A Date with Africa ... Marcos Gomes-Catão.

Around 1907, my father on the advice of relatives and friends, betook himself to Africa, TANGANYIKA to be precise. At the time, TANGANYIKA was a German colony: My father thus worked for several years under the spartan, quasi-militaristic German discipline.

Then, in 1914, World War I broke out between Germany and the Allies (Britain, France, Belgium, etc.)

Tanganyika immediately became hostile territory, surrounded on the North by the British colonies of Kenya and Uganda, and to the South by that of Nyassaland-Rhodesia.

Forces of the latter soon invaded and occupied the German territory.

Under the terms of the Versailles Peace Treaty, in 1918, the League of Nations entrusted Tanganyika to Britain as a “Mandated territory”, an arrangement that lasted until its incorporation with the other two states of Kenya & Uganda in 1934.

There were two immediate consequences for my father, both baneful, as a result of the new political disposition:

The current German currency being demonetized by the British, at one swipe he lost all his savings.

Secondly, his ten years' services were wiped clean off the slate for purpose of future pension computation.

So, he started life anew, at the bottom, in the British Customs Department.

By dint of hard work and exceptional honesty (an outstanding characteristic of all GOANS in those days), he won great respect and appreciation from his boss, the Comptroller of Customs.

He thus rose to become the highest ranking Asian member of the Department by the time the boss left for Britain, on retirement.

In 1922 my father had married and returned from furlough in Goa with my mother. My brother and sister had been born by the time the next furlough fell due in 1926. My mother had stayed back in Goa after the furlough and so, I was born in Goa.

In 1931 we all returned to Dar-es-salaam where at intervals, two more sisters joined the family. 

Unlike in Goa where confinements took place at home with assistance of a mid-wife, in Dar-es-salaam my mother went to the hospital.

I still remember well how avidly we looked forward to the visiting hours in order to pocket a few of the delectable square sugar cubes that fascinated us so much!

Dar-es-salaam in 1931 was a very provincial town with few imposing buildings or thoroughfares.

Traffic was confined to a great extent to bicycles with very few cars.

We lived in an apartment right across the school and almost next to the Cathedral.

Entertainment was limited in scope and variety, especially for children. Sometimes, in the evenings we went to Ocean Avenue never tired of admiring the overturned shipwreck in the distance, an alleged relic of World War I. 

Occasionally we were lucky to go for the week-end to a friend's “shamba” in the countryside

An annual event that was celebrated with great éclat was the King-Emperor's birthday when we all went to gawk at the military parade when the Governor passed in review a detachment of the King's African Rifles.

We did not frequent a Club but with my father's wide circle of friends, we did not need to seek other entertainment.

Some of those friends are still fondly remembered:

Mr. & Mrs Vaz were held in high esteem because in those days of early thirties, they had travelled to the Holy Land and brought us a Cross mounted on a wooden base said to be made from a tree in the Garden of Gethsemani.

Then there were the COTTA brothers to whom I probably owe being alive to-day because when I was delirious with a 105^o fever, they scoured the city at dead of night for ice to help bring it down.

Then there was Dr. Noronha who took a gamble with a radical treatment for my cerebral malaria (that could well have mentally incapacitated me). He had a refrigerator and a car in those days and a "shamba" where sometimes we spent the week-end.

There were also the other Noronhas, who introduced us to 'jelly pudding'!

Most of all, there was Carlos Fernandes who had lost his right ear in a car accident, when plastic surgery had not yet been born to replace it. A great fan of photography, he appeared at odd hours at home catching everyone unawares for a photo!

And then there was Abdul Karim, a Khoja, my father's peer at the CUSTOMS. His wife came once to our home to teach my mother how to make 'Jalebis'. Either the teacher or the pupils were not apt for the occasion as I never had home-made "jalebis" though mother was a good cook.

From the windows of our apartment we could see into the school class-rooms. The teaching staff at St. Joseph's comprised mainly Swiss nuns. 

I remember two in particular: A thin, high-strung, choleric one and another, more rotund but also more amiable. 

I can never forget the first one because in my whole scholastic career she was the only one that punished me, and unjustly at that. Two boys were trading shots across the room with acorns. The nun without much ado picked me, the quiet, innocent one as the culprit!!

In 1933 I had two novel experiences. One day my father took us to his office. He put us in a room, gave us a strange contraption in our hands and said to put it to the ear.

He then disappeared into the next room.

Hanging on to the contraption, I was startled when all of a sudden I hear

“Ola, bottal” (that being his pet name for me).

At six, I had just been introduced to the phone.

A month later, at school, we were shepherded to the Bishop's residence where we went round a table, atop which sat a huge cheese, about a foot in height and two in diameter, that had arrived from Switzerland.

Of course, we were allowed only a visual, not a gustatory experience!

But at that age, since I had not yet lived long enough in GOA to acquire a taste for cheese, it did not really matter.

1934 was an extremely eventful year. I made my First Communion and was confirmed by Bishop Edgar, a pleasant goateed bishop.

And soon thereafter I “graduated” to an Altar Boy.

 In school I progressed exceedingly well and was selected to act as the “Child Jesus” in a drama.

Apparently I was a huge success in the role, evidenced not so much by my “critical review” as by the loads of friends that overwhelmed my parents with congratulations for the performance (whether it was pure “maska laggao”, Not for me to define).

