Goa is beautiful. There is a reason it has become such a tourist mecca. Truth be told, I wasn't really looking forward to going. I had 'ummed' and 'aahhed' until the ninth hour before confirming my place in the yoga shala and booking my flight. Did I really want to spend a precious two weeks of my India time in Goa, which everybody says 'ísn't really India' but just a resort, a party place? I was really in two minds because, at the same time, there was also a big draw in the form of a well-reputed Ashtanga Yoga teacher duo. Although for many Ashtanga Yogis the most important (if not ONLY) destination in India is Mysore, home of the AYRI (Ashtanga Yoga Research Institute, the late 'Guruji' Pattabhi Jois' shala), I had decided I wouldn't be going to study there. A few years ago I definitely wouldn't have made that choice...but the collective combination of tales of the Mysore Ashtanga Yoga 'scene', added to the fact that my own yoga has morphed into something much slower, more precise and more creative than your typical Ashtanga practise, made me think it's probably not the place for me. But I had heard good things about this pair in Goa, and the vibe definitely sounded more chilled out. I would, of course, have to toe the line with a more straight-laced Ashtanga practise, but I reckoned I could handle this for a couple of weeks. Actually, this India trip was never really about Hatha Yoga. I am certainly no stranger to Hatha Yoga study - if there was a prize for attending the most workshops with notable teachers, last year I might have won it - and the more I learn, the more that reveals itself for discovery, practise, refinement (as someone said to me recently, you finally break through one door only to find another eight in front of you...)... But my Hatha Yoga practise has been an established and permanent fixture in my life for quite some time now, something I simply can't, or wouldn't want to, imagine living without. This time in India was always more about delving deep into the culture and spiritual traditions that are inextricably tied up with the vast and rich yoga tradition, related to but so much more than the practise on the mat. It was about discovering and experiencing the people, histories, beliefs, rituals and values of India. And getting deeper into the paths of Yoga that I haven't much explored or been exposed to - the philosophical stuff (Jnana Yoga), the devotional traditions (Bhakti Yoga), the traditions of service (Karma Yoga). Perhaps most importantly, it was about meditating. That said, the over-active Vata-Pitta Ashtangi in me demanded two weeks of thrashing it out on the mat, and especially in the company of two such highly regarded teachers. So, after incomparable amounts of deliberation, I had finally bitten the bullet and found myself in Goa.
Candolim was pretty much what I had anticipated, a cheesy tourist resort geared towards middle-aged Brits and Germans with a penchant for Kareoke Bars, organised tour buses, full english breakfasts on a Goan beach, swiftly followed by 2 pints of lager and a packet of crisps (half a shandy for the wife). I have yet to fathom why two YOGA TEACHERS, of all people, would base themselves in the middle of this( (suggestions welcome)....??? Thankfully, though, I had reserved a room in a Guest House on the edge of it all, in the gorgeous Da Mello's Guest House. Da Mello's is one of innumerable inviting accommodations leading back from the sand dunes, stuck out in the midst of a truly impenetrable maze of pathways. Arriving that first night, in the dark, the taxi driver dumped me on the main drag of a pathway and told me I'd have to go it alone from here as there was no access for cars into that whole area. So, bag on back, I wondered off in the vague and very dark direction of his waving, with no clue as to where I was going or how far it was. After staggering about (thanks to the weight of the bag and a total lack of light) for about 20 minutes, making friends with a few trees, a very LARGE local cow and one or two sleeping Goan dogs, I finally came across a local lady who, after trying to convince me I should really take a room in her house, did point me in the right direction. And eventually (though not too soon) I found it. My (relatively - this is Goa) cheapie, 'basic' room was completely gorgeous - vast, with a big double bed (complete with much-needed mozzie net) swimming around in the middle of it. But, best of all, it was the PENTHOUSE baby - which not only meant that I didn't really have proper walls - only slidey windows and open balustrades - but also that it had a corrugated tin roof. And, far from being a recipe for boil-in-the-room-Arianna, it actually stayed remarkably cool (thanks I think to being in the shade of a huge overhanging tree) . Although, I have to say, I hardly slept a wink the first night, I soon became accustomed to my little pad up amongst the wildlife of Goa, with its cacophony of busy sounds - incomparably enthusiastic cockerals and birds at sunrise, dog-barking competitions, the sea in the background, occasional drops of rain, geckos and the odd heavy-footed animal charging across the tin roof above me - all of it going for gold as I lay back amongst it all. Lonely? Most certainly not.
