Between the Sword and the Pen, lies the Guitar
Nostalgia's gripped people like never before - you read it in the papers, see it on TV, hear it in conversations and relive it in your reminiscences. American guitar-manufacturer, Fender, released a re-issue of their legendary Stratocaster electric guitar of the 70's with the punch-line, "Accept it, you are nostalgic about the 70's!" What date-stamp better than the music-genre of the period in question? When you listen to a song of days gone by, doesn't it remind you of a particular incident of that time? Sometimes, it's the other way round too - speak of the 60's and you think of The Beatles but for most locals of Daman (a former Portuguese colony) over the age of 50, it's about the Liberation.
It was morning, December 18 1961, but I thought it was night. All the windows of the house where my parents, as also the wounded Portuguese governor, Brig. Costa Pinto, had sought refuge from the bombers flying overhead, were shuttered and the electricity being cut off, candles provided the only light. During each of those bombing raids in the two-day siege, my parents shielded me with their bodies as they stood between a wardrobe and the inner wall of the house, as if clinging to their only possession while all the little boy in me could think of was a chance to have a peek at the fighter planes!
We soon got our freedom from the 400-year Portuguese rule and Damão became Daman (though Goa did not become Gowa and Diu did not become Div). People began to adopt the new system, adapt to mainland Indian culture and etiquette, and adjust with the new currency as they attempted to build a new life from what could be salvaged. But while the sound of guns continued to echo in our ears in the aftermath, I suddenly realized that there was a silence that was much louder than this din and which I thought only I could hear - it was the absence of music. That's when I joined the elders in the search for lost possessions. I cannot forget that glorious moment when I finally found my treasure trove in the attic of my grandparents' house - a hand-wound HMV gramophone with a huge stack of 78 rpm shellac records.
I would play the gramophone the first thing when I woke up in the morning and the last thing I did before going to bed. I used up box after box of styluses and dabbed the records with cotton buds dipped in kerosene oil to remove the grime that got into the grooves. One day, I did not go to school, staying home listening to records all day, trying to figure out the parts of the songs and identifying the instruments. And my parents as well as my class teacher, approved of it! That was my first taste of freedom.
It was only when I turned 15 that I found my music teacher - an old man who had been a church violinist before he took up to the bottle. He agreed to teach me European music theory. The sessions lasted the entire monsoon, 'classes' being held in the shelter of his umbrella under pouring rain as he supervised the transplantation of the rice crop in ankle-deep water. Notebook in hand, I soaked in the music. No, we did not have printed music sheets so he wrote melodies in ink in my notebook and made sure I got to sing pieces I had never heard or set eyes on before. When I could sing a difficult genre called 'Motet', he sent me off on my own with the advice to buy an instrument, preferably a violin, if I could afford one. It was here that my mother, who used to sing harmony in the church choir as a girl, stepped in and suggested that I take up the acoustic guitar. She said girls in her time loved guitar-playing 'guys' more than football-playing 'boys'! That was when I got my first guitar, back then in the 70's and I went on to acquire a line-up of 15 guitars along my road to freedom.
I have also done my share of songwriting - lyrics came first and then the melody, the guitar being my primary instrument for writing though I often use arranger keyboards for my OMB performances. I started writing songs in the late 80's when I learnt that Stevie Wonder was blind and that the Beatles could not read music notation and that it was perfectly okay to write by ear. After all, music per se is written for the ears and notation, tabs, etc. are but means to an end. Music is a means of experiencing as well as expressing freedom and, the guitar is a celebration of this freedom.
Click here for part-2 (December, 2011)
Copyright © 2005 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
Soon it will be Christmas Day
'Last Christmas, I gave you my heart...' goes the popular song by Wham! And come to think of it, we all look forward to Christmas and yet when it’s Christmas Day, most of us look back, reminiscing.
I remember the early 60s in Daman when people would start collecting eggs weeks in advance, carefully writing the dates on the eggs and storing them under layers of rock salt in tins. Back then, the ovens were not electric but made of clay and known as panela de barro, fueled by burning coconut husk which was sold in gunny sacks. Sugar was 'controlled' by the ration-shops and so just like the ants, we too would ingeniously start hoarding sugar, even going to the extent of using the quota in the ration cards of domestic servants who did not need sugar, preferring toddy to tea!
