GOA, AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS; OR, SIX MONTHS OF SICK LEAVE.
[Illustration: Printed by Hullmandel & Walton.
COONOOR. FROM THE TRAVELLER’S BUNGALOW.
London: Richard Bentley, New Burlington Street, 1851.]
GOA,
AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS;
OR,
SIX MONTHS OF SICK LEAVE.
BY
RICHARD F. BURTON,
LIEUT. BOMBAY ARMY.
AUTHOR OF A GRAMMAR OF THE MOOLTANEE LANGUAGE;
CRITICAL REMARKS ON DR. DORN’S CHRESTOMATHY OF THE PUSHTOO,
OR AFFGHAN DIALECT, ETC. ETC.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
Publisher in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
1851.
LONDON:
Printed by SAMUEL BENTLEY & CO.
Bangor House, Shoe Lane.
TO
MISS ELIZABETH STISTED,
THIS LITTLE WORK,
WHICH OWES ITS EXISTENCE TO HER
FRIENDLY SUGGESTIONS,
IS DEDICATED,
IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
The Voyage 1
CHAPTER II.
New Goa 22
CHAPTER III.
Old Goa as it Was 40
CHAPTER IV.
Old Goa as it Is 58
CHAPTER V.
Return to Panjim 77
CHAPTER VI.
The Population of Panjim 96
CHAPTER VII.
Seroda 117
CHAPTER VIII.
Education, Professions, and Oriental Studies 136
CHAPTER IX.
Adieu to Panjim 154
CHAPTER X.
Calicut 169
CHAPTER XI.
Malabar 186
CHAPTER XII.
The Hindoos of Malabar 203
CHAPTER XIII.
The Moslem and other Natives of Malabar 230
CHAPTER XIV.
The Land Journey 246
CHAPTER XV.
First Glimpse of “Ooty” 269
CHAPTER XVI.
Life at Ooty 287
CHAPTER XVII.
Life outside Ooty 313
CHAPTER XVIII.
Inhabitants of the Neilgherries 334
CHAPTER XIX.
Kotagherry.—Adieu to the Blue Mountains 353
[Illustration: MAP OF THE South Eastern & Western COAST of INDIA]
GOA, AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS; OR, SIX MONTHS OF SICK LEAVE.
CHAPTER I.
THE VOYAGE.
What a glad moment it is, to be sure, when the sick and seedy, the tired
and testy invalid from pestiferous Scinde or pestilential Guzerat,
“leaves all behind him” and scrambles over the sides of his Pattimar.
His what?
Ah! we forget. The gondola and barque are household words in your English
ears, the budgerow is beginning to own an old familiar sound, but you
are right—the “Pattimar” requires a definition. Will you be satisfied
with a pure landsman’s description of the article in question. We have
lost our edition of “The Ship,” and to own humbling truth, though we
have spent many a weary month on the world of waters, we never could
master the intricacies of blocks and braces, skylights and deadlights,
starboards and larboards. But if we are to believe the general voice of
the amphibious race, we terrestrial animals never fail to mangle the
science of seamanship most barbarously. So we will not expose ourselves
by pretension to the animadversions of any small nautical critic, but
boldly talk of going “up-stairs” instead of “on deck,” and unblushingly
allude to the “behind” for the “aft” and the “front” instead of the
“fore” of our conveyance.
But the Pattimar—
_De suite_: you shall pourtray it from our description. Sketch a very
long boat, very high behind, and very low before, composed of innumerable
bits of wood tied together with coir, or cocoanut rope, fitted up with a
dark and musty little cabin, and supplied with two or three long poles
intended as masts, which lean forward as if about to sink under the
weight of the huge lateen sail. Fill up the outline with a penthouse
of cadjans (as the leaves of that eternal cocoanut tree are called) to
protect the bit of deck outside the cabin from the rays of a broiling
sun. People the square space in the middle of the boat with two nags
tethered and tied with halters and heel ropes, which sadly curtail the
poor animals’ enjoyment of kicking and biting; and half-a-dozen black
“tars” engaged in pounding rice, concocting bilious-looking masses of
curry, and keeping up a fire of some unknown wood, whose pungent smoke
is certain to find its way through the cabin, and to terminate its
wanderings in your eyes and nostrils. Finally, throw in about the same
number of black domestics courting a watery death by balancing themselves
over the sides of the vessel, or a fever by sleeping in a mummy case of
dirty cotton cloth—
And you have a pattimar in your mind’s eye.
