The constituency of Cumbharjua sprawls athwart the base of the ancient island of Tiswadi, at the centre of Goa’s map.
As far back as history records, the territory has served as an entrepot, an important entry point to the hinterlands. More than a thousand years into the past, successive Kadamba dynasties projected power far beyond Goa’s current borders from their port capital very near here. Then, from the 15th century, under the rule of the Bijapuri dynasty, most trading and maritime traffic shifted to what is now called Old Goa, alongside the Mandovi River.
Here is where Adil Shah faced off against Alfonso da Albuquerque, pioneering conquistador who carved out the first European colony in Asia. With the help of local Hindu leaders, the Portuguese quickly overran Tiswadi and Mandovi river islands by the end of 1510. The conquered port immediately became a seething melting pot, spilling over with European and Asian traders and adventurers.
By the turn of the 16th century, “Golden Goa” was the richest trading post the world had ever seen, much bigger than Paris or London at the time.
It was a period of epic cultural exchange – chillies, potatoes, corn and countless other imports entered India for the first time, the first printing press in Asia was set up here, as well as the first modern lighthouse, the first medical school and the first public library.
The largest church and convent in Asia were built here more than 400 years ago, far bigger than any in Portugal – even into the 21st century, they retain those distinctions.
This rise to global prominence came almost overnight, but its decline took place over long centuries.
The Portuguese dominance of the Indian Ocean was destroyed by the middle of the 17th century itself by the Dutch and British.
And so this corner of Tiswadi slumped into decline for centuries, while the city of Old Goa crumbled into ruins except for the empty, sun-baked hulks of the largest churches.
Even after 1961, the ancient capital and its surrounds remained sleepy and relatively unpopulated – exceptionally scenic villages slung along the riverside, full of old people who were supported by family members working in other parts of India or the Persian Gulf.
But everything changed for the Cumbharjua constituency after the millennium New Year, Jan 1 2000.
In the global party atmosphere, the beaches of Goa somehow emerged as a prime destination to bring in the big date. Tourism has surged unstoppably from that season on.
Virtually every year of our new century has seen new records set for the number of arrivals, the average room rate, and volume of charter arrivals. Indications are that 2011 alone saw a growth of more than 15% in the tourism sector. With some amazement, Goans note that the demand for their state hasn’t foundered even as the global economy struggles in recession, and various European countries have been plunged into financial crisis,
More than a decade of explosive demand and growth has created hundreds of new hotels, restaurants and night-clubs, and kicked off a sustained real estate boom that has already priced most locals out of the marketplace.
Now there are huge housing estates and real estate projects under development all over the state, with the spectacularly scenic old villages of Cumbharjua constituency being particularly prized.
A huge stream of migrants has altered the demographic balances that have prevailed here for generations, and many locals have become pessimistic about the survival of their confluential way of life, culture and identity that has developed over centuries.
“It is a matter of survival now, and we cannot rely on the existing political class because they are the ones responsible for this mess,” Elias Silveira tells me, as tart cashew juice drips down my chin from the fat, delicious fruit I’m eating from his garden.
Silveira is an archetypical Goan of the early 21st century – he lives in his ancestral house, carefully tending his ancestral fruit trees and coconut palms, after working in Doha, Qatar for 19 years in the maintenance department of a petrochemical company.
One of his grown children has migrated to New Zealand, while another works “on board the ship”, while Silveira and his wife retired to live in the pleasant old house that his parents left to him and his brother.
Like many old Goan houses, Silveira’s is small but deceptively expansive and comfortable, despite being peacefully divided into two, between siblings.
It occupies its modest plot lightly, generously set back from the roads that pass both the front and the back. On the sides, there’s even more room set aside for chickens to scratch under spreading fruit trees, including the spectacularly laden cashew tree that has yielded my snack.
While I continue to munch, we peer over the garden wall to see three plump wild peahens making their way towards Silveira’s kitchen garden. Their iridescent necks are bobbing unconcerned by our presence.
But where I see a slice of pure paradise, Silveira perceives a threat. “I never cared about politics before,” he told me, “because politics never really affected our way of life here. We lived like my parents and grandparents lived before us. Quite satisfied. But now everything is changed”
“Big and small builders and estate companies have come into Cumbharjua like a flood,” he tells me. “Even here in little Corlim, all the large plots of land are being bought for huge money.”
Now Silveira is fearful about a proposed policy to greatly widen every road in the state – “why expand the roads if not to serve mega-projects? It’s obvious that the politician-builder lobby wants to replace all of our small houses with multi-storey apartment buildings and commercial centres.”
He tells me the population of Corlim is quite possibly majority migrant already, that his village is “70% finished” with real estate sharks circling to complete the devastation.
While the peahens start tucking into his chilli plants, the 60-something Silveira leans over to tell me something in confidence. “Honestly, I don’t think the priest can win – there are too many vested interests arrayed against him. But he will change the race, and I think he could change the way politics are conducted in Cumbharjua.”
Now we look down the road to a small cluster of people walking fast up the slope to Silveira’s house, wide smiles visible even from this distance. To one side, a slender young woman carried a budkulo, the totemic earthenware pot that Cumbharjua voters are fast coming to recognize as the election symbol of Bismarque Dias, a maverick Catholic priest who has defied his superiors to campaign for the seat encompassing his native island of Santo Estevao, and the surrounding territories that once lay at the heart of the storied Estado da India.
In an era of professional campaigns, paid news and coerced electorates, Bismarque is running a highly unconventional campaign.
Instead of 10,000 votes (historically the amount required to win this seat) he is asking for “10,000 acts of kindness.” He has no support from any of the traditional political power centres of the state – including his own Catholic superiors – yet seems to possess a huge and growing base among the older generation of voters, almost all of whom share the kind of anxieties expressed to me by Silveira.
Now that he’s coming into proper view, we watch this unlikely candidate make his way up to where we are standing, stopping frequently to hand out pamphlets and shake every proffered hand.
Bismarque is simply dressed, worn rubber chappals on his feet. Even as he reached out to shake our hands, I found myself wondering how such an unassuming character could muster the courage to run for elections, let alone take on the prevailing political culture of the state as many of his supporters believe. Does Bismarque actually stand a chance?
