fever pitch

The G.T Express roars across the Indian countryside, a 35 hour journey that will draw the curtain on the last 8 months.  Every second unravels a surreal slideshow of snapshots whose normalcy is lost in the wake of detachment.  It’s as though I am seeing India again for the first time.  In fact, at the time of writing this a man of certain determination races across the platform at Maramjhiri train station on his motorbike. Oh, India, but of course… 

My last weeks in Tiruvannamalai provided a kaleidoscope of the quintessential Indian experiences in addition to a spiritual and emotional crescendo which found me in the loving embrace of many, not least Mount Arunachala whose spell endlessly enraptures the masses.  Every passing moment proved to be a reflection of self and for the first time in my life I sobbed with tears of release and elation.

India’s sense of extremes in the kiln of incomparable intensity makes it so the country and experiences contained within it pass unparalleled.  It goes without saying that the impression of such an introduction pulsates through my core.  I prepare for my departure a stranger to who I was when I arrived.  The most profound additions being an understanding of a life without limitation and an unapologetic surrender of the perceived control I held in the daily grind.  Of course, such notions are better put to the test in the surrounds of familiar faces and consistent routines.  Bring it on. 

However, before I temporarily hang my hat I must first fulfil an old dream to complete an 800 kilometre hike across the northern border of Spain. I pray my venture on El Camino de Santiago de Compostela is more Coelho than Sheen, but whatever I make of it, the pilgrimage will be a fitting transition back into the Western world.

Oh, India...in my life I love you more.

there is a season

I hiss loudly to prevent myself from crying out as the nurse dresses my open wounds.  Otherwise I remain pacified by shock only intermittently spitting information such as my name, observance of sensation, and the brief details of what brought us to the emergency room.  It is the sight of my companion’s raw bloodied limbs that sends a surge of guilt to my consciousness as I feel myself surrendering the battle of equanimity.  Had it not been my hands at the helm, my attitude would have been much more undisturbed.  However, self-indulgent pity is swiftly dissolved as a large, scantily-clad man on a stretcher is wheeled into our room with five others excitedly at his heels.  He too had met his fate in a motor bike accident.  The man’s left foot is trembling involuntarily and I observe that his right eye is swollen shut.  Inasmuch as I try to overt my gaze, the visual imprint of his blood spattered body remains married with the thought that his pain was so immense he could scarcely make a sound.  As I softly murmur a prayer, I am again reminded as to how fortunate we are.

Aside from roadside spills, the time spent at Varkala beach was pleasant and reasonably low-key.  The beach itself lay violently underneath picturesque cliffs which would have proved to be a vision to behold had they not been populated with tourist restaurants and resorts falsely claiming Ayurvedic expertise.  The tide appeared to resent such a presence as it was almost impossible to swim amidst the strong undercurrents.  However, as per usual, I was in good company and receiving an abundance of experiences and insight of matters existential and Indian.  

On a more successful night of motorbike navigation, we found ourselves on remote peninsulas dancing with the setting sun on a more inviting part of the coast.  Gazing at palm tree lined shores it was hard to imagine that so many inhabitants were still chasing the illusion of going to the West when equally as many Westerners dream of places like the Keralan backwaters.  The grass is always greener...

Nonetheless, limp and all, it was time to move on to Kerala’s neighbouring state in the south, Tamil Nadu; the destination and final stop in India being Tiruvannamalai.  Although my main objective was a reunion with an old friend, a driving force for several ventures, coming to this city also coincided beautifully with my desire to see the holy mountain Arunachala, a mission inspired by Paul Brunton’s account in “A Search in Secret India”.

The dry heat in Tiru was initially overwhelming, but not as much as the mountain itself.  It’s difficult to put into words the power of this particular location, but I can assuredly say that if I had started my journey here I would have undoubtedly seen much less of the rest of India.  I’ve encountered countless amounts of individuals who have been unable to escape the pull of Tiru with endless stories of cancelled train tickets and abandoned flights.  In fact, it is the first place that I have met travellers who have rented their accommodation by the month, even by the year. My original thought was to visit neighbouring cities on my way out, but I’ve joined the masses in rooting myself here for the next two weeks despite the zealous mosquitos and unwavering heat.  I've found a mountain and not a moment too soon.

