THE MINI-MOKE

The Mini Moke

The model shown in the photograph above is hand-crafted from 1/8" plywood.

Tools used: sliding blade cutter, steel ruler,
hole saw for wheels, wooden dowels for axles,

cutting board and glue.
No scroll saw was used. Length: 11 inches
(Crafter: Tony Fernandes)

The Mini Moke is a vehicle based on the Austin Mini of BMC (British Motor Corporation. The name comes from "Mini"—the car with which the Moke shares many parts—and "Moke" which, I believe, is an archaic dialect term for 'donkey'. It was designed for the BMC by a genius - a famous car designer and engineer of Greek origin, Sir Alexander Arnold Constantine Issigonis, CBE, FRS (18 Nov 1906 - 2 October 1988).

 I saw it and rode in it Abu Dhabi in November 1967 for the very first time. The Architectural and Engineering Consulting firm that I worked for then had a fleet of them. I was 20 years old and worked for the Consultants on the first 100 km dual carriage highway from Abu Dhabi to the oasis town of Al-Ain, a Sheikdom and British Protectorate then known as a part of the Trucial States of Oman. The Architects and Engineers used the Mini-Mokes for visiting the various construction sites in town. Also many other contractors used the Mini-Moke to visit constructions projects. It also served as a short distance shuttle for picking and dropping their personnel to the staff quarters.

Its advantage was in easy access - not much unlike the electric golf carts of today - an ideal vehicle for use as a run-about for hop-in/hop-off jobs. One had to just jump in and take off. It had a very low center of gravity, with sunken seating, more like a tub with broad raised 'pontoon' sides that served as recessed compartments - the left-hand pontoon contained the fuel tank whereas the right-hand side one had compartments for the battery and another one for a jack, tools or accessories. It was very popular with construction companies as a run-about vehicle for various jobs in town, and I was really fascinated by it as a young man - waiting for the slightest chance of hitching a ride in one.

To me this vehicle - the Mini Moke - was a real marvel - one awesome, simple and convenient form of transport, and a practical piece of engineering - front wheel drive, transverse engine, standard track, typical big steering wheel and easy to handle. It seated four persons, with space for luggage behind the rear seats. It even came with a spare tyre attached to the rear. Invariably, somehow most of them were painted dark green. Some were fitted with metal framework and tarps.

I have very fond memories of first riding in it to and fro from work, and then eventually having had the fun and pleasure in actually at the wheel in driving one myself. They were much in use until the mid-seventies.

Rear View

 Independent Front Suspension

Independent Front Suspension 

 Rear Pivot Swing Axle

I remember the vehicle quite well, and miss it so much, that I decided to include it in the range of many scale models of cars that I make out of 1/8" thick plywood and took the liberty of making a slightly extended version - as the one pictured above. There's independent suspension fitted in front and the rear wheels are fitted on a swing axle.

Please visit the following website
 to view a vast selection of Mini-moke models.

http://www.strasserhof.com/Moke/index.htm

You will find the one featured on this blog page under the following link:

http://www.strasserhof.com/Moke/index-Dateien/Page8332.htm

WATER PROPERTIES

A SOMMELIER is trained and certified expert in wine. But nowadays WATER experts have also appeared on the scene. And connoisseurs of tea, cheese, cigar, syrup and even bath experts are not far behind in the mind-boggling usage of abstract terminology in trying to pep-talk their way into the hearts of prospective customers of not only fine wines but also various other exotic products.

For instance, common descriptive terminology in defining ‘mineral’ water:

Heard these ones?

1. “Oh, this water is great! It has the right consistency, temperature and smoothness!

(The only consistency that presently comes to mind is of paint mixtures, temperature when the weather gets to –30 C and smoothness of my handicrafts.

2. This wine has texture.

(I thought only surfaces have this property) Imagine wine being rough on your palate?

3. This wine/water comes an amusing bouquet.

(I was thinking of a ‘bouquet of flowers’ and the amusing anecdote that came along with it)

4. This water is crispier and lighter!

(Toast and chips crispy, yes. But crispy water, no.
And how does one measure water in the mouth for weight—is there a weighing scale fitted in there?)

5. This water has a very light spritz, it can energise your palate.

(Spritz? What’s that? I’ve no idea. Or is it some kind of a battery for a palate or an exhausted battery due for a recharge so that it can energise you palate?

6. This water comes with a flavour!

(Flavour? From where? The kitchen? Artificial?)

SURSUM CORDA!

SURSUM CORDA!
(Lift up your hearts)

‘Tomorrow is going to be a great day for me’ thought Felicio, on the eve of what he considered would be a great milestone. Perhaps it would be a very nervous and tense moment too, for the first time in his life, he thought. Late that evening Felicio was returning home after the final rehearsal in the village chapel. He was hoping that all would go well the next day. He would be serving Mass in Latin the next day and officially declared as an Altar Boy. He was glad that his friend, Joao-Francis, was going to assist him.

It was dusk now and Felicio’s mother was waiting for his return home. She was lighting the kerosene chimney lamp in the ‘sala’ as he entered the house. “How did the rehearsal go, Felicio?”, his mother asked. “Very well,” Felicio replied, “fortunately I won’t be serving alone. Joao-Francis will be my partner in serving Mass for the first time. Mother, I'm going to be an altar boy - and I'm little nervous and happy too.” “That’s good” his mother said. “Don’t worry,” she continued, “everything will go well; now let’s recite the Angelus”. She finished lighting the oil lamp and placed the candles on the ‘altar’, high on the wall into a niche where his hands could barely reach.

