Heading back out of the comfort zone and into the land of the huddling men

Of course, life had been pretty easy in Goa, so that whole Indian train situation hadn’t improved; I was still a scared little Indo-train virgin. Added to that was the enormous apprehension of heading for North India, where I’d been led to expect a much more raw, intense breed of Indian most probably out to take me for a ride (talk about huge misjudgements and generalisations). Better still, I was heading for Bodh Gaya in Bihar, India’s poorest and most notorious state, a place that Indians from elsewhere regard with terror and contempt. “You’re going to Bihar? Oh my, why on earth? God help you, you’ll need it!” Perfect, thanks for the vote of confidence. Nonetheless, I was definitely going, as I was headed to a ten-day silent Vipassana meditation retreat in the Thai Monastery at Bodh Gaya, led by two renowned Western teachers, Christopher Titmuss and Radha Nicholson. Christopher has been leading this retreat since his time as a Buddhist monk in the seventies, some 30 years, and it is notoriously wonderful. Something deep within me knew I just had to be there, drawing me there like a gut magnet; I simply was not going to miss this.

So, confession time; I flew again. I had to stop overnight in Lucknow on the way to Patna, Bihar’s sorry capital (no, I wouldn’t, and didn’t, make this flying choice again), so didn’t really save myself any time in the process, but did make it there alive and well, easing myself into the very different vibe of northern India marginally more slowly. Getting out of Goa was mission enough, involving once again straddling a moped whilst fully backpack-laden, and then practically having to leap out of a moving bus at Goa airport, which apparently has no designated bus stop (anyway, judging by the looks I got, I should be in a tourist taxi not on a local bus, silly). After that I had the joy of a three-hour-long wait at Goa airport, the highlight of which was sharing my lunchtime with a Texan man who, after inviting me to share his table in a way that I couldn’t refuse, proceded to bark generalisations, judgements and self-obsession at me for forty five of the longest, most painful minutes of my life. Apparently he’s never learnt the meaning of ‘conversation’ or the potential interest in hearing another’s take on things. I donned my most noncommital face and tried to let it all waft passed me as I dug around in what has to be the world's most interesting bowl of hot and sour soup. Oh, those joyous, priceless traveller encounters.

Arriving into Lucknow lived up to my apprehensions; it was indeed like being abruptly smacked in the face. Emerging from Departures at 6pm I was faced with a frenzied crowd that made Trivandrum’s pre-dawn party seem like a school disco. Worse still, here they all wanted a piece of me, grabbing at me and my trolley, my armour as I tried to keep my cool and boldly penetrate the seething mass. False start. I didn’t last more than a couple of steps before getting totally overwhelmed, admitting (temporary) defeat and heading right back inside for a few restorative deep breaths. On round two I made it through, acquiring on the way no less than FIVE guys determined to push the trolley that I was desperately trying to keep a hold of (that’ll teach me to always WEAR the bloody backpack) towards the car of my self-designated taxi driver. Amidst all of this commotion, this colossal fuss over the simple deal of finding a cab to just get out of there, I lost every last remaining ounce of trust and connection to my deeper instinct; I was sure they were all out to get me for every penny I had. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Ultimately I didn’t have a lot of choice other than to get into the taxi and hope to be taken to my designated bed for the night; which, for a very fair price, was exactly where I ended up. That’ll teach me to judge a book by its cover on the basis of traveller scare stories. These guys were nothing more than simply absolutely DESPERATE for my business, so much so that they had to push and shove with all their might to win the fare of pushing my trolley about twenty paces (a total of about ten rupees – 12p).