Every one that has ever sailed in a pattimar can oblige you with a
long list of pleasures peculiar to it. All know how by day your eyes
are blinded with glare and heat, and how by night mosquitos, a trifle
smaller than jack snipes, assault your defenceless limbs; how the musk
rat defiles your property and provender; how the common rat and the
cockchafer appear to relish the terminating leather of your fingers and
toes; and, finally, how the impolite animal which the transatlantics
delicately designate a “chintz,” and its companion, the lesser
abomination, do contribute to your general discomfort. Still these are
transient evils, at least compared with the permanent satisfaction of
having “passed the Medical Board”—a committee of ancient gentlemen who
never will think you sufficiently near death to meet your wishes—of
having escaped the endless doses of the garrison surgeon, who has
probably, for six weeks, been bent upon trying the effects of the whole
Materia Medica upon your internal and external man—of enduring the
diurnal visitation of desperate duns who threaten the bailiff without
remorse; and to crown the climax of your happiness, the delightful
prospect of two quiet years, during which you may call life your own,
lie in bed half or the whole day if you prefer it, and forget the very
existence of such things as pipeclay and parade, the Court Martial and
the Commander-in-chief. So if you are human, your heart bounds, and
whatever its habits of grumbling may be, your tongue involuntarily owns
that it is a joyful moment when you scramble over the side of your
pattimar. And now, having convinced you of that fact, we will request you
to walk up stairs with us, and sit upon the deck by our side, there to
take one parting look at the boasted Bay of Bombay, before we bid adieu
to it, with a free translation of the celebrated Frenchman’s good bye,
“_Canards, canaux, canaille_,”—adieu ducks, dingies, drabs, and duns.[1]
Gentlemen tourists, poetical authors, lady prosers, and, generally, all
who late in life, visit the “palm tasselled strand of glowing Ind,” as
one of our European celebrities describes the country in prose run mad,
certainly are gifted with wonderful optics for detecting the Sublime
and Beautiful. Now this same bay has at divers and sundry times been
subjected to much admiration; and as each succeeding traveller must
improve upon his predecessors, the latest authorities have assigned to
its charms a rank above the Bay of Naples—a bay which, in our humble
opinion, places every other bay in a state of abeyance. At least so
we understand Captain Von Orlich—the gentleman who concludes that the
Belochees are of Jewish origin, _because_ they divorce their wives.
To extract Bombay from the Bay of Naples, proceed thus. Remove Capri,
Procida, Ischia, and the other little picturesque localities around
them. Secondly, level Vesuvius and the rocky heights of St. Angelo
with the ground. Thirdly, convert bright Naples, with its rows of
white palazzi, its romantic-looking forts, its beautiful promenade,
and charming background into a low, black, dirty port, _et voici_ the
magnificent Bombahia.[2] You may, it is true, attempt to get up a little
romance about the “fairy caves” of Salsette and Elephanta, the tepid
seas, the spicy breeze, and the ancient and classical name of Momba-devi.
But you’ll fail.
Remember all we can see is a glowing vault of ultramarine-colour sky,
paved with a glaring expanse of indigo-tinted water, with a few low hills
lining the horizon, and a great many merchant ships anchored under the
guns of what we said before, and now repeat, looks like a low, black,
dirty port.
We know that you are taking a trip with us to the land flowing
with rupees and gold mohurs—growing an eternal crop of Nabobs and
Nawwábs[3]—showing a perpetual scene of beauty, pleasure and excitement.
But we can’t allow you to hand your rose-coloured specs. over to us. We
have long ago superseded our original “greens” by a pair duly mounted
with sober French grey glasses, and through these we look out upon the
world as cheerily as our ophthalmic optics will permit us to do.
Now the last “nigger,” in a manifest state of full-blown inebriation, has
rolled into, and the latest dun, in a fit of diabolical exasperation,
has rolled out of, our pattimar. So we will persuade the Tindal, as our
Captain is called, to pull up his mud-hook, and apply his crew to the
task of inducing the half acre of canvas intended for a sail to assume
its proper place. Observe if you please, the Tindal swears by all the
skulls of the god Shiva’s necklace, that the wind is foul—the tide don’t
serve—his crew is absent—and the water not yet on board.
Of course!
