Behind the News: Voices from Goa's Press

Newspaper authorities tend to justify this 'City-Centric Syndrome' by claiming that their readers are concentrated in and around cities and towns and, hence, an urban-based report would generate more interest than a remote village-based story. To accept this argument would be similar to assume that a nutritional and tasty meal is possible merely with a generous portion of rice, minus the curry, vegetables and other side dishes.

Reports by rural correspondents add spice, flavour and variety to a newspaper. It is no wonder that the popularity of vernacular papers in Goa has been largely due to the quality and quantity of local stories, both from urban and rural areas.

Different standards adopted with rural correspondents can be quite effective to confuse and demoralise them. In one incident, a rural correspondent sent me a report stating that a building constructed by a firm and owned by an MLA, was being built barely metres from a high tension pole. A labourer while at work accidentally came in contact with the live wires and was seriously injured. Though a police complaint was filed against the firm and not the MLA, the correspondent was keen to establish the link since since the MLA was largely responsible for the negligence. However, the editor pulled up the correspondent for attempting to introduce the MLA into the story, when the police complaint did not specify the direct involvement of the MLA.

Sometime later, the sister of a minister fatally stabbed her husband to death. Though the minister was not involved as he was abroad at the time of the incident, the same editor called up the news desk, asking them to insert the statement that the alleged murderer is the sister of the minister. The minister's identity was not specified in the police complaint and, yet, the editor wanted to establish the link between the minister and his sister.

The problems faced by rural correspondents are fairly common and are not restricted to any one newspaper and it has become a common trend for local correspondents to pool in stories and resources. This in turn has led to the creation of local level associations, commonly known as "Patrakar Sangh" in most talukas of the State. These associations have, in turn, branched out into constituency-level associations. At present, the numerous "Patrakar Sanghs" in Goa include the Sanguem-Quepem Patrakar Sangh, Sanguem Patrakar Sangh, Murgao Patrakar Sangh, Pernem Patrakar Sangh, Mandrem Patrakar Sangh, Bicholim Patrakar Sangh and the Bardez-based Zunzar Gramin Patrakar Sangh. Besides safeguarding the interests of rural correspondents, these associations provide support to its members and also promote interactions with society by organising various contests and cultural programmes.

Having served correspondents across two newspapers for over half a decade, I have grown to appreciate and respect their enthusiasm to the profession, despite the difficulties that engulf them on a regular basis. If my efforts have paid rich dividends, it is largely based on my recipe called T.R.U.S.T, which includes the key ingredients of Talent, Reliability, Usefulness, Sincerity and Tenacity.

TALENT: Rural correspondents have often been judged by their talent in the collection of news from their respective areas. It is this talent that has enthused many correspondents to remain in journalism for many years, even though in most cases, monetary benefits have been too meagre to justify their interest.

I have often worked with rural correspondents who have little knowledge of English and, yet, they have communicated to me stories which have turned out to be impressive reports. There have been some correspondents who have developed such strong contacts, that they are easily identified by the masses in different parts of the taluka represented by the correspondent. These correspondents are the true representatives of the newspaper in their areas.

Correspondents with remarkable talent have always remained the prized possession of a newspaper and, in many cases, have gone on to become full-fledged reporters.

RELIABILITY: By and large, rural correspondents have been a reliable lot and have stood by the paper in good times and in bad. These correspondents have sent in their reports all year round, without taking into account their weekly holidays, public holidays or annual leave. In one newspaper, correspondents were not paid for a number of months due to acute financial difficulties and, yet, that didn't retard the flow of their reports and they continued to serve the newspaper with the same level of enthusiasm. This level of commitment and reliability of correspondents will always be an asset to any newspaper.

I had a correspondent who happened to fly to Bombay in the morning, but that didn't stop him from sending me a news item over the phone. Beyond doubt, this correspondent, despite his busy schedule in Vasco, has been one of my most enterprising correspondents and a crucial component in my network of correspondents.