As the evening prayers ended, Felicio felt comfortable with the thought that he will have some company the next day in serving Mass. Hoping that everything would go well, and keeping his fingers crossed, he said a silent prayer for a successful outcome. Sometime during the next two or three days, he reminded himself, he must let his father, who worked in Bombaim, know about this auspicious event. Mother will take care of that for certain, he thought.

That evening, thoughts raced through Felicio’s mind. "Will there be lots of people in the chapel the next day, Felicio wondered. Will everything go smoothly? I’ve waited and rehearsed for this great moment for so long! I hope everything will turn out well", he prayed. Felicio's dream of serving the Holy Mass in Latin was soon going to be realized, and he momentarily felt happy with that thought.

Proceeding to his study table, Felicio sat on the chair. He retrieved the small prayer book from the top of the bookshelf. It had been the centre of his attention the entire week. He had been trying hard to memorize all his responses.

Felicio reached for the knurled wheel of the chimney lamp and carefully turned up the wick to brighten up the room for yet one more reading. He was concerned about memorising and delivering the right corresponding responses. Opening the slim booklet ‘Modo de Ajudar à Missa em Latim’, he read out loud his responses to what the priest’s opening line would be the next morning, “Introibo altare Dei”. He followed this with ‘Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam’, ‘Sursum corda...Habemus ad Dominum’, ‘Grátias agámus Dómino Deo nostro’… Digno et justum estSed libera nos a malo’...‘Et clamor meus ad te veniat’, and the most unforgettable of them all (Dominus vobiscum)…“Et cum spiritu tuo”, and so on. In a short time he had finished the practice for the final day.

Rising early the next morning, Felicio wore his favourite blue shirt that his mother had stitched specially for the occasion while the ‘vaddtea angar’ (Konkani, literal meaning: for the growing body) short trousers, tailored the previous year, still fitted well. Felicio’s mother accompanied him to the chapel. He had to report to the sacristan at least twenty minutes prior to the Mass for some important instructions from the sacristan.

“Good morning, Father,” said Joao-Francis and Felicio in unison to the chaplain, as they rose from the bench when he entered the sacristy. “Good morning to you, too. Are you boys all set? We’ll begin in a short while”, said the priest as he began donning the vestments. “We are right on time.”

Felicio was happy that overall everything was going well so far. And soon they accompanied the priest walking gently to the main altar of the chapel from the sacristy. The bells rang and the Latin Mass was about to begin. The last time Felicio had walked the same way was a year ago when he had received his First Holy Communion.

‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti’. ‘Introibo altare Dei’ the priest’s voice echoed through the chapel. And Felicio heard his own voice loud and clear for he first time in the stillness with his very first response: ‘Ad Deum laetificat juventutem meam’. He had no trouble delivering the rest of the responses just like his mother had encouraged and predicted. She had been very supportive as usual. Perhaps she must have been praying for him right at that moment.

He had managed to pour just the right amount of wine into the chalice, rang the bell at the precise time for the ‘Sanctus’ and successfully carried the missal along with the stand from one side of the altar to the other. He had also steadily poured water over the priest’s fingers as he washed them and there had been no sound of any cruets clashing together. His partner and himself had also bowed and genuflected in tandem, as they alternatively stood and knelt on the polished white marble floor. Felicio’s biggest fear was not to trip while climbing or getting down the steps to the altar. He was grateful that his partner has trained him well and that Padre Capelão had been very kind anf understanding.

Felicio’s great moment was yet to come and that would be when people would line up to receive Holy Communion. He accompanied the priest as he proceeded to the front pews as the folks knelt to receive. Just then Felicio noticed his mother standing in the line. Soon she would be kneeling for her turn.

It was a moment of great pride and joy as he held the communion serving paten under his mother’s chin. Felicio was happy that he had taken part in serving his mother. His mother’s wish was granted that her son had learned to serve Mass. He had now officially become an ‘ajudante’. With a quick glance he was surprised to see his relatives and neighbours in the queue. Felicio noticed that there were hints of sustained smiles on their faces. Perhaps, Felicio thought, his mother must have requested them to attend the Mass in order to give a big surprise to ‘the new altar boy in a blue shirt’.

After the Mass, they all walked home together. It had been the beginning of a great day indeed for Felicio and for all the members of his family. His mother had prepared a special lunch as well.

The Latin Mass continued for another few more years. It was then replaced by a New Order of the Mass when the priest faced the people. In a way, it must have been good so that the priest could constantly keep an eye on his flock during the service, as opposed to the days of the Latin Mass when Padre Capelão along with his flock, the sacristan, the altar boys and the singers in the choir, had all stood facing in one direction – towards the altar – lifting up their hearts.

Sursum corda! (Latin)
Lift up your hearts!

Tony Felix (aka Felicio) Fernandes

Guirim, Cumbiem Morod,

Bardez, Goa, India.

MOTHER

The following poem is not my own,
but it is one of my favourite poems.
Its author is unknown.

It is dedicated to all the mothers in the world.

Mother's Hands

Such beautiful, beautiful hands! she had

Though her heart at times was weary and sad

Those patient hands kept toiling on

That her children might be glad.

I almost weep when looking back

To chilhood's distant day!

