricity. Luckily, the British Bank had provided them with company quarters and its generator supplied electricity. Possedon thinks there might have been about 15 Goans in Dubai at the time.

Possedon eventually moved into a building near the Dubai Creek and, in 1966, he married the porcelain-skinned, Maria do Carmo Proença, sister of the renowned Margão pediatrician, Doctor Aleixo Proença. Maria soon joined Posse and became one of Dubai's much loved Goan hostesses.

Into the Diaspora Wilderness is a book by Selma Carvalho. To buy a copy visit Broadway in Panjim or order from: http://selmacarvalho.squarespace.com/

Do leave your feedback at carvalho_sel@yahoo.com