By the 10th of December, housewives in groups of about six would gather in the kitchen of one of their houses every night after putting the children to bed and, with coffee and gossip to keep them going, would make sweets like boroas, queijadinhos, bolinhos do coco, etc. Coconut and egg yolk were the common ingredients. In Portugal, the wine industry until recently used the whites of eggs in their processes and the residual yolks gave birth to the delicious sweets industry. I think no other sweet symbolized the fusion of the erstwhile colonies better than Bolinhos do Porto which is made of just 4 ingredients viz., coconut symbolizing India, raw egg-yolk symbolizing Portugal, cocoa symbolizing Africa and, sugar the universal ingredient!
'But the times, they are a-changing...'croons Bob Dylan and home-made sweets are giving way to off-the-shelf sweets from Bandra, caroling giving way to recorded music, e-mails replacing Christmas cards and so on.
But there is one thing that has solidly withstood the test of time and that is the humble Bolo de Sura, a modest cake made of flour, eggs, jaggery and for leavening, toddy from which it gets it name (‘Sura’ is toddy in Portuguese). In the days of plenty, this cake was made for giving to the poor on Christmas Day. To this day, a slice of this poor-man's cake adorns every platter of sweet that is exchanged among neighbors and friends, rich and poor.
Just like the Yule Pudding of the English, the Bolo de Sura is Daman’s own Christmas cake symbolizing the very spirit of Christmas.
Noël Gama
02.12.05
Copyright © 2005 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
I remember the early 60s in Daman when people would start collecting eggs weeks in advance, carefully writing the dates on the eggs and storing them under layers of rock salt in tins. Back then, the ovens were not electric but made of clay and known as panela de barro, fueled by burning coconut husk which was sold in gunny sacks. Sugar was 'controlled' by the ration-shops and so just like the ants, we too would ingeniously start hoarding sugar, even going to the extent of using the quota in the ration cards of domestic servants who did not need sugar, preferring toddy to tea!
By the 10th of December, housewives in groups of about six would gather in the kitchen of one of their houses every night after putting the children to bed and, with coffee and gossip to keep them going, would make sweets like boroas, queijadinhos, bolinhos do coco, etc. Coconut and egg yolk were the common ingredients. In Portugal, the wine industry until recently used the whites of eggs in their processes and the residual yolks gave birth to the delicious sweets industry. I think no other sweet symbolized the fusion of the erstwhile colonies better than Bolinhos do Porto which is made of just 4 ingredients viz., coconut symbolizing India, raw egg-yolk symbolizing Portugal, cocoa symbolizing Africa and, sugar the universal ingredient!
'But the times, they are a-changing...'croons Bob Dylan and home-made sweets are giving way to off-the-shelf sweets from Bandra, caroling giving way to recorded music, e-mails replacing Christmas cards and so on.
But there is one thing that has solidly withstood the test of time and that is the humble Bolo de Sura, a modest cake made of flour, eggs, jaggery and for leavening, toddy from which it gets it name (‘Sura’ is toddy in Portuguese). In the days of plenty, this cake was made for giving to the poor on Christmas Day. To this day, a slice of this poor-man's cake adorns every platter of sweet that is exchanged among neighbors and friends, rich and poor.
Just like the Yule Pudding of the English, the Bolo de Sura is Daman’s own Christmas cake symbolizing the very spirit of Christmas.
Noël Gama
02.12.05
Copyright © 2005 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
Diwali in Heaven
As published in UTS' Voice of 16.11.05
DIWALI IN HEAVEN
By
Noël Gama
All Saints’ Day observed by Christians on the 1st of November was not only the eve of All Souls’ Day but also Diwali, the festival of lights, thus morphing solemnity, somberness and festivity as at dusk, the church bells began to toll while the congregation silently wound its way to the cemetery to light candles at the gravesites of their dear ones.
I have participated in this ritual for decades but this time, I accidentally stumbled upon a custom unknown to most of the people of my hometown, Daman!
As I cruised down a lane called Badrapor that night, I noticed through the swirling fog that most of the Christian dwellings had brightly burning candles on their front porches and only my keen sense of observation made me distinguish them from dipavali lamps! Here was an uncanny similarity to what I had read in my French textbook in school, about the way All Souls’ Day was commemorated in the countryside of France. But there was no French connection in this erstwhile Portuguese colony of Damão. Could there possibly be a chance this custom had somehow found its way to tiny Badrapor, which was the landing-ground for the Portuguese over 400 years back? How come the rest of the population of Daman so steeped in custom and tradition was not even aware of this?
Curiosity taking the upper hand, I parked and walked up to the door of an elderly lady who explained that the candles were indeed meant for the departed souls who would be visiting their homes on the eve of All Souls’ Day between dusk and midnight.