I think how my mother's hands rested not

When mine were always busy at their play.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

Song

FOR MAMA (1964)

Sung by Matt Monro

To listen please press 'Play' and turn up the volume

She said my son I beg of you
I have a wish that must come true
The last thing you can do
For mama

Please promise me that you will stay
And take my place while I'm away
And give the children love each day
I had to cry what could I say?

How hard I tried to find the words
I prayed she would not see me cry
So much to say that should be heard
But only time to say goodbye to mama

They say in time that you will forget
Yet still today my eyes are wet
I tell myself to smile for Mama

Now soon there'll be another spring
And I will start remembering
The way she loved to hear us sing
Her favourite song 'Ave Maria'

Ave Maria

The children all have grown up now
I kept my promise to mama
I cannot guide them anymore
I've done my best all for mama

Ave Maria

Still this seems so very small
For all
She did for me

A PICTURE FOR THE PRINCIPAL

Pastel shades of sunset
(A replica of the original circa 1962)

THE CUSTOM - SHIRT FOR NEW YEAR

THE CUSTOM – Shirt for New Year

It was a day of great joy for all the boys in the school. It was the last day of the academic year. One last examination paper remained to be answered. And that would be all. It was a half-day session.

The previous night all the boarders would pack their suitcases ready to load them the next afternoon straight on the bus. As the last paper was answered, which would always invariably be “Religion”, there were wide smiles on all the students' faces.

The buses were slowly climbing up the hill to take the boarding students home for their summer holidays. These transport buses were especially hired to take them to their respective home districts in Goa. The engines of the buses laboured very hard to climb the slopes of the spiral road up the hill. They could be heard right up in the classrooms just below the chapel.

Felicio was a dayscholar. He did not have any packing to do or a bus to board. He lived in Guirim. He had just to walk home two miles away.

Felicio wrote the last few lines on his answer paper. He had almost finished writing his paper when, as he glanced towards the side doors the school clerk walked into the class. The clerk then turned towards him and whispered in his ear: “The Principal would like to see you after the exam is over”. “Alright, Sir,” Felicio replied.

The clerk walked away and Felicio wondered: Why would the principal want to see him? He was worried. He could almost hear his heart beating faster. He could hardly hold his hand steady as he wrote the last line. Suddenly, he seemed to have lost his smile. Did he do anything wrong? Would he be punished? Did he fare badly in the subjects that he had already answered? He had no idea.

He was also anxious to wish goodbye to fellow students and then head home. He wondered whether he could do that before meeting the Principal. Felicio was afraid that his class students might leave before he got back from the Principal's office. So he hastily said good-bye to all his friends wishing them happy holidays and ran up the several flights of steps to the Principal’s office on the top of the hill. He stopped suddenly a few feet from the door. Gasping for breath and trying to get back his composure, he tried to remain as calm as he could.“Hello there young lad, come in” the Principal said as they boy felt his knees tremble. “Here’s something for you.”

What is it? Is it a gift, Felicio wondered. “Take this, it is a gift from us” said the Principal. "Open it", he continued. His hand shaking, Felicio opened it unsteadily. There it was. He could not believe his eyes. It was a pair of shirts and short trousers that made part of the set of the school uniform for the new year.

“This is for you to use in the next academic year”, the Principal said. “Tell your mother that it is a gift from the Fathers and Brothers at Monte. I know that your mother works very hard. I know sometimes it is hard for her to pay your fees. It breaks my heart to see some boys being sent home at times on account of the delay in payment of school fees”. “Tell her not to have any uniforms tailored for you during the holidays for the next year.” “You have done quite well this year my boy.” "Keep on studying hard."

The young boy almost froze as he stood there in silence. Tears ran down his cheeks. He thought about his mother. She would be very happy to hear the news. He wanted to fly home if he could to tell her about what the Principal had said.

So, anxious as he was to get home, he thanked the Principal, shook hands and was ready to leave. “Don’t go”, he said, “here’s something especially for you from me. It is a water-colour box. I know you like to draw and paint. I am sure you will like it. Have a nice painting done during your holidays for me. It will look nice on that blank wall there in my office”, the Principal joked. The boy shook hands, almost genuflected and hurried down the slope clutching his prized possession, out of the courtyard of the Principal's office.

The boarding students were all ready to leave for home. There were a lot of buses, a lot of din; their drivers trying hard in negotiating to reverse and park on the steep slopes. There was hardly any place for them to make a turn and head back. Some big boys helped in placing bricks behind the tires - chocking them to prevent the huge buses from rolling back.

As the buses started to leave, some of the boys threw confetti, cut out of old exercise books, through the windows of the buses. Felicio was happy that the buses had not left yet so he could wave out to his friends. “Good-bye”, he shouted above the roar of the whirring engines. “Enjoy your holidays.” “See you in June, best of luck in the results of the finals", someone said behind him.

Was Felicio forgetting something? Of course he was. How could he forget. So then he ran to see the school clerk who had whispered the Principal’s message in his ear just a while ago. After he thanked and told him how frightened he was, the clerk told Felicio that he would like to share with him a little secret that it was customary for the school to present a set of school uniform to deserving students who worked hard and whose parents could barely afford their school expenses. He was touched by the clerk's message. He looked back as he walked out of his office, still dazed from what had transpired a little while ago.

