As times change and traditions fade into obscurity, there are a few endeavours that survive the test of time. The São João vojem, and those that attempt to keep it alive, are one such example
The muttleo, part of the vojem, are painstaking moulded and hand-rolled, and mark how the cooking process is only one step of many, to make this gift come alive
Pic Credit: Chef Zenobia
It’s hard to talk about tradition without sounding like you’re standing on a soapbox. But in Goa, where centuries of heritage often compete with the demands of modern tourism and lifestyle, that conversation becomes necessary—especially when we risk losing our most unique cultural expressions. The celebration of São João is one such example, where what once was a vibrant, communal ritual is slowly being flattened into just another excuse for a party.
Today, in many parts of Goa, São João means pool parties, music, drinks, and a vague connection to St John the Baptist, after whom the feast is named. The name survives, but much of the meaning has washed away like so many monsoon puddles. In truth, São João was never just about jumping into a body of water; it was about community, gratitude, and the joy of new beginnings.
Traditionally, São João was marked by lively processions of villagers playing the ghumot and kansallem, making their way to homes that had welcomed newlyweds. The guests were greeted with a kopel—a crown of fresh flowers—served a dhali of seasonal fruit, and offered the chance to contribute a baan to the local chapel. Then came the part many remember most: the jubilant leap into wells, rivers, or ponds—a symbolic act, echoing the baptism of Christ by St John. Finally, the day would end with a litany at the chapel, reconnecting the community in prayer and song.
Luckily, not everyone is content to let tradition slip away. Enter Crescy Baptista and Oliver Fernandes of The Goan Kitchen, a culinary initiative that doesn’t just serve traditional Goan food—it serves the soul of Goan culture. Through their dedication, São João is being rediscovered in its full glory, one sweet and one story at a time.
At the heart of their efforts is the vojem—a ceremonial gift or offering traditionally prepared for the feast. It’s an age-old hamper that is a part of the Zaoiyanche Fest, also known as the feast of the son-in-law. In this custom, newly married men are welcomed into their wives’ families with gifts that include seasonal fruit and homemade sweets. Crescy fondly recalls childhood memories of people walking around with jackfruits and palm sticks, shouting “Oorrree São João!” before plunging into wells—a far cry from today’s poolside Instagram moments.
For The Goan Kitchen, São João is the most colourful festival—not just in dress, but in flavour. Their vojem features eight festive sweets, from jackfruit mandos and muttleo, to papaya halwa and patoleo, all made using recipes gathered from oral traditions, community knowledge, and old handwritten notes. Crescy makes it a point to stress on the fact that the jackfruit patoleo, in particular are paramount to the festivities, and mark their cultural importance at this event. These sweets, symbolic of Goa’s monsoon bounty, are rarely found in shops anymore, which makes their preservation all the more urgent.
The team insists that the vojem shouldn’t be reduced to being the equivalent of a supermarket hamper. The true spirit lies in crafting each item with care—steaming, stirring, and even hand-shaping sweets like muttleo, where the painstaking moulding and hand-rolling is more important than the cooking process. Its food rooted in time and place, shaped by the land and the people.
Traditions survive not through nostalgia but through action—and thanks to initiatives like The Goan Kitchen, São João is more than alive. It’s thriving, in kitchens, in chapels, and in the hearts of those who understand that culture isn’t something we inherit; it’s something we choose to keep alive.