Correspondents located in remote areas usually cover a huge geographical area and in most cases, travel many kilometres to either collect or send a report to the newspaper. Yet, this rarely deters them from sending their reports.

USEFULNESS: While rural correspondents are primarily responsible for covering events in their localities, they are extremely beneficial to newspapers in a number of ways. They can be of invaluable help in the promotion of newspaper, be it circulation, generation of advertisements or other areas of interest to a newspaper. In fact, some correspondents have even started advertising agencies of their own.

SINCERITY: This ingredient distinguishes rural correspondents who pursue journalism as an end from those who manipulate the profession as a means to an end.

Over the years, I have learnt to respect the large number of rural correspondents, who have been sincere to the journalism. This is not to say that rural correspondents are insulated from pressures while discharging their part-time duties. On the contrary, they are most prone to influences within their locality and hence, their ability to withstand the gravitational forces of politics and economics has to be appreciated.

TENACITY: Another hallmark of most rural correspondents is the persistent determination which has been the driving force over the years. News items on a series of issues filed by rural correspondents have prompted authorities to initiate action. Recently, a correspondent persistently highlighted the illegal felling of trees in the taluka, inviting the wrath of timber smugglers. Ignoring numerous threats to his life, his efforts eventually paid off when arrests were effected, lethargic local authorities transferred and brakes applied on the illegal activities in the area.

My association with the Herald is yet to complete two years, but I am glad that the Herald News Bureau has developed a team of talented, reliable, useful, sincere and tenacious correspondents. And I am grateful to have been involved in this process.

Chapter 9: A year apart… journalism and leaving home

Daryl Pereira

Daryl Pereira came to Goa as a lost young member of the widespread Goan diaspora. He promptly won many friends by his friendly ways and have-fun attitude. In turn, he not just discovered his roots more deeply (Daryl recently chose to have his wedding in Goa), but also earned for himself a profession. Besides opting for Media Studies back in the UK, he currently works for a search-engine promotion agency (or, put in plain language, an initiative that skews search-engine results, to allow you to be listed first, if you can afford to pay).

A lot has happened since my time as writer and sub-editor for The Herald's international edition. But a brief stint in the mid-90's has left an indelible mark on my psyche. Having said that, the Herald for me is largely synonymous with India, journalism and leaving home, so discussing it in isolation isn't easy. Also, there was no clearly defined plan – it was something I more or less stumbled on by chance.

It turned to be a chance encounter of which I still feel the repercussions.

I arrived in Goa from the UK early in 1995, after scrapping a potentially lucrative yet un-inviting career in accountancy, originally no more than another faceless backpacker with meagre funds hoping to enjoy the chilled hazy life of a shack-wallah. Shame I didn't check the weather forecast. The small matter of a monsoon put paid to any chances of beachside employment.

Offices filled with ledgers piled to the roofs were enough to put me off venturing into the world of Indian accountancy and, not wanting to follow the aimless road back home, I desperately cast the net out wide. An answer to an advert for a 'Person Required for English Publication' – one of the more ambiguous ads to grace the career opportunity pages – led to an interview and my first trip to the Herald offices.

Finding the office more energetic and boisterous than previous working environments I had experienced, a barrage of writing tests and interviews left me feeling like I had been through a whirlwind. The whirlwind moved quickly. That very same day I found out I was the new sub-editor for the Herald International Review, a paper intended to serve the Goan diaspora.

Well, what this role meant in reality was that I would read the articles awaiting publication, picking up the odd grammatical error, but more importantly I was the lowest common denominator litmus test – if the pages didn't stand up to my paltry knowledge of the Goan political system then (the argument goes) it would not be understood by Goans in the furthest-flung corners of the globe.

Day in day out, I would take the long dusty climb up to the top floor – at the time we were sharing office space with accounts. Not quite the close separation of duty to which I'd become accustomed. And although their elaborate entries in ledgers never became any less cryptic, it did give me the opportunity to mingle with those outside the editorial department.