Felicio started his journey home. He walked faster than usual on that hot April afternoon. It was quite a distance but on that day he felt that had walked much less than the actual two miles he did everyday along the winding path through the fields and villages. As he briefly stopped and turned to look at his alma mater high up on the hill behind him, he could still read the famous bold capital letters right across the façade: ST. ANTHONY'S HIGH SCHOOL. Above those letters on the left was the acronym A.D. and on the right was the year 1947. What a coincidence, and how lucky he was, he thought, that in fact his first name was Anthony and he was born in 1947. He paused for a moment, turned and started walking homeward again.

He jumped precisely on the laterite stepping stones across the shallow rivulet that he crossed everyday. Felicio's mother would be waiting for him to have lunch together that afternoon. She would probably cook something special today for sure, he mused to himself. He too would have his own special surprise for her. Would she cry like he did when he handed her the gift? Would she have tears of joy when he tells her what the Principal had said? All these thoughts raced quickly through his mind as he walked home. He tried to shield his face from the blinding glare of the mid-day afternoon sun with the palm of his hand. The hot earth pierced through the soles of his feet. In a short while he would be home. No more school for some time.

In the distance Felicio could see his mother, sitting outside on a low stool, in the shade of the guava tree at the back of his house, waiting for him. The boy wondered whether his mother would guess what the packet he was carrying in his hand contained. She probably would not, he thought. He walked slowly towards her holding the packet behind his back. He handed it to her and asked her to open it.

Felicio's mother opened it slowly and carefully, showing a big surprised look on her face. She could certainly not believe her eyes. She then said: “May God bless the Capuchin Friars of Monte de Guirim”. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she hugged and kissed her son.

And Felicio said to himself: “I knew my guess would be right! I was certain my mother would cry!”

She did cry. I know that for sure because I was there. She was my mother. I was that boy.

Excerpted from my book:
Goa - Memories of My Homeland
(Poems and Stories)
by Tony Felix (Felicio) Fernandes
Ex-student 1953-1964

THE HEALING FRIAR OF MONTE DE GUIRIM

Bro. Peter - The Healing Friar of Monte de Guirim

  Born: 14-3-1910 — Died: 4-5-2009.

It is with great sadness that I learned about the death of Bro. Peter Ratos.

Bro. Peter Rato, OFM Cap., was in charge of the "Infirmary" at St. Anthony's High School, Monte de Guirim, Bardez, Goa. He was already there at Monte in the year 1953 when I joined the school. He served there for many more years after that before moving on to the Capuchin Minor Seminary at Navelim. He celebrated his 100th birthday recently.

Boarding students who fell ill would be entrusted into his care. The Infirmary was equipped with beds for sick students. It was located away from the classrooms. Students would be confined to these quarters until they fully recovered and were fit to attend classes. He was also in charge of the vaccinations/inoculations that were regularly carried out at the school. Students were also given medical check-ups, and age, heights and weight were recorded under his supervision.

During the afternoon recess we often played on the terrace below the Refectory. Should any of the students get injured or happened to have a bruise from a fall, they would immediately run to Bro. Peter who would dab tincture, ointment, antisepetic or apply a band-aid.

But most of all what he was best known for was his cure for the deadly snake bites. These cures were nothing short of miracles. Brother Peter was a simple and humble friar, and completely dedicated to a way of life of caring for students and the folks around Goa in the true sense of the word. He never bragged of his prowess. He did not boast of his competence nor did he expect any reward or demand money in return. People had faith in him. He cured all for free. He was well respected for his humility and his special ability in his field. He had a remedy for them all.

He must have certainly been bestowed by the Almighty with the powers of healing just by touch and prayers. The medicine he applied or prescribed must be acting as a go-between - a mediator and a catalyst.

What a great and long life of dedicated service to humanity. He lived a cool hundred years. Definitely a great healer of a bygone era, Brother Peter Ratos, the healing Capuchin Friar of Monte de Guirim.

Requiescat In Pace, Bro. Peter Rato. My sincere condolences to relatives, friends, students and Friars at Monte de Guirim.

Tony Fernandes
Ex-Student, S.A.H.S.
Monte de Guirim
Class of 1964
http://www.tonferns.blogspot.com/

WORLD LAUGHTER DAY

QUOTABLE QUOTES

ON WORLD LAUGHTER DAY

(Some of my experiences)

OUT OF TOWN
And then just recently at a craft show, there was this couple who walked into our booth. They browsed around and then they started to read all the labels on the jars loudly. After they had finished reading them all, they said the labels looked very nice, but couldn’t take a jar home because the wife just can’t stand turmeric, mother- in-law is allergic to vinegar, and the husband’s system cannot handle garlic.
The only one who simply adores pickles is their son. And he is out of town.

NEVER FOUND
A lone ranger walks into our booth. Tries 4 types of relishes. Says he likes them all, but right now can’t find his wife who he believes a little while ago was apparently sampling away at another booth nearby. Then he walked away saying he will be sending his wife as soon as he finds her.
But she never showed up. I guess her husband never found her.

SHORTER ARMS
Some people are rich and well-off. They have a lot of money. They could afford to spend tons of cash. They also have deep pockets where they keep their money, but shorter arms.

SORRY I’M FULL
We never put any pressure on customers. But this over 6 ft. chap was staring at our products for a good 5 minutes from 6 feet away out in the aisle. Thinking that he might have been feeling awkward to ask for a sample I took the liberty to ask him if I could offer a sample.

“No,” the customer replied, “Sorry, I’m full”.

Full? Did he think I was offering him lunch?