Kerala!

Bleary eyed in Jaipur, I found myself in the unexpected company of a good friend who, after two weeks of having parted ways, burst through my door at an early hour (only early considering that I had spent the previous night dancing and eating my heart out at my first Indian wedding – lavish).

“So I hear you’re coming south?”

I’m rendered speechless.  Only the night before had I flippantly mentioned to another a flirtation with the idea to head to Kerala, the Southernmost Indian state, after a period of near certainty that I would spend my remaining time in Rajasthan.  In fact, I suffered a fitful night’s sleep debating the suggestion only to wake up to a very clear answer.  End scene.

A few days later we were gasping for air as our eyes grew immense with disbelief.  A wave of heat immediately suffocated us as we disembarked from the comfort of a short air conditioned flight (I’ve been living very modestly during my travels, but a 45 hour train ride just wasn’t written in the stars - as yet).

Like kids on Christmas we excitedly squealed at all the new visual delights that the city of Cochin had on offer.  Altered appearances, atmosphere, and climate equalled a different world entirely.  Unlike the major cities I had visited in the North of India, the swarm of rickshaw drivers and hotel attendants at the airport exit were lacking; in fact we were approached by no one.  Everything and everyone were far more relaxed and the addition of palm trees and humidity told me for the first time in my travels that I was on holiday.

new best friends made in seconds

Our stay at Fort Cochin was intended to be a one night affair but the light of day made it impossible to escape.  We loudly rejoiced as the Arabian Sea tickled our feet followed by an introduction to drinking out of green coconuts while making friends with the masses.  Mountains of fresh fruit and fish (not together mind you), bookshops neighbouring historical churchyards,  sipping strawberry tea whilst listening to Neil Young battle the sounds of the crashing waves, not to mention an abundance of tiny cats…  I believe this is referred to as paradise.

After stripping down to bikini- wear on Cherrai Beach (yes, in India!) we fulfilled our dreams of driving a rickshaw and spending a day in lemonade waters before dragging our feet onwards.  However, it only got better.  The backwaters of Kerala are famously known as one of the top ten bucket list sights.  I won’t disagree.  A night in Alleppey offered a brief glimpse of the canal grids that make up the serene backwaters.  The only trauma’s endured were mosquito attacks and having to rescue a drowning gecko that fell from the bathroom ceiling into the toilet while I scrutinised my mozzie bites in the mirror (he’s al­­­ive so three cheers for vanity). 

The next day, my friend and I parted ways temporarily as I head to Amitapuri, the village hosting Amma’s Ashram, the ashram of the “Hugging Saint”.  Aside from my simple curiosity, the main purpose for this excursion was to meet another dear friend.

A man on the bus whose distant wide-eyed stare should have said it all confides that, “Hugging Amma is an experience out of this world.  Her vibrations are not like any other person”.  I had to take this with a pinch of salt as this was later followed by a declaration of love for psychotropic plants coupled with incessant chatter about how the American government would likely detain him for no reason.  

From my understanding Amma is an enlightened woman whose ashram is responsible for immense acts of charity and philanthropic work.  Good on her.  However, despite Amma’s golden reputation, my experience at the ashram was slightly overwhelming and blatantly disappointing.  Although I attempted to keep any expectations at bay, that glorious moment where I was hugged by a stranger was marred with a great deal of aggression on behalf of those eager and impatient for their turn, and surprisingly by those who were working/volunteering at the ashram.  In fact, a great number of the staff managed their interactions with the visitors quite poorly, which is a shame because I am sure it has very little to do with the code of conduct at the ashram and more to do with the individual’s inability to exercise self-awareness.   I got the feeling that many a lost soul went to Amma looking for guidance and instead found an outlet in which to escape and repress the trials of everyday life.  It was a floating sea of people wearing hollow smiles whilst feigning everlasting love but then drivelling and losing all semblance of control at the first minute indication of conflict. 