During the early weeks of my tenure in May, the heat soared. Then early in June the rains broke – with a fanfare of grumbles from most of the populace for the three-day delay. Funny for me, as in the North European climes to which I was accustomed, rain pretty much randomly came and went. The ferocity of the storms also came as a shock. Days heavily punctuated with storms. The power cuts that ensued, hobbling our much needed computers, led to a greedy lunge for the last drips of juice out of the backup generator in order to crunch out a few extra words. Once that dried up, we would have little more to do than meditatively stare at the elements.

In the English political system, the summer is the silly system. It's the time for stories of twins joined at birth and how a routine trip to the hospital to have a wart removed leads to three-years incarceration. Falling over the same months, the monsoon season in Goa seems to have a similar effect. The supply of news is low, but the column-inches keep up their incessant demand. Ministers with long-shot pleas for 'raindrop tourism' (to wake up a beachside industry all but dried up over the period) is enough to make front page news.

Perhaps that is the reason that it was felt pushing me out into the midst of Goa on the hunt for fresh stories couldn't do too much harm. It was only later that I saw this as one of the perks of working in a small team (there were only three full-timers bringing out a 24-page tabloid weekly edition). Feeling like a young bird pushed from it's nest way before time I was forced out, between showers, onto the streets of Panjim, to interact with the local populace. Quite early on, I was struck by the stony faces of small-league civil servants. The UK broadcast journalist Jeremy Paxman claims the relationship between a politician and a journalist is like that between "a dog and a lamp post". I could relate.

However, a useful mentor, T helped me through my first real interview. This got off to a bad start when, after biking it through sheets of rain, we knocked on the door – only to be greeted with the merest slither of a gap with a voice behind it. I could almost smell the fear as the middle-aged housewife exclaimed 'naka, naka', as T tried to negotiate us into the flat. Her son, a bright student looking for entrance into engineering college, had come up against a wall of resistance – communal motivations were suspected.

Eventually, after agreeing to keep the article as vague as possible, she succumbed and we entered the flat. Once in, hot chai and samosas were thrust upon us as we sat on the main (and only) sofa in a clean and basic flat. Seems like hospitality begins at the sacred entrance – perhaps the reason why were kept out for so long. Antagonism and Indian snacks don't sit that comfortably together.

Well, for my first time, all seems to be going well. However, looking down as I rapidly scribble, I start to notice a puddle emerging around me on the stone floor. Early on in the rains and I haven't yet made the connection between downpours and sandals. The puddle grows and I feel like my shoes are slowly turning into the source of the Mandovi. I have little option other than to come clean. What followed was an episode with me apologising, receiving a maternal smile and a towel and a level of empathy I'm not sure could have been reached any other way. As it happened, the article created few ripples and the power of the press didn't have quite the force the lady had anticipated.

My confidence grew, and, as the rainy season drew on, I ventured out more and more.

Towards the end of August, the rains finally showed signs of letting up. However there was talk in the market place – the fish didn't return. At street level housewives were struggling to find the plump shimmering mackerals with which they normally populated their spicy yellow curries. In the areas surrounding the big resorts, blame was laid on the proliferation of hotels with their ever-growing need for the freshest produce. Out at sea, traditional fishermen blamed the trawlers. The National Institute of Oceanography, which is responsible for monitoring the seas, observed from the fence. Whatever the cause, changes were afoot on this rural coastal land – the once abundance of resources strained as it's popularity started to mushroom.

As the clouds melted away for good, shacks started to spring up like primroses in May. The hoteliers grumbled – their 'multi-cuisine' menus just weren't being read. Politicians took sides with either faction. Some framing the fight in favour of the shack-owning under-dogs, others pointing to their lack of civic responsibility with their spliced electricity wires and overflowing rubbish out of the backs of the flimsy beach side establishments.