Eyes glued to the window panes as we drove through the nighttime streets of Lucknow, I started to get my first taste of India North. Still only late-January, the weather was noticeably cooler up here and, though still pretty warm by British standards, the streets were filled with spindley figures huddled in brown and beige fabrics around street stoves, warming themselves as if it were a freezing December evening in Dickensian London. That said, as the temperatures dropped in the early hours and I discovered my coconut oil in a more familiarly British solidified form, I was pleased for the heaters and blankets in my room and my emergency thermals (which luckily I hadn’t yet managed to give away); what an unexpected surprise after the Goan tropics. After checking into my decidedly overpriced and (isn’t it always the way) unfriendly hotel, I took a walk to stock up on my wierd concept of essentials (ginger, lemon and honey, of course), only to confirm my impression that there are indeed no women in Lucknow, let alone white ones. This is a large, relatively modern (for Indian standards) Indian city, the capital of the state of Uttar Pradesh, and I didn’t see a single female on the streets, that night or the following morning. Wow. Nonetheless, despite the inevitable open-mouthed staring and shock-horror upon discovering that I was travelling alone (“you very bold lady!”), people were generally friendly and welcoming. I wish the same could be said for the hotel staff who were exactly the opposite, especially when they came barging into my room after I had exploded my bag all over it, frantically searching through everything for a mislaid key. Not that I knew this was what they were looking for, as the bell boy sadly spoke not a word of English, so just got about his searching business while I stood there confused, invaded and increasingly frustrated. Oh, the unfathomable Indian mentality that deems it totally fine to go rooting around customers’ private rooms at 9pm at night looking for a random lost key that might have ended up in another room. BIZARRE.

Arriving into Patna began surprisingly smoothly with no Lucknow-style airport craziness (perhaps because no tourist in their right mind would actually come here?). I easily found a taxi to take me to the ‘Government Rest Rooms’ who I had called ahead to make a reservation. When I arrived the beautiful, friendly boy at reception walked me up to the top of the prison-like tenement block and showed me to a dirty room with no windows and a sizeable mosquito cloud. Surveying the room and anticipating a freezing cold night of being mauled, I couldn’t quite believe he was asking 600 rupees for this room. I pointed out that it had no windows and that perhaps I might get a bit chilly, so he offered to show me a room in the next price category – 800 rupees. Intrigued as to what this would get me in this soulless place, I followed him down a floor to a room that seemed marginally cleaner, with the lights actually fitted to the walls, but still no windows. For ten pounds a night, you must be kidding! Going up another price level he showed me a room that did indeed have windows but was filthy and airless and, anyway, was in a total state of disarray with clothes, towels and bedding strewn all over as if the occupier had been suddenly interrupted. He was clearly as surprised as me at finding the room in this state and swiftly tried to put it back into respectable order. As I stood there contemplating my options I decided that I was not willing to pay these crazy prices for the worst accommodation I had seen yet in India. I was getting pretty good at my cheap, simple sleeps, but to pay some of the highest prices yet in this dump just seemed criminal. My beautiful host evidently didn’t see it that way. And he clearly wanted nothing other than for me to be happy there; when I first expressed my dissatisfaction he looked me straight in the eye, holding his hand to his heart, and said: “I want you to be happy because God is in you, like God is in me and in everything”. Wow, such genuine profundity...over a hotel room. I really felt bad rejecting his offers as he so wanted to make things right for me. But as I mulled it over I just couldn’t get my head around the place and the price, and was sure I could find something better elsewhere. When I politely said a definite ‘no’ and quietly left, he seemed both utterly baffled and personally offended. Or, perhaps, he just knew what I had in store a lot better than I did.

Had I known then what I know now I may well have settled for one of his meagre options. I headed outside and flagged down a cycle rickshaw and hopped aboard, asking to be taken to another of the places recommended in my ever-friendly (but often mistaken) Footprint Guide. On arrival at this guest house I clambered up the three flights of stairs to be greeted with stern looks over spectacles and a firm ‘No. Full’. Gee, that was friendly, thanks. Enquiring where else they might recommend, I interpreted a general wave in the best way I could. And so I wondered down the street trying guest house after hotel after guest house in the vain search for a room. Evidently the World Convention was taking place in Patna that week as there was not a bed to be had. As I carried on ambling along this busy, foreign road, somewhere in the middle of Patna, somewhere in the middle of Bihar, having no luck at finding a room, I became painfully aware of how I was the only tourist, let alone female white one, on the streets of Patna that night. Huddles of men and people-laden rickshaws stuck in the gridlock traffic were staring at me, but in the shy, retreating, unable-to-trust-their-own-eyes kind of way. It was unsettling and, though I was doing my best to KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON, deep in my belly I was starting to panic some.