SOME OBSERVATIONS

SOME OBSERVATIONS (Humour)

Customers :

Man with folded arms:
1. Non-committed.
2. Has nothing better to do.
3. Surveying

Man with both hands in pocket:
1. Looking for loose change.
2. Broke

Man with one hand in pocket:
1. Not sure what he wants
(in life, or otherwise).

Man/Woman
with wallet/purse in hand:
Pretending to buy.

Man/woman
Both hands at the back:
They've got something to hide.

Man/Woman holding
Spouse’s hand:
They want nothing - except each other.

Man holding wife’s purse:
Doesn’t want her to spend.

Man/Woman with dark glasses
(in dimly-lit aisles, day or night) :
1. They probably think they can remain anonymous
2. They want to avoid absolutely all eye contact.
3. Competition is checking prices in dark shades!

BOOKS BY BEN ANTAO

1. Images of Goa ($25),
a memoir covering the years 1943-64.

2. Goa A Rediscovery ($10),
a travelogue of Goa, 2004.

3. BLOOD & Nemesis ($25),
a novel about Goa's freedom struggle from the Portuguese rule covering the period 1946-62.

4. Penance ($25),
a novel about a love quadrangle set in Toronto.

5. The Tailor's Daughter ($25),
a novel about a young Goan woman of Nairobi and her struggle to break out of the caste barrier.

6. Living on the Market ($25),
a novel about a supply teacher of Toronto who is trying to support his family by playing the stock market.

7. The lands of Sicily ($25),
a bilingual travelogue Italian and English) about the author's visit to Sicily in October 2007.

8. Images of the USA ($25),
a memoir of his journalistic experiences in the US (1966-67)

TO ORDER PLEASE EMAIL:

BEN ANTAO

ben.antao@rogers.com

JOURNEY ACROSS THE ARABIAN SEA (Part 3)

Windtowers of Dubai

'Dubai Creek 1970'
Oil painting by Tony Fernandes
Size 3ft x 2ft
View of Bur Dubai across the Creek from Ras Deira
Across the creek: Left Customs House & Ruler's Office,
centre: Nat.Bank of Dubai and backdrop of the wind towers of Bastakiya Quarter.

Dubai - United Arab Emirates

(Oil Painting by Tony Fernandes) 
BEYOND THE ARABIAN SEA

aboard the m.s. SIRDHANA

Part 3 (Final)

Muscat, Oman

The early morning of Day 5, (6th September 1967), found us approaching Muscat, Oman. The s.s. 'Sirdhana' cast anchor about half a nautical mile away from the breathtaking mountains of Oman. Cargo shipments were unloaded and loaded to and from small boats that came alongside. Although Muscat had no port, it was a magnificent sight to behold from the sea with beautiful cliffs some of which had names of visiting ships painted by sailors in large letters on the sloping sides. We knew that this was our last port of call before reaching Dubai.

After leaving Muscat in Oman by the afternoon, passengers disembarking in Dubai seemed quite excited. The morning of Day 6 (7th September 1967) saw us through the Straits of Hormuz. Dubai would be the next stop in about 18 hours as I had learned from a fellow traveler. There were in fact many passengers on board who had traveled this route before. As the ship sailed towards the Hormuz Strait, the Hajjar mountain range loomed high and large in the distance on the port side.

Then everyone was reaching for their note books, writing names and addresses of their new friends, so that we could keep in touch in the future wherever we would be or wherever our destiny would take us eventually. It was almost like a family leaving their relatives behind at this point. Most of my friends that I made on board the ship seemed to be in their twenties or thirties. Some were headed for other places like Doha, Bahrain, Kuwait and the final destination Basra from where some said they would hitch-hike across Europe.

It was Thursday, 7th of September 1967, having sailed through the Straits of Hormuz, the ship turned south-west towards Dubai. On the portside was the Hajjar mountain range of Ras al Khaimah and on the starboard side was the vast expanse of the Arabian Gulf. It was a hot and humid afternoon with bright sunshine. Simmering in the heat far away I could see what seemed like silhouettes on horizon of high-rise apartments. Oh! Skyscrapers! I thought, but they in fact were beautiful wind towers in disguise.

As the 'Sirdhana' steadily edged towards Dubai, she dropped anchor about a nautical mile off the entrance to Dubai Creek. After a while Immigration officials from the Trucial States arrived in a in a police boat and boarded the ship to check on the visas that were issued by the British Consulate in Dubai. The ship’s officers’ main dining area was immediately converted into an immigration office for the purpose.

Dubai did not have a sea port for the m.s. Sirdhana to berth then. We disembarked using the ship’s ladder onto small boats that took us ashore, through the winding creek. The small shuttle motor boats were berthed at the jetty near the market place in Bur Dubai. 

I jumped on to the quayside with the famous BOAC blue bag slung over my shoulder with quite a relief. It wasn’t difficult to spot my brother in his trademark crew-cut who had been waiting at the Customs House. We both chatted while waiting for my luggage that would be arriving on another boat. We then headed home in his Volkswagen.

My sea voyage had ended. A new life and a new venture in a different place and culture was about to begin.

The seven sheikhdoms namely, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Sharjah, Ajman, Fujeirah, Umm Al Quwain and Ras Al Khaimah, were then known as the TRUCIAL STATES OF OMAN, a British Protectorate. Four years later a federation was formed aimed at attaining subsequent independence. The British left and the United Arab Emirates was born in August 1971.