Oh, and did I mention the ants? Huge. GINORMOUS. In the evenings only one or two would linger on after their mates had left, roaming around my vast tiled floor, maybe checking for lost property or something. But, come morning time, with the onset of the heat of the day, they would invite their buddies over for a marching party and patrol in unpredictable lines around the tiles. They reminded me of the giant so-called 'Buddhist' ants that patrolled the woven floor of the yoga shala of El Moro in Andalucia (the site of a blissful retreat last summer), but with the important distinction that these buggers were NOT practising ahimsa. On that first night, I was trying to let them be in their own space, which is pretty difficult given their unpredictable trajectories. And, in a moment lacking in mindfulness, I trod on one. An unintentional ACCIDENT, but the ant didn't see it that way and firmly plunged it's enormous spike of a tail into my foot. OUCH, how can an ANT create so much PAIN? And, worse still, I couldn't get it out - it had rooted itself good and proper into the joint of my big toe. When I finally managed to prize the bugger out, my toe proceeded to swell up into an impressively dramatic mound, so much so that my walk took on an interesting limp for a day or two before morphing into a full-on hobble when the little sod's bigger and scarier older brother got me in the heel a few days later. Beware those fake Buddhist ants.
That first night, being completely disorientated, I took myself to a tiny little place next door for a (long-awaited) bowl of soup. Although I knew I had to be close to the beach, for I could hear and smell the sea, I wasn't going to brave the maze of paths and sand dunes and their Goan wildlife inhabitants again that night in the pitch black. So, as I sat waiting (and waiting and waiting...) for a hot and sour vegetable soup and chapati, I passed the time watching the northern British lass at the next door table as she flirted beyond outrageously with one of the lads waiting on, hitching up her already almost invisible skirt as she giggled her peroxide perm all over him and forced him to smile for her camera. He graciously obliged, although didn't hang around beyond the main course when I saw him slip out the back door and zoom off on his scooter. And so I realised that I had landed in a very different place. Goa, of the tourist towns at least, lives by a totally different set of norms than anything I had experienced in India so far. This place, apparently a much more UNDERSTATED version of the majorly developed tourist zones a little further north (?), is about kicking back, wearing very little, and indulging in sun, treatments, western food, booze and the entertainment of your choice. The mere idea of covering up,or not drinking, or whatever, to show respect for the local custom would be alien here - the local custom IS free and easy. Apparently Hinduism is still the dominant faith here (closely followed by Christianity) but it's a Hinduism of a different flavour, no staunch adherence to rigid social rules and restrictions, as far as I could see . The Goan people are light, warm-hearted, super-friendly and ultra laid back, seemingly governed more by having a free and easy life than intensity of faith (at least not in the tourist towns - rural inland Goa is a different story) - they remind me more of the kind of people I would expect to find in the Caribbean than anyone I had met in India so far.
And so I gradually tried to shift into a new mindset. Beyond the yoga, once that got going, there wasn't an awful lot for me to discover here other than to relax and contemplate and enjoy the sunshine. So I embarked upon a couple of laborious weeks of lounging in the sun, having to walk a whole thirty paces from my penthouse room amongst the animals to breakfast at Pete's Beach Shack, reclining in the bamboo loungers as I watched the waves roll in or, prime time viewing, the local 'bird-irritates-lazy-cow' beach duo act (the things that amuse me, eh......?).
Or, better still, that timeless, priceless piece of beach fashion - the male black leather thong (ideal for beach tennis). THE business (apparently he thinks so).
