In the weaving lanes
that lead into a labyrinth of more lanes in Chapora, you feel like a first deep
sea diver who doesn’t quite know what the depth of the ocean is. Creatures not
so familiar swim and touch you, and then swim away. You hit rocks and corals
and seaweed and go deeper to see a giant watery world unfold, a universe
unexplored, you touch your senses hitherto untouched and, as we used to say in
our days of callow youth, you feel the feel.
Feeling the feel, is a daily exercise
in Chapora.
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Quite obviously, this wasn’t the first
time, but it sure was after a long time. With fellow wanderer friends, whose
souls remain here while they lead their Bombay lives. Speaking of which, there
were more such soul-full characters at the only place in these parts they could
be. Some call it a hole in the wall, to others it’s a bar, to still others it’s
an extension of their homes and then for some it’s nothing but a small Goan
street-side balcony with a view. It has a name, Paulo’s Bar. It’s so tiny that
you wouldn’t know where to or how to move but it has space enough to take in
generations and from all over the world. Stuffed with music, memories and
memorabilia and portraits and sketches of the gurus of music as we know-
Marley, the Beatles, Rod Stewart, Led Zepellin, Miles Davis-you get the drift,
with quirky signs and signboards one of which says, ‘If you are still standing,
you need another beer’.
But who is Paulo? That question is
answered with a half smile, or met with a quizzical look as if to ask ‘You
don’t know, then you don’t belong here’. Then someone, who left his Majorda
home years ago, to start living in these parts and is a part of the Paulo Bar
establishment, sizes you up and with a smile that breaks through the Albert
Einstein beard and says, “Paulo lives on a hill up the road. He comes here
sometimes.” But who runs his place, yours truly wonders. “Haha, his friends do.
What’s there to run? We play music from the playlist on the laptop (the only
allowance for some modernity), serve the booze and write some numbers of what
we sold. At 11 we shut, those who want to sit on the street and chat, do so,
and we go home,” says Mr Einstein.
The cast of characters are to be seen
to be believed. Extracted from a time capsule dating back to perhaps the late
fifties, they come from a particular strain of a gene, which loved Goa so much
that they dedicated their lives, often away from close family, to the idea of Goa.
And this idea, contrary to popular belief prevalent in this country of ours
today, is neither anti national, nor foreign nor culture threatening. This is a
culture that is triggered by the love for our land and nature, leading to lives
led in peace, with the sea and music and harmonious revelry. And some of them
come here to simply get away, become unknown, switch of the limelight and bask
in the glow of Goa. At Paulo’s Bar, you hear fascinating stories of some of
them. My Bombay buddy, who has spent a couple of evenings or more here,
recounts how one day, while speaking to a guitarist jamming here, he asked him
whether he had played in any band before, since he was so good. He grinned and
didn’t say much. At the end of the evening, he gently pointed to the poster of
Rod Stewart and casually said, “I used to play with him a bit.”
The character of the place spills over
to other quaint places. The juice bar on the turn is, of course, “world
famous”, but there was another happy culinary discovery which must be reported,
the Alitia Café, run by a Greek guy (the name apparently is Costas, we’ve heard
but do not take this an official affirmation). But his fame needs no further
affirmation. He quite clearly makes the best crepes, this side of the Suez
Canal. The cheese and ham is on the top of this list and for those feeling
cheesy, there is the all cheese crepe which oozes intoxicating flavours of
world cheese as you bite into the soft crust. The Salonikia (we guess it’s from
Salonikia, the Capital of Greek Macedonia) looked interesting while the oddity
was the Karnataka Special, probably in honour of the guy who runs the place and
makes the crepes. He’s from north Karnataka, and crepes are not Greek to him.
The Chapora story doesn’t end here, because the characters
don’t. Next week, we will carry on, reporting from the backyard of this
paradise like none other. The show goes on.