Today Dubai is a great, modern and magnificent city which boasts of a man-made sea port so large that it can be seen from space. There are many other man-made architectural and engineering wonders of the modern world that we have heard about. The creek is still beautiful albeit bedecked with skyscrapers on both sides, but the cluster of the original wind-towers that I had spotted nearly 42 years ago today still exists on the heritage site at the mouth of the creek still basking in warm sunshine - a reminder of the day when I first set foot in this beautiful country.

*****     *****     *****

Interestingly, the Sirdhana was the first passenger ship to berth at the opening of Port Rashid on 9th November 1970. Other sister ships were the Dwarka, Daressa, Dumra, and sadly the unfortunate Dara which sunk as a result of a tragic and powerful explosion near Dubai on 8 April 1961, causing the deaths of 238 of the 819 persons on board at the time of the voyage, including 19 officers and 113 crew.

*****     *****      *****

One and a half year after I first landed in Dubai, I flew on a BOAC VC-10 Aircraft to Bombay on my first vacation, perhaps leaving a jet-trail like the one I had seen from the s.s. SIRDHANA!!!

'TonFerns' holding on tight to his BOAC Air Ticket 

JOURNEY ACROSS THE ARABIAN SEA (Part 2)

Dubai - Trucial States of Oman - 1967
Photo by Tony Fernandes

BEYOND THE ARABIAN SEA

(aboard the m.s. SIRDHANA)

Part 2

High Seas

Rising early morning the next day we went to the dining hall for breakfast and met the entire group of guys involved in the tete-a-tete that we had the previous night. It was the beginning of Day 2 (3rd September 1967). We were on high seas, heading for the port of Karachi in Pakistan. It was another long day of chit-chat. Some passengers were playing chess, draughts and cards. The lunch fare consisted of rice, curry, and vegetables. Soon the afternoon turned into evening, when most of us went to the prow of the ship to watch the beautiful sunset once again. The cool breeze fanned across our faces while silhouettes of sea-gulls glided effortlessly in the distance.

My compass indicated we were heading north-west. After dinner my friends and I sat on the aft upper deck till midnight. Each one of our group of friends told where they were heading, some relating a little bit about themselves. The final destination point of the s.s. Sirdhana was Basra in Iraq, the other intermittent stops being Qatar, Bahrain and Kuwait. 

The moon was low in the eastern sky, its faint glow simmering faintly on the horizon. The white surf that the ship left astern glimmered in its trail, leaving a long and wide V-shaped wash in its wake. With a dark foreboding sea towards the north, the faint lights of another vessel in the south kept us company for a while. The faint and hazy white band of the Milky Way stretched almost overhead across the clear sky, brilliantly lit by myriad twinkling stars. I was surrounded by some of my favourite constellations in a breath-taking stellar sight. To the north I could see the Great Bear in the constellation of Ursa Major with two of its stars pointing to the Pole Star in the constellation of Ursa Minor, the Little Bear. To the south I could see the rising Southern Cross. We then retired to our berths. There had not been a single day when I did not think about my folks and friends back home before falling asleep. Across the aisle, in dim lights of the lower deck I noticed a co-passenger smile. I wondered if he had seen me wipe a tear from my eye. He must be missing his folks too, I thought. Good night, he whispered.

Rising at dawn on Day 3 (4th September) it was time to go up to the main deck for breakfast. To my astonishment as I was standing on starboard side I could see far in the distance a landmass over the horizon. Just like one of the pursers on board had mentioned the previous night I surmised that we must be in fact nearing the port of Karachi. As we glided through the calm seas for about another two hours we saw many ships around us. Soon after that tugboats approached the Sirdhana. She was then soon docked and tethered to the bollards by the quay-side. Later I went to the fore-deck and watched as the ship used its winches to load cargo right up till the afternoon. I was amazed by the adept operators of the winches and impressed by the precision of how they raised and lowered the cargo. We then left port after having lunch. It was almost evening when we were again out into the open seas. We were now heading towards Muscat in Oman, full steam ahead. Once again after a long conversation on various topics that evening, we decided to take count of how much ‘foreign exchange’ was left from the pittance of an allowance of $5 US Dollars (Indian Rupees 75/- in those days) that each one of us had for the entire journey. It wasn't enough at all. Most of this meagre amount had already been spent on beer! Any extra meal or snacks would have to be paid in US Dollars. Another moonlit night – quite peaceful, silent and calm. As for me I was slightly tired. Perhaps a little ruffled, but looked forward to arriving at Muscat.

Day 4. (5th September) A quick check on my only favourite possession – my magnetic compass. We were westbound by south west. Brilliant sunshine, blue skies and scattered cumulus clouds high above. A long white jet trail pierced the sky. Perhaps a VC-10 or Boeing 707 on its way to Bombay, Hong Kong, Singapore or Australia - some lucky guys - but some day I'll fly too, I thought.

Sitting by the side of a vent cowling, I was facing the bridge, with my back toward the bow of the ship reading a book. High up above on the bridge of the ship officers seemed to be on the afternoon watch. They appeared to look out far ahead, out into the sea. During the afternoon my new friends and I stood near the prow of the ship. As we cautiously looked over the rails down below us we saw the hull of the ship slice through the waters as several pairs of dolphins raced alongside keeping at an amazing and steady pace along with the ship. Looking back over my shoulder I noticed naval officers high up through the window of the captain’s navigation deck, taking a reading through a sextant, flanked by 2 or 3 others. Trainees or juniors perhaps, it appeared so, presuming from their actions.