As I settled behind the wheel of my car on that serene November night, I could suddenly see the spirit behind such customs and traditions, the flesh and blood of the surreal. I could not help but remember the victims of the blasts in Delhi as I looked up at the display of fireworks in the sky for a flitting moment and then beyond into eternity as my lips whispered those three little words that my soul was saying – R.I.P.
Copyright © 2005 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
DIWALI IN HEAVEN
By
Noël Gama
 |
| Dusk, Nov. 1st - Big Daman Cemetery |
I have participated in this ritual for decades but this time, I accidentally stumbled upon a custom unknown to most of the people of my hometown, Daman!
As I cruised down a lane called Badrapor that night, I noticed through the swirling fog that most of the Christian dwellings had brightly burning candles on their front porches and only my keen sense of observation made me distinguish them from dipavali lamps! Here was an uncanny similarity to what I had read in my French textbook in school, about the way All Souls’ Day was commemorated in the countryside of France. But there was no French connection in this erstwhile Portuguese colony of Damão. Could there possibly be a chance this custom had somehow found its way to tiny Badrapor, which was the landing-ground for the Portuguese over 400 years back? How come the rest of the population of Daman so steeped in custom and tradition was not even aware of this?
 |
| Dusk, Nov. 1st - Badrapor, Big Daman |
As I settled behind the wheel of my car on that serene November night, I could suddenly see the spirit behind such customs and traditions, the flesh and blood of the surreal. I could not help but remember the victims of the blasts in Delhi as I looked up at the display of fireworks in the sky for a flitting moment and then beyond into eternity as my lips whispered those three little words that my soul was saying – R.I.P.
Copyright © 2005 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
Bridge that gap - rope in the Cable Guy!
To,
The Editor
UTs Voice
Daman
SUB : BRIDGE THAT GAP - ROPE-IN THE CABLE GUY!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Sir,
UTs Voice's report on the status (quo) of the bridge over the Daman Ganga River made depressing reading. Obviously, a lot of water has flowed since August 2004!
While the free bus service has given the local populace some respite, even this gets disrupted when the Zari Causeway overflows during the monsoons.
Another alternative could be the introduction of cable cars to ferry people across the river. The possibility of taking the ropeway on lease from hill stations during monsoons being off-season, could be looked into.
Some of the benefits of the ropeway are:-
Safety even when the river is in full spate;
Reduction/elimination of cost of bus/boat transport;
Reduction in traffic congestion over Zari Causeway which itself is not strong enough;
Preservation of natural resources (reduction in consumption of petrol/diesel by motor vehicles taking the Kachigam/Karambeli detours);
Reduction of pollution caused by emissions from the dense traffic converging towards the causeway;
Tourist attraction due to its uniqueness;
Noel Gama
The Editor
UTs Voice
Daman
SUB : BRIDGE THAT GAP - ROPE-IN THE CABLE GUY!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Sir,
UTs Voice's report on the status (quo) of the bridge over the Daman Ganga River made depressing reading. Obviously, a lot of water has flowed since August 2004!
While the free bus service has given the local populace some respite, even this gets disrupted when the Zari Causeway overflows during the monsoons.
Another alternative could be the introduction of cable cars to ferry people across the river. The possibility of taking the ropeway on lease from hill stations during monsoons being off-season, could be looked into.
Some of the benefits of the ropeway are:-
Safety even when the river is in full spate;
Reduction/elimination of cost of bus/boat transport;
Reduction in traffic congestion over Zari Causeway which itself is not strong enough;
Preservation of natural resources (reduction in consumption of petrol/diesel by motor vehicles taking the Kachigam/Karambeli detours);
Reduction of pollution caused by emissions from the dense traffic converging towards the causeway;
Tourist attraction due to its uniqueness;
Noel Gama
The Miracle at the Home for the Aged
This song was born out of what happened one night at the Home for the Aged in Big Daman. A sick old lady had been left in the home because the wife of her only son did not want her in their house. The visits of her son decreased over the months while the permanent pain in her arm increased till it was so unbearable that night that she walked to the beach in the dead of night and laid down in the water to sleep and never wake up. But the tide was receding and local fishermen (not the Great Fisherman!) found her fast asleep in the wee hours of the morning!