I got started with the yoga on my first morning, bright but not SO early at the surprisingly respectable 7am. Still, I only just managed to make it in time, having wandered aimlessly around Candolim's numerous unnamed sand dune pathways for a good 20 minutes before thankfully stumbling upon a fellow yogi with their tell-tale yoga mat, the only other westerner to be walking around bright-eyed at 6.45am (coastal Goa has a more relaxed timetable than the rest of India with it 5am temple wake-up calls). As a newbie, I had been assigned to the late shift - when I finally made it up to the rooftop shala, I found a sweating mass of 50 or so people, many of whom had been at it since 5am. So I took my place in the small stairway queue but before long was assigned a mat space as one of the early birds dripped their way out. I didn't really have any expectations, and on first impressions I liked the vibe - the vibe of the teachers, a nice yin-yang combo of mellow and rigorous which reminded me of the incomparable Chuck and Maty, but sadly somewhat lacking in their total commitment to their students' progress. And I liked the vibe of the students. I was in amongst all ages, abilities and levels, all practising side-by-side, getting on with their personal yoga, dealing with their own stuff, minding their own business, but sharing the same sweaty air. So I began to get on with my practise, before long becoming properly introduced to the two teachers as they came up and firmly instructed me that I was to stick with Primary Series ONLY on my first day. Yes Siree (no problem I was pretty knackered anyway). I enjoyed it, back practising in amongst a group after months of going it alone, away from any kind of 'Mysore-Style' class, once again supported by the energy of a room full of people doing their yoga as I did mine, and the incomparable, mesmerising sound of the collective breath. And, once I got my head around it, I enjoyed sticking to strict Ashtanga form once again, being picked up on even the tiniest additions and told to jolly well do them at home before I came (more staunch Ashtangis who mindlessly honour 'the system' over 'the body' - no place here for working with intelligent and informed self-awareness......?). Ok, fine, whatever, you're the boss.
Truth be told, beyond being given my initial orders, I didn't get an ounce of attention from the teachers on that first day. But, no bother, I kept an open mind - perhaps they were just watching me, getting the sketch of my practise rather than launching in heavy-handed (not my favoured approach). But, if I'm honest, things didn't really change much over the course of my time there. As, from day two, I was given the go ahead to move into my Second Series practise, I got a few helpful hints and things to try, but really nothing that I haven't played with before, and hardly any physical adjustments (which is where the teaching focus of a Mysore-Style class often is) - perhaps one a day, if I was lucky. In the words of a fellow student, before long it started to feel like I had really just paid for a concrete mat space, rather than any teaching to speak of. It began to be painfully clear that there were simply far too many yogis in the shala than could realistically be adequately be attended to. I am more than used to practising alone, and can perfectly enjoy my practise without being manhandled and yanked into poses, but nonetheless I had come here for something a little different than what I normally do - some kind of teaching, I had hoped. I had heard that in Mysore one does get very little attention, one is really just paying (a huge amount) for a space - and I had hoped it would be different here. Sadly not. And so I realised I would have to make do with enjoying the group dynamic and the classical Ashtanga discipline, as this was pretty much all I was going to get.
For the first few days I continued to enjoy rising at a leisurely 6am to do my illegal warm-ups before making my way to the shala for my 7am start but, just as I started to brag about having been spared the early shift, my luck changed (there's karma for you). And so I soon found myself rising at 4am, beating most of the birds to the wake-up call to be all set to go saluting the sun to rise at 5am, way ahead of its scheduled time. Actually I just love being up at this hour, being part of the amazing, secret energy that pervades the dark early morning. And doing yoga at this time is just perfect - deeply silent and vibrant all at once, not to mention an awful lot cooler in India (the same can't be said for North London). Having said that, being able to drag my practise out for longer than anyone else I know, despite starting at 5am, somehow I would outdo even the second shift, still finding myself there as the last people wound up at 9am. Talk about the emptiness of TIME....the VOID...I don't know how I do it, honestly... Nonetheless, there's no better feeling than bouncing out of an epic morning practise ravenously hungry and heading down to Pete's Shack for a well-deserved breakfast as the rest of the world gradually wakes up and makes it way down to the loungers for another challenging day of basking in the sun.
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