After accepting the reality of this stay I happily made my way further south to the ayruvedic beach town of Kovalam to reacquaint myself with a sorcerer of many trades who I originally met on the ferry from Alleppey. These "chance" encounters that begin as fleeting moments end up building the fabric of internal change and have thankfully established a beautiful recurring pattern during my travels.

Dr. Noeffingway

Everyone is a doctor.

Perhaps fate would have found me a crumpled heap on the floor even without the intervention of India's self-proclaimed GPs, but I can't help but entertain the idea that my body may have been better off had I the strength to ward off the swarm of well-intended advice thrown my way.

Going back two weeks ago, I was temporarily torn away from Rajastan in the name of volunteering and furthering my attempts to transcend space and time. What?  Nevermind. Anyway, I was serving at a course similar to the one that I attended in December in a remote village area 40 kilometres outside of the state capital of Gujerat, Ahmedabad.  Aside from the 20 attendees, beating sun, and a cat living in fear of his shadow, we were in the company of a breed of monkey whose behaviours often times were so uncannily human it was unnerving. The time passed as quickly as the illusion and on the last day I was invited to stay in the home of one of the attendees for a couple of days before I caught my 12 hour train back to Jaipur. This is where the trouble started.

As I leave the course, a wave of nausea overcomes me and the dusty forty minute drive in an auto-rickshaw does nothing to dispel the growing urge to vomit.  This was a fail despite being advised to just stick my fingers down my throat, something that I can safely say will not happen in my lifetime (friends and family can rest assured that bulimia is about as tempting as a Nickelback concert).  A couple burps later and I feel the upset is on its way out.

Wrong. The following day at a dinner party with 5 other women finds me the center of attention, and for once it is not because I am the Western lady.  Now I am the Western lady with a troubled stomach. "You should drink buttermilk" (Oh, God that sounds terrible) "You should have ice cream, it's good for you" (What? I'm pretty sure that's not true, although I would have loved if it was in my younger years).  "Here, chew on this, it's a home remedy" (consisting of Aniseed, Cumin seeds, salt and who knows what else).  A woman pinches pressure points all over my body and doesn't waste her time poking a strong finger into my belly button.  The burp that follows is greeted with cheers of approval.  What just happened?  I feel temporary relief and all are more than happy to pat themselves on the back for their medical efforts.

The next morning I feel terrible, and I later understand why, amidst a night of restless sleep, I kept having a reoccurring dream where I little girl keeps trying to go to the bathroom in front of me.  I thank Jesus, Buddha, and Zeus for the clean, functioning toilet at my disposal.

"You should drink a cup of coffee. Black."  I stop in my tracks. This is where people stop being polite and start getting real.  Improving mastication on a combination of seeds and spices appeared as harmless as it was helpful but now the assistance in the form of "home remedies" reaches destructive territory.  Inasmuch as I adore the smell, taste, and ritual of a morning brew, I've (repeatedly) learnt the hard way that this particular beverage and my sensitive body just won't play nice together and that's on a good day.  I tell her as earnestly as possible that it is not my intention to be a finicky foreigner, but that I simply cannot drink coffee. After having spent the last part of thirty minutes running into the loo my brain is sounding an alarm to the tune of "NATURAL LAXATIVE!"

I breathe a sigh of relief as she departs to run errands and her servant brings me a "special beverage". Here we go again, but it doesn't look like black coffee, nor does the smell betray it's true nature. Oh, but haha, Lizette, the joke is on you because it IS coffee which is made special by extra water, milk and 50% sugar. One gulp has me etching my initials on the bathroom walls for the next hour.

