Busing It
In case one tires of the beach life after a while in Colva or Benaulum, one can always hop a bus heading into Margao for a taste of city life. Margao inevitably proves to be a stimulating experience for us, and the bus ride is part of the fun. The bus you catch might be a Hindu-owned one, with pictures of various deities hung about, garlanded and with the ubiquitous flashing lights surrounding them. More likely, however, it will be a Catholic bus, with sacred heart pictures, or images of Jesus and/or Mary, similarly adorned. I found the one we took especially appropriate, with the First Aid box hanging next to the icon of Christ, for that is what He is (see photo).
After the conductor had shouted himself hoarse, “Margao – Margao – Margao –Margao,” over and over at the top of his lungs, trying his best to fill as many seats as possible, we took off from the square in Colva in a swirl of dust and diesel fuel. For the next 20 minutes or so, we bumped and lurched our way along the road into the market town of Margao. That is, after a slow start out of Colva because the driver first had to make a quick stop to pick up his plastic water bottle. He had obviously dropped it off at the sugar-cane juice press stand on his way into Colva, and left it with the cane presser to fill for him. On the way out, the driver made a sudden swerve, almost plowing into the juice stand, reached an arm out the window, grabbed the now-filled-to-the-brim, 2 liter bottle of foaming cane juice, and with a laugh and a joke to the presser who tossed it into his hand, went careening again on his way to town, taking swigs as he drove. It wasn’t long after that he made a stop, where he picked up a young lady transporting a gigantic truck tire into town. Of course she couldn’t maneuver the tire into the narrow door of the bus by herself, but the conductor gallantly jumped out and, between the two of them, they managed to squeeze the very heavy tire through the door and lay it on the floor next to the driver’s seat. The girl was pretty, with a round face and a bubbly personality, and she seemed to know the driver very well, so she was probably a relative. She perched on her tire, chatted and laughed with the driver, and he passed her his bottle of sugar-cane juice, which she tipped into her mouth and drank from, Indian style, without letting it touch her lips.
The road to Margao winds its way through thick jungle greenery and coconut palms, and everywhere are bushes of tropical flowers of the most beautiful and vivid colors. Nestled in all this verdant greenery are very old houses, built in the ancient tradition, with carved woodwork, tiled roofs (all made by hand), and crucifixes in the yards. The homes are covered in layers of blackening mold, which gives them a weathered patina reminiscent of many monsoons. Plants of all types abound, as do flowering trees.
The bus was filling up rapidly now, and the “ladies only” seats were all taken, so many women and children were standing in the aisle. We enjoyed observing them and, once again, had to comment on the beauty of the Goan women. Most of them were wearing skirts and blouses or dresses, and some of them looked very western. Beside them stood their Hindu sisters; they wore brilliantly-colored saris in every hue, setting off their dark beauty. And beside them, stood their Moslem sisters, with aquiline features set off by their stark black robes; their skin pale from lack of sun, and their lustrous eyes glowing above black veils.
The conductor was a wonder. He made his way through the packed-in crowd, collecting fares, answering questions, whistling to the driver when someone wanted to get off, and helping old ladies down the steps of the door, or mothers carrying babies, with little children clutching their skirts. He made sure they were completely clear of the bus before banging on the wall to signal the driver to go. He was the most efficient, cheerful conductor we’d ever seen, and he had the widest smile in Goa! He obviously took a lot of pride in his work, and enjoyed it. He also told us where to get off when we reached Margao, and flashed his wide-toothed smile when we thanked him.