DESTITUTE WOMAN
V1 She sits there all alone
By the window of the institution
She’s dressed up for the evening
Looks like she’s waiting for someone dear
(Yes, she’s waiting for someone)
She looks out expectantly
Into the fading daylight outside
But no, there is no one calling on her
V2 She gets up all by herself
And then she limps back into the dorm
She rests her head on the pillow
And through the tears
Thinks of her son (He has forsaken her)
Her lips move as she whispers
“Lord, watch & keep him when I am gone
Ah! Till we meet someday up there in paradise”
CH1 No one to talk to, when she’s feeling so blue
No one to cry on, when the pain comes on
No one to lean on, when she cannot go on
She’s a destitute woman (x 4)
Just a destitute woman
V3 So she lays awake all the night thru
Still she’s all dressed up
Waiting for someone
She looks up expectantly
Up at the ceiling, ready for Him
(Always ready for Him)
Tonight she’s very sure
That the Lord will knock on her door
Ah! Yes, tonight He’ll be callin’ on her
CH2 And then there’ll be, no more feeling the blues
No limp, no shame, no more tears of pain
No ‘old’, no ‘young’, no more sorrow beyond
She’ll be destitute no more
(Repeat Ch2 & fade out)
Noel Gama
11.07.1992
DESTITUTE WOMAN
V1 She sits there all alone
By the window of the institution
She’s dressed up for the evening
Looks like she’s waiting for someone dear
(Yes, she’s waiting for someone)
She looks out expectantly
Into the fading daylight outside
But no, there is no one calling on her
V2 She gets up all by herself
And then she limps back into the dorm
She rests her head on the pillow
And through the tears
Thinks of her son (He has forsaken her)
Her lips move as she whispers
“Lord, watch & keep him when I am gone
Ah! Till we meet someday up there in paradise”
CH1 No one to talk to, when she’s feeling so blue
No one to cry on, when the pain comes on
No one to lean on, when she cannot go on
She’s a destitute woman (x 4)
Just a destitute woman
V3 So she lays awake all the night thru
Still she’s all dressed up
Waiting for someone
She looks up expectantly
Up at the ceiling, ready for Him
(Always ready for Him)
Tonight she’s very sure
That the Lord will knock on her door
Ah! Yes, tonight He’ll be callin’ on her
CH2 And then there’ll be, no more feeling the blues
No limp, no shame, no more tears of pain
No ‘old’, no ‘young’, no more sorrow beyond
She’ll be destitute no more
(Repeat Ch2 & fade out)
Noel Gama
11.07.1992
Alma Mater Always Matters!
Having come across an invitation from the Reader’s Digest to all its readers in their June 2005 issue for one's personal story of inspiration, I thought to myself, 'what better place to begin than at the beginning where it had all started?' So, PDA in hand, at precisely 8.00am one Saturday, I walked down my street along with school-going children, right up to the imposing Portuguese building of the convent where I had studied from Kindergarten through High School.
As it turned out, it was a trip down memory lane. Standing there in the light drizzle on that June morning, I was transported back in time to another dark, wet and cloudy morning in June 1974, the first day of my last year at school. On that memorable day, at the stroke of the school bell, a young nun had come bustling into the classroom with the brightest of smiles we'd ever seen, bursting with energy and enthusiasm, rearing to go! She introduced herself and announced that she would be our Class Teacher. She came over to each one of us and got us to introduce ourselves.
When finally we had all settled down, she opened her textbook and asked the class, “What do you know about William Wordsworth?” With a straight face, I stood up and said, “His words are worth listening to!”
And then everyone burst out laughing! Our team was born that instant! When I paid her a courtesy call recently, she said she still remembers it after over 30 years! To this day, the class of '75 draws inspiration from her vibrant personality.
As I walked down the hallway and through the corridors, the laughter echoing in the recesses of my mind, it dawned upon me that there were quite a few elements about my Alma Mater that still served as wellsprings of inspiration for me: The chapel, where I had played my guitar for the first time in June ‘74 and developed my skills in the art of song-writing; the Christmas-tree, in the cloistered garden, which still seems to be growing - living proof that there is no limit to growth despite varying environmental conditions; the twin steeples which let me know from the window of a taxi cruising along the river bank on my return from an outstation business trip, that I am already home; the night-sky over the convent-the only place left in town where I can see stars that still look the same as they were when I gazed upon them with the eyes of a child as I still do; the convent bell that rings every evening at Angelus, reminding me that not a day goes by without the nuns kneeling in prayer before the statue of Our Lady of Fatima beseeching her to intercede for all the children that have ever passed through the portals of the school.
Paradoxically, it is here in the past that I return to in body, mind and soul each time I have to take my next step into a world that is at times dark, wet and cloudy.