On the backs of the tourists and travellers flocking to Goa came the stories of the parties, drug deaths, Anjuna hot-spots that managed openly flout local licences and throb on till the early hours of the morning. Crime also increased – the mugging of tourists, either on desolate stretches of beach or in their insecure dwellings, became more and more widespread. The hotels brought problems of their own. This being a time of huge growth, water was sapped up beyond the limits of the local ecology and the coastal regulation zone (the area demarcated on the beach up to where the hotels could be built) was debated and apparently ignored in many instances.

The international ramifications of a sordid paedophile ring is exposed, following the conviction of Freddy Peats, a German national involved in the abuse and traffic of Goa's under-age. As the grim facts unfold, including naive support by the Catholic church, the society looks on in repugnance, wanting to distance itself from such heinous activities. Once again, Goa's flirtation with other cultures in a bid to make the most of its picturesque rural ideal is put into question.

One of the major benefits of such a small team bringing out fortnightly publication is that we had the opportunity to experience each of the many ingredients that make up a well-rounded news magazine.

Towards Christmas, to lighten the load of the heavy political wrangling, I took to the fields. The paddy fields that is. As a Goan urban dweller, I am familiar with the white side of rice – as it appears in all its culinary simplicity and elegance on the plate. I am however completely ignorant of the involved process of getting to that stage. An 'expose' on the inner workings of the paddy harvest – the cutting, thrashing, pounding and milling – gives me the chance to wade through the paddy, chase frogs, and be generally mocked by good-tempered field workers. Not quite sure if this is in the general job descriptions of most journalism openings.

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.

But how politically unbiased were we allowed to be? The advertising versus editorial debate in the press is a perennial one. Over the year I was with The Herald, there were a few lapses where there would be direct influence from commercial interests to have articles in their favour. Being asked to give the owner of a prominent luxury hotel a mouthpiece through an extensive interview did give me the sense of being in the pockets of big business. However, I had the authority to go to press with quotes throwing into question the viability of luxury tourism in a land where the season lasts little over four months – slightly dampening the gushing tone of the article.

Rather than being downright manipulative, in hindsight I would describe the management style as slightly neurotic, characteristically protecting its own interests. This led to occasional grumbles, back-talk and skirmishes among the editorial team; however they say the best relationships flourish under tension. Perhaps this was the cohesion needed to keep together the tribe of English-language hacks who refer to themselves as 'ex-Herald'.

Being a Goan born and raised in the West, interested in keeping contact and learning about my more distant roots, the attempts of The Herald to reach out to the Goan across the globe was admirable, and I was honoured to be a part of it. The edition has since folded and it is a shame that the paper doesn't do more at the international level now, perhaps utilising new technologies available to streamline the whole process.

All in all, I feel my tenure at The Herald was a fruitful one. That is not to deny that the paper has its troubles, but to an extent newspapers (like politicians) are merely mirrors of the society they serve. The fact that it has been a part of the Goan social and political landscape for the last twenty years is, if nothing more, testament to its success within the community.

Chapter 10: Growing up with the Herald…

Visvas Paul D Karra

VPDK was an outspoken sub-editor at the Herald, where he also covered sports for the daily's special supplement. Subsequently, he has shifted to working at the prominent Bangalore-based daily, Deccan Herald.

After the Herald, journalism seemed to me like a dress rehearsal. Always a bridesmaid, never quite the bride.

Surviving months of introductory sessions with Francis Ribeiro, I was firmly convinced that I had a role in nation building. I started behaving my age and silently promised to skip rum the next Saturday night. And on moon-less nights, I stayed awake thinking about the burden of the Fourth Estate, lying face down on my leased estate. At the office there were daily hunting trips, as I went on poaching for angles and words from the alphabet forest.

In short, Herald was the 'journalism school' where I learnt all the elementary tricks of the trade. But what set apart this journalism school was its sense of applied practical nightmares. None wanted you to come up with a neat circle. If it got a reader's attention, rhombus would do, this I learned from the Herald.