(to be continued)

JOURNEY ACROSS THE ARABIAN SEA (Part 1)

m.s. SIRDHANA

Photographs Courtesy: John Coulthard & Dave Alexander

Journey Across the Arabian Sea

(ON BOARD THE m.s. SIRDHANA)

Part I

Bombay, India
The days preceding 2nd of September 1967 were pretty hectic, with thoughts dwelling on my forthcoming travel to a foreign land. It was a busy time - making arrangements in getting a passport for the first time in my life. It would be my first venture abroad to a place called Dubai. Many on the Indian sub-continent knew where it was, but perhaps in those days very few people knew about it in other parts of the world.

Having been excited since the day I received my visa, the thought of finding employment abroad brought sadness and happiness at the same time. Sad because I would be leaving my parents and friends behind. On the other hand happy because I was going to try something new – an adventure. It was an opportunity not to be missed, an opportunity knocking at my door to venture abroad. So finally after much debate I took the brave step of leaving in search of greener pastures overseas in my favourite blue shirt and jeans, a carry-on bag slung over my shoulder, an Art Diploma and a suitcase with a few clothes in hand 

No doubt it was already an age of jet travel then, but I had only one option at my disposal, and that was to rough it out on a sea voyage of 5 days and 5 nights across the Arabian Sea on board the B.I. steamship, the m.s. SIRDHANA.

The day of my departure was getting closer and there was so much to do. Some of my friends wanted to take me out to lunch and dinner, while others wanted me to join them at the movies. Some college friends from as far away as Malad, Bandra and Andheri came over to the place where I lived at Colaba to say good-bye on the eve of my departure.

It was surely a sad moment for me and for my friends too. Late one evening I sat in the balcony on the fourth floor of the apartment in Colaba where I lived. I looked down below at the main street - the bright lights of Colaba Causeway - a shopper's delight - it still seemed busy. As I looked towards the south east, I could see the glimmering lights of Sassoon Dock and the neon signs of Empire Shoe Mart towards the north. Cafe Alexandria across the street was open, and people still lined up for Kulfi at Chandu's even at such a late hour. I'm certainly going to miss this neighbourhood a lot, I thought. How much I would miss seemed too much to count - the movies at the Strand, the Metro, the Empire, the Rex, the Regal and Eros Cinemas, lunch and dinners at Martin's Corner just around the corner, cold coffee at Gables, and matinee shows at the Excelsior, the evening strolls along Cuffe Parade and Gateway of India, the occasional visit to Venice and Volga's, the hop on the double decker buses at Electric House, the early morning Mass at the Wodehouse Church, Paranjoti's Choir, music shows and contests among beat groups like The Mystiks, The Savages, Beat Four, Reaction and Lone Trojan (Biddu), and sipping coffee while listening to the hits by the Ventures, The Shadows, The Seekers, Ricky Nelson, Jim Reeves, Cliff Richard, Elvis, Everly Brothers and others on the juke-box at Cafe Mondegar. I had a lump in my throat just as it does now.

Finally the morning of 2nd September 1967 dawned. It was time for me to leave for the docks - off to the Ballard Pier in Bombay (now Mumbai). There, tethered to the bollards was the awesome and gleaming white steamer, the SIRDHANA, one of the last B.I. ships of its kind to sail the seas. My friend, Leslie, may God bless his soul, accompanied me in the taxi to the pier. I was surprised that so many of my friends had already arrived there to say goodbye.

After all the routine checking in, it was time for the passengers to board. I hastened along the gangway to find my berth. Placing my luggage there I hurried back to the deck to have a last glimpse at my friends who kept on waving out to me. I waved back intermittently and I was convinced that they were adamant in waiting by the quayside till the ship's departure. With sustained smiles on their faces and mine, it was a sad moment.

It was almost noon when I heard a rumble beneath my feet, as the ship raised anchor. As it was gently towed away out of the harbour by two tug boats into the open sea, I could see people still waving goodbye in the distance, becoming smaller and smaller till I could see them no more. Soon the tug boats had left the Sirdhana to steam on its own power. We were heading North-West for sure, I thought. To confirm this I took out my old pocket compass, one of my treasured possessions from my school days, to check and confirm that I was right in my assumption.

Having made it back to the berth on the lower deck after a while, I decided to settle down take it easy and try to come to terms and brace for a long journey ahead.

Later that evening, I reached into the side pocket of my favourite blue carry bag of those days (that ironically had the letters "BOAC"- British Overseas Aircraft Corporation). From it, I anxiously took out a world map that I had purchased from the agent. Not wanting to make a laughing stock of myself, I then quickly put it away before somebody could see me, as we had barely been out of Indian waters, and had hardly started our journey! There was silence among the passengers nearby except at the far end of the sleeping quarters. A group of guys seemed to go on chatting endlessly. These guys must be regulars, I assumed. After taking a short nap I decided to go to the lounge on the upper deck. Some passengers were watching a glorious sunset on the horizon of the Arabian Sea. Soon twilight turned into darkness with a grand canopy of a star-lit sky above us. As I remember, one of the famous hit songs of those days was 'World of our Own' by The Seekers, lyrics of which seemed to aptly come to mind. We were surely far away from the bustle and the bright city lights, albeit headed to a new place that I had yet to know and experience, in a new world that hopefully I would strive to make and build on my own.

It was dinner time. Not having had a single known person on a steamer that carried nearly a 1000 passengers I thought it was time to make friends. So I put down one of the books that I had carried to read on board the ship.