When my hostess returns I resemble Frank Gallagher as I try to lift my head from the ground to explain that I haven't been able to rest because I've had the never-ending desire to see if her toilet still flushes.  She again insists that black coffee is the answer.  Taking in a deep breath I attempt to tactfully explain that coffee is a laxative, that it upsets my stomach which is why I don't drink it, that one shouldn't have caffeine when they have diarrhea, etc.  She simply shakes her head and reiterates that it is good for an upset stomach and brings me a glass.  The fact that she won't entertain my own prior experiences as having relevance slightly astounds me.  At least I googled her suggestion before reaffirming my (*ahem* proven) opinion.  Desperate times call for desperate measures as I am forced to sneak into the bathroom to dump it down the sink.  The obvious issue with this is that my recovery will no doubt be attributed to this sinfully delicious drink. A prayer goes out to all who might encounter the "Bombay blast" in the company of unqualified doctors.

all roads lead to Rajastan

India.

the faces of...

"I'll give you some shanti" mutters one of my companions through gritted teeth on the sleeper train from Varanasi to Khajuro.  This immediately becomes the mantra that captures our daily struggle. India's landscape and it's inhabitants contain layers upon layers of character, depth, and splendour.  However, this is almost always interlaced with strong elements of that which we are naturally averse and that which we have been protected from in our lives (with good reason).  It's likened to falling deeply in love whilst simultaneously being punched in the face.  The second I finish wiping the blood from my nostrils, I return to composing sonnets/mixed tapes what have you.

Varanasi was a name that rolled off the tongues of many especially during the last month of my travels.  I naturally took this as a sign to abandon my return flight to Delhi and instead enter India via bus to ensure a visit to the city described as both dark and captivating.  After a fleeting second of shut-eye at the Korean Monastery in Lumbini (the birthplace of Buddha), I found myself at Sunali, the Indian/Nepali border town.  The stark difference between the two countries divided by what effectively is a line on the ground will never cease to amaze me.  Not 10 seconds within “India” when it becomes apparent that the ground is considerably more littered, begging children are tugging at our clothes, a stationary mustachioed man starts heckling us, and the officer at passport control cannot be bothered to look up from his newspaper to do his job (I have to thrust my passport in his face to receive a responsive grunt and the appropriate forms). Ah India, how I had almost forgotten.

The 10 hour drive from Sunali to Varanasi was marked with varying scenery, new facial features, and who else but The Beatles. I was basking in the glow of homecoming.

varanasi

Upon reaching our destination, we were thrown into a chaotic whirlwind of rickshaw armies (NEVER take out your guide book in public places), death defying traffic, hustlers and street vendors trying to get a leg up on the next guy.  A far cry from chilled out Nepal, but embraced as part of the experience unique only to India.  Varanasi was postcard perfect with it's array of ghats lining the holy but (pardon me) somewhat foul Ganges River.   Parts of the river are apparently septic; however, despite this, it is considered a privilege to be cremated on its shores. The cremation and the preceding ceremony are open for the public to see with no qualms as the men paid to tend to the flames prod at limbs and feet like firewood.  Witnessing the event from start to finish was remarkably intense and required an evening of rest and internal recovery.  Varanasi was much more gentle during the days that followed.  Banana milk, bindis, crashing a conference at Varanasi University (all in the name of free delicious food), and days spent on varying rooftops while watching the city fly kites made up the chapters for rest of the week.

It was my cue to hit the road the moment the shopkeepers and chai boys became familiar faces.  Although not what I had originally planned, the next destination was Khajuro, a quiet town known for its detailed erotic temples.  The temples were indeed a sight to behold but temple hopping and sight seeing isn't how I envisioned passing my time in India.  Having said that, there was one powerhouse of a site whose daylight presence was both commanding and exhilarating....

Arriving at 4 AM the next day in the swarming tourist hole that is Agra we playing the waiting game. Waiting in line for the Taj Mahal felt just like queueing up for a stadium show ("Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we've all been waiting for.....").  Sleep deprived, delirious (pretty sure we saw Michael Jackson), and wildly excited we finally burst through the gates a few hours later.  It was everything I dreamt it would be and although I was suffering with a fever on the train ride over, I was gleefully energetic, bouncing around from shutter clicks to shouts of joy.  The added bonus was the drunk "guide" (he had a badge and everything) who told us where to take the best shots and had us positioned in ways that I haven't seen since the Saved By the Bell era. Think balled fist on chin, Uncle Rico style.  Once the endorphins started to come to a steady halt we reluctantly dragged ourselves around the seedy "must sees" of  Agra (the Red Fort where I got sick and a jewelry shop where the owner was intent on going to hell), killing time before the 7 hour bus ride to Jaipur. No matter how INCREDIBLY exhausted we were, there was no way were we spending a night in a city whose only redeeming feature is the palace we already branded and ate for breakfast.