And then he appeared, my Guardian Angel, again. In a different guise this time – older, taller, heavily bearded, and having swapped his Egyptian eyes for deeply Indian brown ones. Having watched me trek in and unluckily out of the various unwelcoming sleeping options, he finally came up to me and made me an offer. He knew of a guest house that would take me, for four hundred rupees. I would have to go in his cycle rickshaw with him, he would take me there. If I didn’t like it, no problem, no obligation. I didn’t have a whole lot of choice other than to trust this man, and anyway, I just did. Something about those deep eyes told me this guy was a goodun’, so I went with it and rode the wave. Bingo. Perfect little guest house, tucked down some side alley, blatantly not in possession of a license to host Western tourists but doing it regardless (thank the Lord). The bed sheets left an awful lot to be desired (God I love my silk sleeping liner) and I spent the first fifteen minutes fighting with a winning example of hilarious Indian plumbing (what’s the point of having a sink with a drainpipe which just empties itself all over the floor? Result: toothpaste feet), but other than that I was just grateful for the friendly, trustworthy welcome and a roof over my head. When I ventured out very briefly that night to let the parents know I was just about safely arrived in Bihar, I was received with a fairly friendly but generally totally bemused reaction. A woman out on the streets, let alone white Western one, is clearly a rare sight in these parts.

As is toilet paper or indeed paper tissues of any description – despite my best attempts at charades, nobody had a clue what I was talking about. I’d adapted pretty well to my squat toilets (even started to like them, in fact) but one addiction I was finding hard to lose was toilet paper. I’ve tried and tried the water-washing technique, and I’m alright if there’s a squirty hose (very rare in India) to aim and fire, but if I have to use the bucket and jug I just get totally soaked, clothes and all. I emerge from the cubicle looking like I’ve been for a swim to Australia and back (any technical advice very welcome), quite undignified. Nonetheless, having arrived in Bihar completely unprepared, it was time to get Indian and get splashing.

The following day I finally had that long-awaited date with the Indian trains. After an early yoga rise I was breakfasted and ready to walk out the door, aiming for the 9am train to Bodh Gaya. As I was bombing up the stairs to collect my bag I got the shock of my life bumping into another Western woman. We both looked at each other stunned before letting out that sigh of relief that speaks more than a thousand words, the kind of moment that can only happen between two people struggling through India alone: “I’ve made it this far, I’m up for the next leg and the whatever craziness it’s bound to bring...but boy is it nice to see someone else so clearly in the same boat!” It took Tatjana all of about 2 minutes to decide that the Bodh Gaya Meditation Retreat was exactly where she was headed to next (she’s a rather spontaneous person and, much like I was doing increasingly during this trip, was moving purely on gut instinct, taking up the opportunities as they fell into her path). A decision which I was eternally grateful for as it meant I was to be escorted, by an experienced trainette, to the station, through the chaos of the ticket queue and finally onto a train. Hoorah! Certificate please!