Later I realized that in fact everybody wanted to make friends with everyone else. The saying “we are all in the same boat” literally held true in this case. All that had to be done was to break the ice initially. As I now recall, conversations carried on till past mid-night.

When I rose up the next morning I already had a lot of friends on board - in fact more than I had expected.

This is just the beginning, four more days and nights to go, I thought.

It was much unlike the banner head-line in BOAC advertisements of the VC-10 aircraft of that era that proclaimed: 'Swift, Silent, Serene'.

We were going to get there for sure, but differently: Definitely slow, but steady. Surely ruffled, but determined.

(to be continued)

DAYS OF NARAYAN THE POSTMAN

DAYS OF NARAYAN THE POSTMAN

Those were the good old days of April sunshine and humidity in Guirim, Cumbiem Morod, Bardez, Goa. The schools were closed for the summer and I was looking forward to enjoying my holidays. Sitting on a small stool in our balcão, I was using the bench as a table. I was doing what I liked to do best right after lunch - drawing before the evening coolness arrived. After that I would join other boys from the village playing football in the vast parched fields of summer stretching far north towards the hills of Mapuςa.

At times the sudden intermittent gusts of gentle breeze brought us some relief from the afternoon heat. The coconut trees gently swayed, and often dislodged the ripe mango from its stem on the nearby tree. The discernible thud from the fall of the mango on the sandy ground provided a short-lived sport for us as we raced towards the mango tree to grab and retrieve the mango.

At this time my mother usually sat in the front balcão of our house, doing one of her daily smaller chores. Some days, it meant darning my old trousers; other days it was altering the hem line of my cousin’s dress. I can still remember the flower pattern she sewed on a pillowcase, and the words “God Bless our Home” on the altar cloth. No matter what the chore, she never failed to repeatedly move her glance from her needle to the winding path that led to our house.

I remember the look in her eyes as she tried to conceal her feelings, but I knew why my mother appeared anxious. It was that time of day when Narayan the postman would bring the mail. We were waiting anxiously to hear about the news when my father would arrive from Bombaim (Bombay) where he worked. My mother was also worried because we had not heard from my uncle in Belgaum in quite a while. I could sense her concern as I continued with my drawing.

Several similar days passed until we finally saw Narayan far away in the distance, dressed in his khaki uniform – short-sleeved shirt, long trousers and sandals with a satchel slung over his shoulder as he trudged along with an envelope in his hand. How true, we thought. The crow, the harbinger of yore, of ‘Kaunvllea Kiteak Roddtai Dharan’* fame, perched on the fence of our backyard that very morning, had already predicted the postman’s arrival!

I still remember the smile on my mother’s face as she read the letter. My father was coming home!
A  few days later, we also heard from my uncle from Belgaum that he too would be arriving for his holidays. It was so true that Narayan brought us joy in the form of letters. The amount of good news that he brought surpassed the bad. The happiest time of my childhood was Yuletide when everyone in the village received Christmas cards from relatives and friends. And Narayan would be making his rounds almost every day of the season happily delivering them to us. In retrospect, I tend to think that he could have been our very own unique Santa Claus! Conversely, he wore a solemn face when he was about to hand over a letter with a black border which meant bad news about the demise of a relative or a friend.

Some postmen delivered mail on bicycles. However, Narayan preferred to deliver mail on foot as it was difficult to ride a bicycle through the sandy paths of the villages. Tired and perspiring, he would sometimes sit on our front porch for a minute or two, taking rest from the summer heat. Wiping the sweat from his face with his handkerchief, he would always ask us how we were doing. ‘Koxim assat tumim?’ (How are you all?) he inquired. Sometimes we would offer his water to quench his thirst. He would then leave to deliver a few more letters before heading back to the main post office in town, where he would then board a bus to his home in Colvale.

Sometimes Narayan would ask me to hand over a letter whenever someone was not at home in the village. The old lady who lived behind our house often asked me to read letters to her that her son wrote from Bombay. She trusted me and expected to keep to myself whatever I read. In return, to read the letters and perhaps to remain silent she rewarded me with guavas or ‘chikoos’ that grew on the trees at the back of her house.

All postmen were generally known by the village folks as ‘postacar’. But our postman was known as ‘Naran Postakar’. He was always polite and humble. Whenever I went to the post office to purchase postage stamps in the morning I could see him inside the old postal office. He would be busy sorting out mail and getting his bag ready for the afternoon delivery. He never failed to wave instantly when he saw me.

Narayan served as a postman for many years, having seen the days of the transition from Portuguese colonial rule to Indian rule. His knowledge and fluency in Portuguese, Marathi, English and Concanim amazed me. He retired from service in the mid nineteen sixties. The world is so different now since the days of Narayan the postman. In these times of electronic mail, blogs and text messaging, I cannot help but reminisce about a a postman from a different generation - an experience of my youth.

* * *

*'Kaunvllea Kiteak Roddtai Dharan’ : {literal meaning: Crow! Why are you crying (crowing) in front of the house}. A traditional Goan folk song in which a wife asks the crow if it has brought news from her husband in a telegram and she beckons it to better fly away if it has done so, lest it should get itself killed by a rifle shot.

This essay is dedicated to the Goan postmen of a bygone era, and especially to Naik Chikhalikar, a.k.a. Baba Postakar. Narana Forjento, Colvale, Pernem District, Goa. India.

THE RESURRECTION

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