part of the best birthday surprise

Jaipur, the capital city of the state of Rajastan that provided my first real thrill in India at the end of October. A friendly face, a car ride, and an actual bed that would be mine for the following three days. Bliss squared.  Rajastan was where I ached to return and three months after our first introduction, my wishes were again fulfilled. A new adventure commences yet again.

Nepal (reprise)

sunsest from the peace pagoda

Nepal in it's entirety blindsided me in slow motion.  Finding myself again in Kathmandu I had almost chalked up the last few months as coming full circle, hanging off the same concrete terrace where I originally threw a tantrum (well, an hour long whinge married with severe pouting) about my perceived shackles of constraint following the expiration of my first Indian visa. However, this time around I had the wealth of my Nepalese experience under my belt in addition to the immense pleasure of crossing paths with friends old and new.

An oar in hand, motorbike rides to the ends of the earth, vertical extensions, fresh faces sparkling with the vigour of freedom, and an all too comfortable feeling of ease defined the weeks beyond my 10 days of self imposed silence.  My comparatively lazy days in the town of Pokhara came to a striking end in the warm company of the reluctant sages of Phewa Lake's mountains.  As the flames of their bonfire licked the soles of my well worn shoes I found myself under the wing of a heavily bearded South American cum wild Nepali.  While his European partner boisterously owned an acoustic rendition of "La Javanaise", I found myself receiving instruction and advice of the highest order in a conversation that only required a nod and grateful acceptance of a talisman formed from the heart of Pokhara.  Magic easily accessed in the understated beauty of nature's finest.

Enter Londonites, S&K, the familiar faces from a lifetime shelved half a year ago.  Several times we remarked how surreal it was that we were sharing our time in the company of dal bhat and prayer flags.  We spent our first night together in the anti-climactic setting of the Pokhara street festival and ushered in the new year as well as S's birthday in Kathmandu (there was no countdown, but a count up and the ball dropped at the count of 12. 12???)

My last meeting with S took place the weekend prior to my departure amidst the human traffic of Embankment in the revered gardens of Gordan's Wine Bar.  However, instead of engaging in social commentary over fine wine, I was now squealing over the "free" toilet paper in the bathroom and an opportunity to crash in one of the most luxurious hotel room floors since the start of my travels (think poor man's Holiday Inn).  In the midst of those who vacation, I was struck by how feral I felt in comparison; my daily budget and financial mindset now firmly formed of rupees as opposed to the pound or dollar.  On that note, I even had a friend make the generous offer to spot me an extra £20 a week upon learning that I shared a room with another traveller to save myself an extra 250 rupees (the equivalent of 3 dollars) a day.  Although I will never look a gift horse in the mouth, I had to graciously decline.  It's not that I cannot afford the cost, but those 3 bucks go a long way... although having said that, I don't think I have ever been so ornery about another person's bodily outcries.  Lesson learned.

a session conducted in a derelict school

Following S & K's departure, I happened upon a group of individuals who very quickly welcomed me into their sphere.  Headed by a Lama, this was a group of reiki practioners who were offering a holistic service to the locals living mountainside, an hour outside of Kathmandu.  I was invited to accompany them and observe their practice over a week.  The purpose of this "camp" was to raise money on a donation basis for what they hope to establish as Nepal's first healing hospital.  The costs required to build the hospital are estimated to be approximately $12,000 which in Western terms is a small sum to pay when dealing with real estate.  However, where the rupee is concerned, not a dent will be made if merely counting on the donations of the even the more affluent Nepali residents.  The contributions of foreigners are somewhat advantageous (if not necessary) in this instance, but my experience is that there is always tension when applying a cost to what I view as a service born from altruism.  Whatever ones thoughts are on Reiki, I will only say at this time that the outcomes spoke for themselves.  The satisfaction of the recipients varied in demonstration from a glowing smile to a man breaking out in dance and fist pumping the sky.  Several spoke of their now absent symptoms and pains following their treatment. The time spent here passed swiftly and my final days found me playing the role of the pied piper as the number of children surrounding me multiplied and filled me with a healthy level of exhaustion (I can't remember the last time I played tag).  When parting ways, I was sent off with a slew of embraces and promises to cross paths again at points unknown.  The perfect ending to my first visit to Nepal.