We also had the opportunity to witness two epoch-making events. We were taken to Ocean Avenue to see the first Sea-Plane to arrive in Dar-es-salaam, establishing regular courier links between the motherland and the colony. Not yet being familiar with planes myself, I was not overly impressed.

Soon thereafter we went back to the same place to see the first submarine to visit the city. As the submarine did not surface when we went to see it, I saw nothing as the periscope at that distance was well-nigh invisible to my eyes.

The year remains memorable for me because it was when I had a close shave with Death.

Out of bed, kneeling to say my morning prayers, I swooned and fell.

Soon I was shivering with a fever that kept on rising. By evening it had reached 104.

The doctor, somewhat baffled, ordered continuous ice and Cologne compresses on the head and forehead.

But, by late evening, the fever shot up more and delirium set in.

In those days when refrigerators were rare, my father's friends scurried and scoured the city at dead of night for ice.

Next morning the doctor arrived at a diagnosis of cerebral malaria, with a bad prognosis.

After much cogitation, he said the only remedy for the situation would be intravenous quinine which, while curing the disease, carried an attendant risk of sequelae i.e. Possibility of some type of mental disability lingering on.

My parents decided to run that risk in favour of saving the life.

I recovered fast after that and with no sequelae, I hope.

In May 1935 we went back to GOA on my father's furlough.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable journey, made all the more delectable by an amiable and affectionate Goan cabin-boy pandering to our every wish.

Since St. Joseph's at that time offered no more than eight standards, it was decided that we would not return to Dar-es-salaam.

Thus ended our African adventure.

My father went back and came again on furlough in 1939, to return in November that year.

By then World War II had broken out and he was somewhat stressed. After some months he broke down but we were unaware because of communication difficulties caused by the war as well as delays due to censorship of all correspondence in and out of GOA.

My mother had to go to Dar-es-salaam to fetch him but had difficulty finding a passage as all ships had been requisitioned by the Govt. to act as troopships for the North African war front.

With great difficulty and influence of her sister's brother-in-law working at the ship line's Agency she secured a First Class cabin we could ill afford.

Since my father did not improve in GOA, it was decided to move to Belgaum, a decision already made prior to my father's ailment.

In January ‘43, my father, who had retired early due to the medical disability, passed away at the early age of 54.

This was a double whammy: emotional and financial.

At the age of 42 my mother was left with five children and no visible means of support because my father had worked for the TANGANYIKA GOVT.

TANGANYIKA was a League of Nations Protectorate entrusted to England, on a semi-permanent basis unlike Kenya & Uganda which were colonies.

There was thus little incentive for England to spend much on salaries and benefits.

So, my father's pension 'died' with him i.e. widow and children were entitled to nothing.

My elder brother could have worked to relieve the situation.

But, my mother knew that from early stage he had been bent on the priesthood. So she let him go confident the Lord would take care of us.

And, like the Lilies of the valley, the Lord came to our rescue and looked after us, sustained by my sister's heroic labour over the years.

It was a hard struggle but a worthwhile one nevertheless for it taught us valuable lessons we might not otherwise have absorbed such as the multiplier effect of neighbourly love, abhorrence of acrimonious wrangling and envy among ourselves and especially of better-off others and the primacy of ethical values.

So we continued our studies in Belgaum.

In 1946 I finished the Matriculation exam and was preparing to move to Dar-es-salaam where my father's colleagues were expecting to fix me up in a job.

But, FATE willed otherwise.

It dealt a different hand, a good hand:

I won the Sir C. J. LATIN Scholarship in the University Matriculation exam which could defray the College expenses that my mother could not have afforded! Obviously she still had to bear the boarding and clothing expenses, which she gladly volunteered to do.

Lady Luck continued to favour me. I qualified for a monthly stipend awarded by the College to those who stood among the first five in the class (we were around 100).

This God given gift helped me with pocket money my mother could not have afforded. The stipend also helped me import Italian and Spanish Grammars and readers from England which enabled me to study those languages and thus broaden the network of pen-friends abroad for exchange of stamps.

By a fortunate stroke of Destiny these very languages came in very useful later in my professional life as I worked for several years in an Italian Company and was later still, responsible for Latin America where I travelled often and where therefore the Spanish came in very handy.

And so, I was able to graduate, albeit in the Humanities as the Scholarship would have lapsed had I gone into the Science stream.

But an unforeseen snag arose. The College did not have a Professor of Latin nor for that matter one of Portuguese I thought of as an alternate substitute.

STYMIED!  

After much cogitation, I succeeded in convincing Portuguese Fr. Pereira S.J., old, retired St. PAUL's School teacher to volunteer as a "GUIDE/MENTOR" for the Portuguese course, which the College agreed to ( naturally, as they were not paying him!).

The course thus turned out almost a sabbatical for me.

I had barely two 'chats' with my 'Guide' throughout and still passed the final University exam quite well, without a Professor, a feat possibly worth entering in the GUINESS Book!?  

Once again I was favoured by Lady Luck's helpful hand. The prescribed text-book for the course was "As Pupilas do Senhor Reitor” (The Vicar's Wards) by Julio Diniz, a Portuguese classic I had read at sixteen from our Mapuçá home library and the first Portuguese film I had watched in GOA.