But as you are a “griff,” and we wish to educate you in native
peculiarities, just remark how that one small touch of our magic slipper
upon the region of the head, and the use of that one little phrase “Suar
ka Sala” (_Anglicè_, “O brother-in-law of a hog!”) has made the wind
fair, the tide serve, the crew muster, and the water pots abound in
water. And, furthermore, when you have got over your horror of seeing a
“fellow-creature” so treated—and a “fellow subject” subjected to such
operation, kindly observe that the Tindal has improved palpably in manner
towards us;—indeed, to interpret his thoughts, he now feels convinced
that we are an “Assal Sahib”—a real gentleman.
* * * * *
Evening is coming on, the sea-breeze (may it be increased!) is freshening
fast, and Dan Phœbus has at last vouchsafed to make himself scarce. After
watching his departure with satisfaction—with heartfelt satisfaction, we
order our hookah up, less for the pleasure of puffing it, than for the
purpose of showing you how our servant delights to wander through heaps
of hay and straw, canvas, and coir rope, with that mass of ignited rice
ball, rolling about on the top of our pipe. You are looking curiously
at our culinary arrangements. Yes, dear sir, or madam, as the case
may be, that dreadful looking man, habited in a pair of the dingiest
inexpressibles only, excepting the thick cap on his furzy head—that is
our cook. And we dare say you have been watching his operations. If not,
you must know that he prepared for our repast by inserting his black claw
into that hencoop, where a dozen of the leanest possible chickens have
been engaged for some time in pecking the polls of one another’s heads,
and after a rapid examination of breast-bone, withdrew his fist full of
one of the aforementioned lean chickens, shrieking in dismay. He then
slew it, dipped the corpse in boiling water to loosen the feathers, which
he stripped off in masses, cut through its breast longitudinally, and
with the aid of an iron plate, placed over a charcoal fire, proceeded to
make a spatchcock, or as it is more popularly termed, a “sudden death.”
After this we can hardly expect the pleasure of your company at dinner
to-day. But never mind! you will soon get over the feeling _nolens_, if
not _volens_. Why, how many Scinde “Nabobs” have not eaten three hundred
and sixty-five lean chickens in one year?
* * * * *
We will not be in any hurry to go to bed. In these latitudes, man lives
only between the hours of seven P.M. and midnight. The breeze gives
strength to smoke and converse; our languid minds almost feel disposed
to admire the beauty of the moonlit sea, the serenity of the air, and
the varying tints of the misty coast. Our lateen sail is doing its
duty right well, as the splashing of the water and the broad stripe
of phosphoric light eddying around and behind the rudder, prove. At
this rate we shall make Goa in three days, if kindly fate only spare
us the mortification of the morning calms which infest these regions.
And we being “old hands” promise to keep a sharp look out upon the
sable commander of the “Durrya Prashad,” the “Joy of the Ocean,” as
his sweetheart of a pattimar is called. Something of the kind will be
necessary to prevent his creeping along the shore for fear of squalls,
or pulling down the sail to ensure an unbroken night’s rest, or
slackening speed so as not to get the voyage over too soon. As he is a
Hindoo we will place him under the _surveillance_ of that grim looking
bushy-bearded Moslem, who spends half his days in praying for the
extermination of the infidel, and never retires to rest without groaning
over the degeneracy of the times, and sighing for the good old days of
Islam, when the Faithful had nothing to do but to attack, thrash, rob,
and murder, the Unfaithful.
Now the last hookah has gone out, and the most restless of our servants
has turned in. The roof of the cabin is strewed with bodies anything but
fragrant, indeed, we cannot help pitying the melancholy fate of poor
Morpheus, who is traditionally supposed to encircle such sleepers with
his soft arms. Could you believe it possible that through such a night as
this they choose to sleep under those wadded cotton coverlets, and dread
not instantaneous asphixiation? The only waker is that grisly old fellow
with the long white mustachios flourishing over his copper coloured
mouth like cotton in the jaws of a Moslem body. And even he nods as he
sits perched at the helm with his half-closed eyes mechanically directed
towards the binnacle, and its satire upon the mariner’s compass, which
has not shifted one degree these last two years. However there is little
to fear here. The fellow knows every inch of shore, and can tell you to
a foot what depth of water there is beneath us. So as this atmosphere of
drowsiness begins to be infectious, we might as well retire below. Not
into the cabin, if you please. The last trip the Durrya Prashad made was,
we understand, for the purpose of conveying cotton to the Presidency.