Rosen and Bibek (top left) were the leaders of the pack and brilliant company

on the way up

On the heels of my first visit to India, it took me a little minute to fully appreciate Nepal in it's own right. Initially, Nepal presents many images that mirror those of India.  The corner shop crowded by cheap sweets and single cigarettes, the widespread poverty, roadsides littered with an assortment of rubbish (from candy wrappers to "waste"), and the strong smells of burning plastic.  But at heart, Nepal is nothing like India.  The scenery is breathtaking, the weather generally milder, and interactions with people of sincerity are much more accessible. Nepal doesn't suffer from the same degree of pollution or burdens of over population and there is a sense that life is experienced at a slower and more relaxed pace.  I can understand why people coming from Delhi liken Kathmandu as an oasis.  I do not take for granted how fortunate I have been to have encountered gems of individuals in India who have contributed in forming a more positive experience for me.  Despite taking much delight in this moment, I am excited to return to "mother India", her arms ready with the paradox of beauty and chaos.  My newly issued visa in hand, I start my journey tonight to  Lumbini, the birthplace of Buddha, and will hopefully be crossing the border towards Varanasi in mere days. Triumph.

equanimous equaimous

10 days of being submerged in deafening introspection within the confines of absolute silence.  Where to begin…it is extremely difficult to find a voice to describe an event such as this.  I can only note that there is a distinct impression of change, a crater left by the impact, but with no strong accompanying emotions.

The recently completed Vipassana course was set in the hills of Pokhara with grand mountain views whose command was only disturbed by the territorial disputes of monkeys and some of the worst DJs (Celine Dion, Akon???) this side of the world.  The requirements for the past week and a half included the abstinence in any forms of communication or external stimulation in order to fully reap the benefits of the exploration of mind and body. 

First, there is still no need to use the “safe word” in regards to a possible detachment from the reality I left behind.   There was no dissolution of the body, no blinding lights, no conversations with Jesus, Buddha, or John Lennon.  I did however gain a much deeper insight into my thought processes, my desires and aversions, and what I would like to believe is an overall sense of a deeper mental awareness.  

The first couple days were more strenuous than I ever imagined.  The daily 4 AM start did nothing to alleviate the burdens of consciousness (nor the fact that our last proper meal was at 11 AM).  Sitting uncomfortably for long periods at a time, meditation with the focus on breath and bodily sensation accounted for over 10 hours of the day. Quite the demanding practice for one who has never previously meditated in a serious way (unless you count marinating in the scent of nag champa with the likes of Mr. Ravi Shankar).  The outstanding feature in the early days was the overpowering loudness of the mind especially in the absence of outside distractions.

The strict vow of “noble silence” was upheld with the exception of an outburst of hysterical laughter on Day 7 when the entirety of my thoughts and memories appeared absurdly comical.  I figure if I ever plunge into the depths of insanity it will likely resemble that moment.  Otherwise, it was actually refreshing to keep to myself.  

The course was profoundly intense, but recommended.  The meditation and even the discourse behind it may not be to everyone’s level of comfort or acceptance, but it undeniably holds a mirror up to oneself.  It remains with the individual as to the commitment, fortitude, and honest internal dialogue in regards to the possible benefits of such an undertaking.  Personally, it is an area that will inevitably continue to entice me at least in regards to insight in in the realms of consciousness. However, there is also a deep sense of relief in the much missed belly laugh and the company of James Brown. 

our assistant teacher with the ladies.