The Arrival

I made my first fatal mistake by telling Mr.Fusspot the word 'Maccanacca' which in Goa, is a rude word for 'I don't want to buy'

We got off of the plane from Manchester in the
sweltering heat and, after the long hot tiring walk
from the airplane to passport control, we went to join in the total free for all with our suitcases.

Mr. Fusspot had brought his beloved guitar on holiday with him.

He suddenly came to a full stop and he was just standing there like a statue, very straight and very still, his eyes going to the right then to the left then to the right again, watching the young baggage boys grabbing various suitcases from the carousel.

He didn't realize that the baggage boys can earn some money by collecting your suitcases and taking them to the coach for you.

Paranoia set in.

For some reason he'd decided that somebody was going to steal his guitar.

I honestly thought that somebody had fired a gun and said 'Ready, Steady, Goooooo

Off he went like a bullet, running and flapping around the two conveyor belts like a demented chicken Yuccawacca', I heard him screaming at the top of his voice, 'Baccanucca. Who's nicked my guitar? Namaccnaca, Paccanicca'

Of course he'd completely forgotten the word 'Maccanacca' and what it meant, so hollering and hooting 'I don't want to buy'to anybody that got in his way, made absolutely no sense at all.

The local people were shaking their heads and looking at each other as if to say, 'What language is this raving lunatic speaking?

I stood back laughing and watched a couple of the boys squabbling over some of the suitcases together with Mr. Buffoon Fusspot who was charging around in the middle of everybody.

He was also squabbling, grabbing at cases and pointing here there and everywhere, although who
he was talking to or what he was shouting about or pointing to, I couldn't possibly imagine.

I had a quiet word with one of the young boys and he eventually got our cases all together
(including the bloody guitar) and we just stood and watched the demented chicken running round
one conveyor belt and then running over to the other one, running back to the first one, dripping, sweating, scratching his head, peering in the luggage holds and frantically looking round and round.

He did look over once or twice to see if I was helping and I thought I saw him wave. Well, I like to think that's what the gesture meant.

I was standing in front of the cases deliberately so he couldn't see them as the spectacle he was making of himself was really cheering everybody up after the long journey.

When he stopped for breath, gasping, wheezing and peering several times in the hole that the luggage comes out of, he finally realised that there were no more cases coming out and, being the rocket scientist that he thinks he is, he finally sussed out that I was standing there with all the luggage. Over he puffed looking like he'd just run a marathon.

He looked terrible. He was dripping wet. His shirt was stuck to him and the bits of hair that he still has were plastered all over his head in clumps and going in different directions.
He had a little push/pull tussle with the boy and the trolley as he wanted to push it, but he was far too worn out that moment to carry on squabbling, so he just let the boy go off with the trolley, cases and guitar and he hobbled after him as fast as his swollen legs would carry him.

The lad took our cases to the coach

'Give the lad a tip please' I knew that would get a reaction.

There was an incredulous look on Mr. Meany Fusspots face.

'What? What did you say? Give who a tip? Why should I? I didn't ask him to take my guitar did I? I bet he wants to play it. I reckon he wanted to steal it. Good job I had my wits about me eh? I bet he thinks I'm famous. He should be honoured to take my guitar. I hope he hasn't damaged it. I'll claim from the Indian Government if he has' Sticking his nose up in the air.

'Just give him a tip' I frowned. I was getting fed up with him now.

Mr. Fusspot had now not remembered the word for 'go away' which is 'Dar'

'Alk' he shouted at me, 'Bas, Cof, Dim, Erp' (I thought he was throwing up) then of course 'Faddywacca'.

I realized if I didn't do something he was going to go through the alphabet assuming he'd hit on the right word at some point.

'I'll count to three' I threatened

'Gop' he shrilled.

'One' I started

'Hag' looking under his eyelashes
I'll give him the benefit of the doubt on that one for the moment.

'Twooo' I warned.

'Aaaaargh' he screamed 'Stop it, leave me alone. Okay, here you go son' giving the boy a 5 cent piece that he found in his pocket covered in fluff.

The boy looked disdainfully at the money.
Mr. Fusspot looked disdainfully at the boy,
I looked disdainfully at Mr. Fusspot.

'Nocanicca' he muttered under his breath.

The boy ran away.

I don't know why Mr. Fusspot is under the impression that nobody speaks English when it's the Goan peoples' first language.