From Germany to Goa: A bridge to the past

Jordan and Liv outside his former family home in Salvador do Mundo.

The moss-covered wall, with weeds sprouting from cracks in its surface, is barely visible from the road. It conceals a decaying house, smothered by a thick canopy of green foliage and climbing plants. A lone palm tree rises defiantly in the background. 

“My grandfather lived in this house,” I tell my driver. 

“Your grandfather? In this house?” I nod and watch as the penny slowly drops. Suddenly, it made sense why I had asked him to drive my girlfriend Liv and me almost three hours from Agonda beach to the quiet village of Salvador do Mundo, rather than more popular destinations like Panjim or one of Goa’s many beaches. 

“So, you are a Goan!” he exclaims with an excited giggle and a smile that I will encounter many times during my eight-day stay in Goa. One that says: “You are one of us.” 

Born in the United Kingdom to a British mother and a Goan father – who himself was born in Kenya to Goan parents and moved to the UK at seven – I have always grappled with the complexity of my cultural and ethnic heritage. My ‘exotic’ background has always made for an interesting icebreaker, but I never truly understood what it meant to be Goan.

The story of my confused identity starts with my nomadic grandparents. Though ethnically Goan, they lived most of their lives in Kenya and the UK. My grandfather, Mervyn Maciel, a contributor to this publication, worked in Kenya’s Northern Frontier District, where he met my grandmother, Elsie Colaço, and had five children. When his role was Africanised post-Kenyan independence in 1966, the family relocated to London.

But Goa is where it all began. Where they spent their formative years, and where I now stand for the first time trying to follow in their footsteps. Peering into my grandfather's old home, I can only imagine how different his childhood would have been from mine. No electricity, no running water but for a communal well in the front garden, no respite from the post-monsoon humidity that covers me in a thick layer of sweat. He certainly didn’t have the luxury of the internet or smartphones, but thanks to this modern technology, I can share this moment with him on a video call back in London. 

Our journey continues with a short ferry ride to Chorão Island, where my grandmother Elsie was born in a small village near the chapel of Nossa Senhora De Saude, an 18th-century relic of the Portuguese era built in the familiar baroque style found throughout Goa. As we cross the Mandovi River, I reflect on how close the two villages are – just six kilometres apart – and the serendipitous chain of events that brought my grandparents together not here, but in Kenya.

Serendipity would strike again on Chorão Island. We are joined by Lillian Da Cunha, a family friend who is also tracing her family roots on the island. Her father, Gaspar Viegas, had grown up in the house across the street from my grandfather, and they remained lifelong friends. By some strange coincidence, her grandmother was also born a stone's throw from the chapel on Chorão Island. Even more curious, the family living there today – Lilian's second cousins – share a surname with both of my grandmother's parents. As we are invited into the house, my mind races with possibilities. 

Jordan’s grandparents, Elsie and Mervyn Maciel.

The lady of the house serves drinks and quizzes Lilian on her family background until she establishes a connection, then turns to me. “So, who are you?” she asks. I briefly explain my family ties to Goa.

Her eyes widen in recognition. “Elsie?” she repeats, before switching to Konkani with her son. I can't follow the conversation, but I recognise the names of distant relatives. It can’t be. Moments later, we are leafing through photo albums as she lists off more family members. I struggle to keep up with the names of her late husband, sons, siblings, cousins, uncles and aunts as I try to map an imaginary family tree in my mind. 

“Your great-grandfather was my husband’s uncle,” she finally reveals. 

“That means Elsie was his cousin?” I reply, in disbelief. 

“Exactly,” she says with that smile again. I look across to Lilian and we laugh at the absurdity of it all. The unlikeliest of family reunions. 

My trip to Goa had already exceeded expectations. I had rediscovered the tastes of my childhood with every bite of Goan chouriço, eaten bebinca in an old Portuguese café in Fontainhas, and sipped coconut water on the beach at sunset – but here I was having an experience that could never be found on TripAdvisor. I came to Goa searching for a bridge to the past and left having discovered new ties to the present. I cannot wait to return.
 

The writer is a football reporter and content writer based in Munich, Germany.