The rain had stopped and the sun was out when I finally stepped out onto the busy street, PDA in hand, with not a word on its shiny glass screen but only the reflection of my brightly smiling face. It said it all!
As it turned out, it was a trip down memory lane. Standing there in the light drizzle on that June morning, I was transported back in time to another dark, wet and cloudy morning in June 1974, the first day of my last year at school. On that memorable day, at the stroke of the school bell, a young nun had come bustling into the classroom with the brightest of smiles we'd ever seen, bursting with energy and enthusiasm, rearing to go! She introduced herself and announced that she would be our Class Teacher. She came over to each one of us and got us to introduce ourselves.
When finally we had all settled down, she opened her textbook and asked the class, “What do you know about William Wordsworth?” With a straight face, I stood up and said, “His words are worth listening to!”
And then everyone burst out laughing! Our team was born that instant! When I paid her a courtesy call recently, she said she still remembers it after over 30 years! To this day, the class of '75 draws inspiration from her vibrant personality.
As I walked down the hallway and through the corridors, the laughter echoing in the recesses of my mind, it dawned upon me that there were quite a few elements about my Alma Mater that still served as wellsprings of inspiration for me: The chapel, where I had played my guitar for the first time in June ‘74 and developed my skills in the art of song-writing; the Christmas-tree, in the cloistered garden, which still seems to be growing - living proof that there is no limit to growth despite varying environmental conditions; the twin steeples which let me know from the window of a taxi cruising along the river bank on my return from an outstation business trip, that I am already home; the night-sky over the convent-the only place left in town where I can see stars that still look the same as they were when I gazed upon them with the eyes of a child as I still do; the convent bell that rings every evening at Angelus, reminding me that not a day goes by without the nuns kneeling in prayer before the statue of Our Lady of Fatima beseeching her to intercede for all the children that have ever passed through the portals of the school.
Paradoxically, it is here in the past that I return to in body, mind and soul each time I have to take my next step into a world that is at times dark, wet and cloudy.
The rain had stopped and the sun was out when I finally stepped out onto the busy street, PDA in hand, with not a word on its shiny glass screen but only the reflection of my brightly smiling face. It said it all!
Bridge Across Troubled Waters!
MAN RAISES AND NATURE RAZES BUT THE HUMAN SPIRIT RISES UP EACH TIME!
Come rain or shine, these 2 colonial siblings – Damao Grande & Damao Pequeno - are inseparable! In fact, the river Daman Ganga is looked upon as a mother embracing her 2 children under the watchful eye of San Jeronimo with his 2 giants and a dog guarding the Gate of the Damão Pequeno fort.
On the 20th of June 2004, Damão Grande & Damão Piqueno reached out their little hands (Damao in Portuguese means ‘Give me your hand!’) once again towards each other at the inaugural function when the newly repaired bridge was thrown open to the public.
The evening air was jubilant with never-ending motorcades, the headlamps turned on and horns blowing non-stop; throngs of people crossed over from both sides with even our colonial cousins from Silvassa and Dadra & Nagar Haveli joining in!
A startling revelation was that the flow of humanity, oblivious to the new bridge, proceeded triumphantly across it without even a pause, right through the streets of Damão meeting fellow Damanese and exchanging pleasantries like it was New Year’s Day!
It is this bonding that the people of Daman have, irrespective of caste or creed, which is unbreakable and has withstood the test of time. After all, everyone has been ‘baptized’ in the waters of the Daman Ganga!
The bridge came down again only 2 months later in August 2004 due to torrential rains and man seems to have given up this time around but nothing seems to ever dampen the spirit of the people of Daman.
Copyright © 2005 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
Come rain or shine, these 2 colonial siblings – Damao Grande & Damao Pequeno - are inseparable! In fact, the river Daman Ganga is looked upon as a mother embracing her 2 children under the watchful eye of San Jeronimo with his 2 giants and a dog guarding the Gate of the Damão Pequeno fort.
On the 20th of June 2004, Damão Grande & Damão Piqueno reached out their little hands (Damao in Portuguese means ‘Give me your hand!’) once again towards each other at the inaugural function when the newly repaired bridge was thrown open to the public.
The evening air was jubilant with never-ending motorcades, the headlamps turned on and horns blowing non-stop; throngs of people crossed over from both sides with even our colonial cousins from Silvassa and Dadra & Nagar Haveli joining in!
