During the Portuguese era (1510–1961), one might wonder how people got around—was it on foot, by bullock carts, or did they ride on something? While canoes, small ferry boats and launch (vapor) were common for crossing rivers, the real mode of transportation was the Caminhão (plural Caminhões) and the sturdy legs of the locals.
The mighty Caminhão was the king of the road, chugging its way from city to town, making scheduled (and plenty of unscheduled) stops. It weaved through scenic villages, responding not to fancy bus stops but to a sharp whistle or the classic high-pitched Rau re! Whether it was a lone traveller or an entire village hitching a ride, the Caminhões had no fixed rules. Passengers peeked out, enjoying the Caminhão’s ride through sleepy villages, rolling fields, and hills. Along the way, locals lounged in balcãos, gossiping like news anchors, while tea stalls, taverns, and shops appeared like surprise guests, showcasing Goan life’s simple joys.
Goa’s legendary Caminhão weren’t just buses—they were rolling works of art, cobbled together on imported Bedford, Ford, or Dodge chassis. With a wooden framework, brass-plated exteriors, and an interior that ranged from leather seats to good old-fashioned wooden benches, comfort was a matter of perspective and patience. The rooftop “carrier” wasn’t just for luggage—it was a multi-purpose storage unit, hauling everything from sacks of paddy and metal trunks to baskets of veggies, firewood, and, of course, the fish baskets. A sturdy iron ladder at the back ensured brave souls could clamber up and retrieve their belongings—hopefully without tumbling down.
These Caminhões ruled Goan roads like kings of the countryside. On regular routes, they earned the prestigious title of Carreira. They came in all shapes and sizes: small, medium, and large, with the big ones tackling the grand highways of yesteryear—Panaji to Margao via Ponda, Margao to Vasco-da-Gama, and Mapusa to Betim, Siolim, Aldona, Tivim, Colvale, and Bicholim. Private cars were a rarity, and Caminhãoes were scarce, with only one or two per route. The first Caminhão would depart Panaji at 7 AM for Agasaim, taking about an hour, with no fixed stops—anyone could flag it down anywhere. The most prized seat? Right next to the driver! So coveted was this spot that some would even skip a trip just to claim it next time. It may seem trivial now, but back then, such simple pleasures brought immense joy and a sense of pride.
Other than the driver, each Caminhão had its trusty sidekick—the kilinder (a local twist on “cleaner”), who juggled two crucial roles: collecting fares and giving the bus a half-hearted cleanup at the end of the day. The driver and kilinder had their own secret Morse code—rhythmic taps to reverse, sharp whistles to stop, and the occasional yell to either pick up passengers or pretend not to see them if the bus was already packed.
Inside, it was a symphony of chaos—passengers exchanging gossip loudly over the roar of the engine, and flailing arms in dramatic storytelling, all while someone sprinted from a side road in a desperate attempt to catch the moving vehicle. As the Caminhão lurched forward, the kilinder was the last to jump on, balancing like an acrobat while squeezing through the overstuffed crowd. His polite yet firm requests in Konkani—“Bai, matxem mukhar voch!” or “Baba, matso pattim sor!”— were standard announcements. Bus stops? Who needed those! People just gathered at landmark spots like Tamdi Mati, Tintiar, Nakear, Adrar, Ribondra Pattiar, Soji kodden, Kopela kodden, etc hoping for a little space and a lot of luck.
Seating was flexible. The small ones were designed for 15 but often carried more people; the medium ones held 22 but squeezed in double that and the larger ones were meant for 36. The bigger Caminhão models were the VIPs of their time, doubling as school buses for picnics, football tournaments, and even making grand entrances at weddings—because nothing said festive like a brass-blaring, cargo-carrying, overstuffed bus rolling up to a mandap. Meanwhile, the medium and smaller ones ran their own beach shuttle services between Mapusa and Calangute or Candolim, offering a bumpy yet thrilling ride to the sands.
In those days, Goa’s road network was a mixed bag—tarred roads connected major towns like Mapusa, Panaji, Margao, and Vasco-da-Gama, but beyond Cuncolim, the so-called national highway was as kutcha as any village path. In Panaji, the riverfront stretch of Dayanand Bandodkar Road was properly tarred all the way to Dona Paula—after all the Governor had to glide smoothly from Raj Bhavan to the old Secretariat. A few privileged roads, like MG Road, 18th June Road, Rua de Ourém, and Altinho Road, also got the tar treatment.
Then came the late 50s—a game-changer. The first modern bus strutted onto the scene between Mapusa and Betim, and by the early ‘60s, the good old Caminhões were put out to pasture. For us little kids, the first sight of this sleek, red, speed-striped marvel was nothing short of magic—especially at night, when it glowed from the inside like a moving lantern. With shatter-proof glass windows, a flat-front driver’s cabin, and parallel seating, it was a futuristic dream—one that finally came with an official front entry and rear exit, instead of “jump in where you fit.”
