As the season starts to draw to a close, like a hungry tiger the news machine goes in search of whatever morsels are on offer. Once again the rains come and Panjim is filled with the sight of sodden journalists speeding around in reversed raincoats.
For personal reasons, it's time for me to head home.
On return, an enthusiasm for media leads into trendy multimedia and somehow I end up dumped in full-blown information technology, where I am today. As such, I'm not in the perfect position to be able to compare the practice of journalism in Goa with that of elsewhere, although the peculiarities of the working environment do stand out.
From the original office on the dusty top floor, we are eventually reshuffled into the air conditioned first floor vault. The cool air brings a much needed respite from the heat and dust, and the environment is definitely less makeshift. The room does have another feature — low hanging beams at the end and (particularly hazardously) in the middle of the room level out the worst excesses of pomposity with a short sharp shock. I'm not sure if they are part of a larger shrewd plan of management, but over the years they have cracked the head of a number of prominent Goan journalists and contributors. Exactly quite how this has affected the quality of output, I'm unsure.
And then there was the technology. Aside from the hardcore printing machines, large metal plates and dangerous chemicals lying around, the computers that sponged up our picture and prose were actually more contemporary than the ones I had left behind as a Liverpudlian accountant. As the adoption of the computer had come in here at a much later stage, the Herald machines tended to be newer, faster and bigger. There were just fewer of them. Working under such limited resources would at time inevitably lead to fractures. Although we worked on the computers feverishly in the morning to make way for the daily staff (whose strict deadline gave them precedence), as deadline approached tempers could occasionally erupt.
This thing called the Internet had been kicking around for a few years but towards the end of my tenure was finally picked up by a journalist fraternity that had viewed the Internet with scepticism and suspicion (as did many other people at the time). For us it was just a dial-up modem taking about two minutes for a standard sized email, as long as nothing happened to the fragile connection. As our publication was aimed squarely at the Goan living abroad, this was an excellent resource for finding out what the Goan diaspora was up to and how Goa was perceived on the world stage (especially important in the area of covering tourism). As an aside, it also meant that I no longer had to write all the letters to the editor. Other resources such as the Goacom website appeared, with intentions sturdy enough to keep it valid to this day (I can heartily recommend the recipes!). I think it is safe to say that the Internet has irrevocably changed the face of researching, collecting and distributing news. The availability of this service in The Herald and other Goan papers marks Goa out as one of the more fortunate areas of the developing world.
I often wondered how powerful the pen we were wielding actually was. Beyond the massage of ego of seeing a by-line in print, it was hard to work out if our columns of verbiage could actually make a positive meaningful difference. Covering the depletion of fish stocks after the rains did, to my surprise, seem to create a few ripples.
Liquor (hard and soft), was often present in the world of Goan journalism. Anecdotal evidence from the UK and US suggests that this is common throughout many other parts of the world. As with many stereotypes, the one of the hack at the bar does contain some truth. There is a quite widely held belief that alcohol gets the mind churning and the pen moving. A pint at lunchtime can help be a bit more assertive and searching when the proud owner of the new enterprise slips into pompous conceit.
There was one ritual we adhered to quite regularly — once a fortnight, after we had put the paper to bed, we took to the city to celebrate. A restaurant would inevitably mean a few pegs of rum. Then onto one of the few late night drinking establishments: a seedy corrugated bunker alive with the chatter of civil servants, cops and journalists. Indian rum formed the cohesive force — the basis for a number of nefarious deals in shady corners. Being not so familiar with the more subtle political machinations I felt largely sidelined.
I did get a glimpse of the more unsavoury effect if taken to excess — seeing the image of older journalists whose idealism had turned to advanced alcoholism. Exactly what were the causes remained unclear, but it wasn't pleasant to see.