A FERRY TALE – Travelling to Konkan, Goa by ship (early ‘80s)

Back then (early ‘80s) the ferry to Goa offered a chance of a break from buses and trains.

Tickets were sold at the terminal in Bombay’s Mazgaon dock area. Can’t remember how much it was, but it wouldn’t have been much more than a cheap train, as most travellers wouldn’t have paid a lot extra to go by sea.

Before the 10am scheduled departure time, we lined up behind a locked gate separated from the waterfront by a high chain-link fence through which one could see either the Konkan Sevak or the Konkan Shakti, depending on which day it was.

I had learned from ferries across the eastern Mediterranean that it was well worth being first in line. You could then rush to the gangway and up the stairwells, your backpack blocking anyone from passing you. The first to get up to the deck area could choose the best spot to unroll their sleeping bag.

A crowd built up behind me, plus a number of locals carrying pieces of old-looking cloth, who squeezed between those waiting. I guessed they were beggars, as some people gave them money, but didn’t get anything in return (not even a piece of cloth). The fact that they were all wearing the same colour and style of shirt was a bit odd: perhaps the ferry terminal had somehow unionized begging ? A couple of them approached me but I waved them away. No time for beggars or old bits of fabric.

An official fought his way through to the gate, and began to put a key in the lock.

At the first sound of metal on metal, all hell broke loose. The cloth sellers charged to the chain-link fence and started scaling it.

In my desperation to be first on the boat, I ignored the temptation to watch them, and I led the dash to the ferry’s gangway. (You wouldn’t think so looking at the 2024 version, but boy, I could really move in those days.)

I was first to the gangway, first up the stairwells, two or three steps at a time… but NOT first to the open deck where the men – who had climbed (with incredible speed and agility) not only over the chain-link fence but also up the outside of the ship – were just spreading out the last of their pieces of cloth, covering all the best spaces.

I grabbed the best of the few spots as yet unreserved by the (not beggars, but) save-you-a-space wallahs.

The trip to Panjim/Panaji was quite pleasant without being spectacular. There were a couple of short stops en route, where the ferry didn’t dock but smaller boats came out to meet it and load and offload a few passengers and some goods.

A barefooted freak/hippie in baggy white pyjamas squatted incredibly precariously on the top of the hand-rail at the stern of the ferry, and seemed to spend his entire time making and smoking concoctions comprising cigarette papers and what looked like (but weren’t) soy sauce and dark chocolate fudge.

Just about every local on the vessel went up to him and warned “Not safe, sir!”, but he just stared into space.

I envied his squatting ability – even in my youth, if I could squat at all it was only for a wobbly few seconds. Apart from moving his hands to roll joints, he balanced motionless on that narrow hand-rail for virtually the entire trip.

A couple of travellers had guitars, but for much of the journey anything they played was drowned out by a local with some sort of boombox predecessor. He played one Bollywood song – “Hum Bane Tum Bane” (English chorus “I Don’t Know What You Say”) – back to back for the first 14 or 15 hours, initially loudly but every so often getting quieter and slowing down until the batteries were replaced. He finally run out of batteries three or four hours out of Panjim.

I engaged in numerous standard polite-but-not-hugely-deep-or-meaningful conversations about my nationality, home city, marital status etc. I also did the rounds of other western travellers. Research tells me that there were also regular games of Housie (Bingo): pity I only found out about that last week as they could have been fun to watch. The constantly-repeating song apart, I slept quite well, but did have weird dreams, likely from second-hand psychedelic smoke.

As Panjim approached, everyone was busy packing their stuff up. Well, almost everyone. The squatter was still balanced up on the handrail totally in his own world, occasionally raising a bulging “cigarette” to his lips, and then releasing a stream of smoke that mingled with the exhaust from the ferry before disappearing off to sea.

Disembarkation was less stressful than boarding had been, and the crowds dispersed. In terms of the westerners, it seemed to me that the freakier, hippier, dope-headier ones were heading for Anjuna / Calangute, the more conservative to Colva, and a few others to Baga, and Vagator. My money was definitely on Anjuna for the squatter.

Apparently, the ferry service stopped in the late ‘80s, and for a while there was a (decidedly un-Indian) hovercraft service – but no more.

Don’t worry, there are still planes, trains and buses to get you between Bombay (sorry, Mumbai) and Goa. And you can still do the trip by sea: if the dates fit in (sailings are approx monthly), take a cruise on (eg) the Costa Serena from Mumbai to Mormugao (not far from Goa’s Dabolim airport).

If the starting price of around 20,000 Rupees round trip sounds expensive, note that it does include one 500ml bottle of water per person. I don’t think that they organize Housie games, but you can always try your luck in the ship’s casino, or bop to DJ Percy’s 2023 remix of “Hum Bane Tum Bane” in it’s nightclub. But note that handrail squatting and mind-altering substances are no-nos.

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