You may imagine the extent of dark population left to colonise her every
corner. We are to sleep under the penthouse, as well as we may; our
servants, you observe, have spread the mats of rushes—one of the much
vaunted luxuries of the East—upon our humble couches, justly anticipating
that we shall have a fair specimen of the night tropical. Before you
“tumble in” pray recollect to see that the jars of cold water have been
placed within reach, for we are certain to awake as soon after our first
sleep as possible, suffering from the torments of Tantalus. And we should
advise you to restore the socks you have just removed, that is to say, if
you wish the mosquitos to leave you the use of your feet to-morrow.
“Good night!”
The wish is certainly a benevolent one, but it sounds queer as a long
grace emphatically prefixed to a “spread” of cold mutton or tough
beefsteak, for which nothing under a special miracle could possibly make
one “truly thankful.” However, good night!
* * * * *
From Bombay southwards as far as Goa, the coast,[4] viewed from the sea,
merits little admiration. It is an unbroken succession of gentle rises
and slopes, and cannot evade the charge of dulness and uniformity. Every
now and then some fort or rock juts out into the water breaking the line,
but the distance we stand out from land prevents our distinguishing the
features of its different “lions,” such as Severndroog “the Golden
Fortress,” Rutnageree “the Hill of Jewels,” and the Burnt Islands,[5]
or Vingorla Rocks. The voyage, therefore, will be an uninteresting
one—though at this season of the year, early spring, it will not be
tedious.
The ancient Hindoos have a curious tradition concerning the formation
and population of this coast. They believe that Parasu Rama, one of
their demigods, after filling the earth with the blood of the offending
Kshatriya, or regal and military caste, wished to perform an expiatory
sacrifice. As, however, no Brahmin would attend, his demigodship found
himself in rather an awkward predicament. At length, when sitting on the
mountains of Concan (_i.e._ the Sayhadree Range, or Western Ghauts), he
espied on the shore below, the putrefied corpses of fourteen Mlenchhas
(any people not Hindoos), which had floated there borne by the tides
from distant lands to the westward. Rama restored them to life, taught
them religious knowledge, and, after converting them into Brahmins,
performed his sacrifice. He afterwards, by means of his fiery darts,
compelled Samudra, the Indian Neptune, to retire several miles from the
foot of the Ghauts, and allotted to his _protégés_ the strip of land thus
recovered from the sea. From these fourteen men sprang the Kukanastha,
or Concanese tribe of Maharattas, and the pious Hindoo still discovers
in their lineaments, traces of a corpse-like expression of countenance
inherited from their forefathers.
* * * * *
We remarked that it was a glad moment when we entered the pattimar. We
will also observe that it was another when our sable Portuguese “butler,”
as he terms himself, ecstasied by his propinquity to home—sweet home,
and forgetting respect and self-possession in an _élan_ of patriotism,
abruptly directed our vision towards the whitewashed farol, or
lighthouse, which marks the north side of the entrance to the Goa creek.
And now, as we glide rapidly in, we will take a short military _coup
d’œil_ at the outward defences of the once celebrated Portuguese capital.
The hill, or steep, upon which the farol stands, is crowned with
batteries, called the Castello de Agoada, as ships touch there to water.
There are other works, _à fleur d’eau_, all round the point. These
defences, however, are built of stone, without any embankments of earth,
and suggest uncomfortable ideas of splinters. In fact, a few gun-boats
would drive any number of men out of them in half an hour. The entrance
of the creek is at least two miles broad, and the southern prong, the
“Cabo de Convento,” is occupied, as its name shows, by a monastery
instead of a fort. Moreover, none but a native general would ever think
of thrusting an invading force through the jaws of the bay, when it might
land with perfect safety and convenience to itself a few miles to the
north or south.
* * * * *
“What are we pulling up for?”
The Tindal informs us that we may expect a visit from the “Portingal
Captain,” who commands the Castello, for the purpose of ascertaining our
rank, our wealth, and our object in visiting Goa. He warns us to conceal
our sketch-book, and not to write too much; otherwise, that our ardour
for science may lead us into trouble. But, mind, we laugh him to scorn;
natives must have something mysterious to suspect, or expect, or affect.
