False Economy - Alan Beattie [126]
Apparently an honest man himself, he became increasingly appalled by the outright theft and abuse he encountered.
By the very nature of the Goan colony, the Portuguese king had a principal-agent issue of spectacular dimensions. Each term of colonial office lasted for just three years, and since it was over a year's sailing time from Portugal, it was close to impossible to rein in a recalcitrant viceroy. On receiving an order from Lisbon, a viceroy could simply send a reply saying that the orders had been received and understood and of course he would like nothing more than loyally to implement the wishes of the crown, but with the greatest respect, following whatever course of action was instructed would have an unfortunate side effect detailed herein that he was sure the king's advisers had not intended and would wish to avoid, and how did they suggest that he proceed in light of this fact? By the time this had gone to Lisbon and a response come back, a new viceroy would be in place, who could set the clock back to the beginning by stating that he had not seen the original order, or claiming that the situation on the ground had now changed, or that further details of the order had regrettably become necessary and could he be furnished with same by return of post?
In the copious free time left over from playing this elaborate game of I-can't-hear-you with their nominal sovereign, the viceroy and his senior officials were free to get on with the real business of the colony: extorting money from all and sundry and dressing up like idiots. De Couto's descriptions of the pomp and ceremony of the colony are saturated with contempt. The viceroy ventured forth from his palace carried in a sedan chair, heralded by a fanfare of flutes, trumpets, and drums and accompanied by a large retinue of flunkies. As for the circle of hangers-on, de Couto says, their "velvet capes, doublets and pantaloons of the same, silken hose, gold buckle hat, gilded sword and dagger, cleanshaven faces and high topknots, it seems to me, would have made the good king die of shame." Meanwhile, the ordinary soldiers stationed in Goa slept in open boats and lived on rotten rice, salted fish, and polluted water. Military discipline disintegrated: fencing schools became dance studios; impoverished soldiers of lower ranks were seen begging in the streets.
There was a variety of ways in which the rulers of the colony managed to enrich themselves. The most easily observed one was dividas velhas, or old debts. The viceroy could, nominally in an emergency, requisition anything he needed—grain, rice, timber—from local subjects in return for receipts which could later be cashed in. Getting these certificates redeemed proved to be impossible, and the victims had to sell them to the viceroy's favorites at a quarter of their face value. The warships, at least those that were kept in a functional state of repair, spent much of their time sailing up and down the coast shaking down the captains of forts and territories for money. And they charged passing ships so much in port fees and for provisions that traders would do almost anything to avoid having to put in at a Portuguese-run port.
It was a hell of a way to run an empire. De Couto's account of the goings-on in Portuguese Asia—which he managed to see into print only after many attempts by other colonial officials to suppress publication or steal the manuscript—was told in the form of an imagined dialogue between a veteran soldier who had served in Portugal's Indian colony and a fidalgo who had been its governor-general. At one point the soldier says of the neighboring Indian rulers: "If [they] did not have their hands tied, Gentlemen, I am certain this business would have been over long ago—thank God they are kept in rein by the Great Mughal, who menaces their kingdoms. We ought to say masses for his