A startling revelation was that the flow of humanity, oblivious to the new bridge, proceeded triumphantly across it without even a pause, right through the streets of Damão meeting fellow Damanese and exchanging pleasantries like it was New Year’s Day!
It is this bonding that the people of Daman have, irrespective of caste or creed, which is unbreakable and has withstood the test of time. After all, everyone has been ‘baptized’ in the waters of the Daman Ganga!
The bridge came down again only 2 months later in August 2004 due to torrential rains and man seems to have given up this time around but nothing seems to ever dampen the spirit of the people of Daman.
Copyright © 2005 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
Candle-light Vigil
 |
| Big Daman Cemetery - dusk, November 1st |
All Saints’ Day observed by Christians on the 1st of November is also the eve of All Souls’ Day morphing solemnity with somberness as, come dusk, the church bells begin to toll while the congregation silently winds its way to the cemetery to light candles at the gravesites of their dear ones.
I have participated in this ritual for decades but last year, I accidentally stumbled upon a custom unknown to most of the people of my hometown, Daman! As I cruised down a lane called Badrapor that night, I noticed through the swirling fog that most houses had brightly burning candles on their front porches. Here was an uncanny similarity to what I had read in my French textbook in school, about the way All Souls’ Day was commemorated in the countryside of France. But there was no French connection in this erstwhile Portuguese colony of Damão. Could there possibly be a chance this custom had somehow found its way to tiny Badrapor, which was the landing ground for the Portuguese over 400 years back? How come the rest of the population of Daman so steeped in custom and tradition was not even aware of this?
 |
| Badrapor, Big Daman - Dusk, November 1st |
As I settled behind the wheel of my car on that serene November night, I could suddenly see the spirit behind such customs and traditions, the flesh and blood of the surreal. I could not help but look up at the star-studded sky for a flitting moment and then beyond into eternity as my lips whispered those three little words that my soul was saying – R.I.P.
Copyright © 2005 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
The Song of Daman
Let me introduce you to Daman with the lyrics of a song I wrote dedicated to my home-town:-
DAMÃO
This is the story of Damão
My sweet little home-town
And if you are a visitor
You’re bound to hear it somehow
For the talk of the town, is the town itself
The story is short you’ll see
But it sure is the best place
In the whole world for you to be
‘Da Mao’ is Portuguese for ‘handshake’
Peaceful people we are
We still make lots of salt dear
Down by the riverside
In Damão we are all good friends
And related to one another
We all do great business dear
In the name of personal favour
Many wonder, ‘why do we need
The little light-house at all?’
With 350 bars my friend
Daman’s the world’s wettest place
We have three wonders which please don’t miss
The jig-saw puzzle over the creek
Is nothing but an upside down
Three-piece, rusty, old, hanging bridge
The old fort which could never be
Invaded from the outside
Is now being invaded dear
Righta from the inside
The aquarium’s rare fishes, caught
From the Daman Ganga River
On the brink of extinction have earned
The distinction of ‘endangered species’
And last, but not the least dear
We too have our share of beaches
Devka Beach and Jampore dear
Sister-concerns of Singapore
So can’t you see, we are self-sufficient
And just to make it more convenient
We have our own currency dear
Which is strongly anti-apartheid!
Noel Gama
Daman
4.5.89
Copyright © 1989 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
DAMÃO
This is the story of Damão
My sweet little home-town
And if you are a visitor
You’re bound to hear it somehow
For the talk of the town, is the town itself
The story is short you’ll see
But it sure is the best place
In the whole world for you to be
‘Da Mao’ is Portuguese for ‘handshake’
Peaceful people we are
We still make lots of salt dear
Down by the riverside
In Damão we are all good friends
And related to one another
We all do great business dear
In the name of personal favour
Many wonder, ‘why do we need
The little light-house at all?’
With 350 bars my friend
Daman’s the world’s wettest place
We have three wonders which please don’t miss
The jig-saw puzzle over the creek
Is nothing but an upside down
Three-piece, rusty, old, hanging bridge
The old fort which could never be
Invaded from the outside
Is now being invaded dear
Righta from the inside
The aquarium’s rare fishes, caught
From the Daman Ganga River
On the brink of extinction have earned
The distinction of ‘endangered species’
And last, but not the least dear
We too have our share of beaches
Devka Beach and Jampore dear
Sister-concerns of Singapore
So can’t you see, we are self-sufficient
And just to make it more convenient
We have our own currency dear
Which is strongly anti-apartheid!
Noel Gama
Daman
4.5.89
Copyright © 1989 Noël Gama
http://www.noelgama.com
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