But here comes the officer, after keeping us waiting a good hour. He
is a rhubarb-coloured man, dressed in the shabby remains of a flashy
uniform; his square inch of blackish brown mustachio, and expression of
countenance, produce an appearance which we should pronounce decidedly
valiant, did we not know that valour here seldom extends below or beyond
the countenance. How respectfully our butler bows to him, and with what
fellow-feeling the same valuable domestic grasps the hand of that orderly
in shell jacket, but not in pantaloons, who composes the guard of his
superior officer! Behold! he has a bundle of _cigarettos_, made of the
blackest tobacco, rolled up in bits of plantain leaf; and he carries his
“weeds” in a very primitive cigar-case, namely, the pouch formed by the
junction of his huge flap of an ear, with the flat and stubby poll behind
it. As the favourite narcotic goes round, no Portuguese refuses it. The
Hindoos shake their heads politely and decliningly, the Moslems grimly
and with a suspicion of a curse.
But we must summon our domestic to mediate between us and our
visitor, who speaks nothing but most Maharatta-like Portuguese and
Portuguese-like Maharatta.
We begin by offering him a glass of wine, and he inquires of Salvador,
our acting interpreter,—“Why?” Being assured that such is the practice
among the barbarous Anglo-Indians, he accepts it with a helpless look,
and never attempts to conceal the contortions of countenance produced by
the operation of a glass of Parsee sherry, fiery as their own divinity,
upon a palate accustomed to tree-toddy and thin red wine. However, he
appears perfectly satisfied with the inspection, and after volunteering
an introductory epistle to one Ioaõ Thomas—_i.e._ John Thomas, a cicerone
of Goanese celebrity—which we accept without the slightest intention of
delivering, he kindly gives us permission to proceed, shakes our hand
with a cold and clammy palm, which feels uncommonly like a snake, and
with many polite bows to our servants, disappears over the side, followed
by his suite. Whilst the anchor is being re-weighed, before we forget
the appearance of the pair, we will commit them to the custody of the
sketch-book.
* * * * *
The old lateen creeps creaking crankily up the mast once more, and the
Durrya Prashad recommences to perambulate the waters as unlike a thing of
life as can be imagined. Half an hour more will take us in. Perched upon
the topmast angle of our penthouse, we strain our eyes in search of the
tall buildings and crowded ways that denote a capital: we can see nought
but a forest of lanky cocoa-nut trees, whose stems are apparently growing
out of a multitude of small hovels.
Can this be Goa?
Rendered rabid by the query our patriotic domestic, sneering as much as
he safely can, informs us that _this_ is the village of Verim, _that_ St.
Agnes, and proceeds to display his store of topographical lore by naming
or christening every dirty little mass of hut and white-washed spire that
meets the eye.
Bus, Bus,—enough in the name of topography! We will admire the view
to-morrow morning when our minds are a little easier about John Thomas, a
house, &c.
We turn the last corner which concealed from view the town of Panjim, or
as others call it, the city of New Goa, and are at last satisfied that we
are coming to something like a place. Suddenly the Tindal, and all his
men, begin to chatter like a wilderness of provoked baboons; they are
debating as to what part of the narrow creek which runs parallel with the
town should be selected for anchor ground. Not with an eye to our comfort
in landing, observe, but solely bearing in mind that they are to take in
cargo to-morrow.
At length our apology for an anchor once more slides down the old side of
the Durrya Prashad, and she swings lazily round with the ebb tide, like
an elephant indulging in a solitary roll. It is dark, we can see nothing
but a broken line of dim oil-lamps upon the quay, and hear nought save
the unharmonious confusion of native music with native confabulation.
Besides the wind that pours down the creek feels damp and chilly, teeming
with unpleasant reminiscences of fever and ague. So after warning our
domestics, that instant dismissal from the service will follow any
attempt to land to-night, a necessary precaution if we wish to land
to-morrow, we retire to pass the last of three long nights in slapping
our face in the desperate hope of crushing mosquitos, dreaming of De Gama
and Albuquerque, starting up every two hours with jaws glowing like those
of a dark age dragon, scratching our legs and feet, preferring positive
excoriation to the exquisite titillation produced by the perpetual
perambulation, and occasional morsication (with many other -ations left
to the reader’s discrimination) of our nocturnal visitations, and in
uttering emphatic ejaculations concerning the man with the rhinoceros
hide and front of brass who invented and recommended to his kind the
pattimar abomination.