Having made it through some gloriously excrement-filled side streets (just what one wants to trudge through in one’s sandals shortly after breakfast), we had the joy of fighting our way through the main hall to the ticket queue. Singular. Of the ten or so queues at Patna station, only one was designated for us ‘women’, although apparently a good percentage of the men interpreted that as for ‘women and me’. Added to that was the fact that the queue didn’t move for an hour, thanks to the whole computer system crashing (so we discovered afterwards), so I had pretty much kissed goodbye to catching that 9am train. How utterly naive. When we did finally get onto the platform at 9.30am, the train was still nowhere in sight. Even when we finally boarded at 10am, it then sat there in the station for another hour and a half as people slowly got on...and off...and on again. Evidently no hurry, this train wasn’t going anywhere soon (what laughable little train geeks we were, sat there expectantly waiting for a vaguely on-time departure). Although I was somewhat apprehensive as to whether I would actually make it to Bodh Gaya in time to register for the retreat that afternoon, I was nonetheless happily entertained by the constant flow of food-and-other-random-items-sellers passing by me through the carriages. Perhaps the most notorious part of Indian train travel, I had been led to expect rank-looking plates of untouchable foods, but actually I was sorely tempted at many of the things on offer, particularly those big platters of fresh fruits and slices of white coconut (mmm...does anything look more pure or refreshing?). But, when it comes to sensory stimulation, it was the ears that got the biggest feast. Evidently part of the fun of selling your wares on Indian transport is in perfecting you own signature call, with its own distinct tone, pitch and rhythm, and barking it out full throttle (and certainly louder than the guy before you). Being on the receiving end of all of these, I would sit back, eyes closed, and revel in the crazy food-call soundscape, a glorious mix of individual rhythms, metres, scales and tones that, on some Charles Ivesian level, fitted into one unique whole. Of course, the chai sellers win hands down, for their amazing ability to create their own unique stamp-mark song out of a simple one-syllable word. During the various train journeys that followed over the coming weeks (yes, there were more) this became my prime occupation, spotting the difference between the chai chants and getting to know each cuppa by the sound of its ring. Perfect for wiling away hours and days on an Indian train.

As it was a relatively short hop from Patna to Bodh Gaya (only 5 hours or so, once we got moving) and Tatjana and I were both equally disorganised, we were in the unreserved section with every man, his brother and his dog/goat/chicken. What a hoot. Although Tatjana didn’t seem to see it this way, evidently quite worn down by the constant staring, the laser-like interest in your every mouthful, sentence, movement. At the time I was reading 'Autobiography of a Yogi' which the English-reading man on my left took a liking to; I only had to put it down for five seconds before he lifted it out of my hands for a less over-the-shoulder style read (no bother, I was glad for the break, it is quite epic). While I tried to exchange friendly comments with our (literally) very close new friends (not least because I was depending on them to tell me where to get off and help me lift down my heavyweight rucksack from its new home up on the high storage shelves), Tatjana most vehemently did the opposite, rebuffing any slight remark or question, no matter how innocent, with a cutting, aggressive reply. I couldn’t help but think there must be a bad experience lurking in there somewhere for her to have been so fiercely defensive to innocent friendly interest; or maybe I just haven’t yet got over my honeymoon phase with Indian behaviours and at some point I will lose all tolerance and openness to another set of social norms. There’s no question, to a Westerner it does feel invasive as your every move becomes carriage news of the week, but one does have a choice about how to handle it. Westerners – particularly female ones travelling ‘unaccompanied’ - are a rare sight on Bihar trains; and we all know what Indians do when they see something unusual and intriguing. Getting upset, aggressive and defensive isn’t going to make them stare any less, in fact it will make it worse, so you might as well just accept being the afternoon’s entertainment and put on a good show.

Arriving into Gaya station was close to what I had anticipated – a crazy scramble to jump, backpack-laden, down from the train and over the railway lines filled with emaciated children begging. We took a brief so-called ‘refuge’ in the Railway Retiring Rooms, splashing out (a whole five rupees) and treating ourselves to the first class ones; even there I had to work hard to keep from heaving. Welcome to Bihar proper, India’s poorest and most notorious state. We took a rickshaw the twenty-minute hop up the road to Bodh Gaya, little more than a village in essence but visited by millions every year because of its fame as the place where Gautama, sat underneath that celebrated Bodhi tree, attained Nirvana. There was me innocently thinking the tree would still be there in a field all alone, waiting for me to go and sit under and contemplate my navel; alas, no, it’s caged in iron railings and there’s a stonking great big temple right next to it. Not to mention the surrounding landscaped gardens and the bankloads of platforms for people to come and do their prostrations. And that’s just within the temple complex itself, which around which are the customary endless stalls selling mini-Buddhas and shortcuts to enlightenment, and chai-wallahs pushing sweet leaves of varying degrees of tastiness. Not that I was headed there just yet. My home for the next ten days or so was the Thai Monastery, set behind the beautiful Thai temple on the edge of Bodh Gaya. As our rickshaw pulled into the big ornamental gates and up to the doors of the glorious, glittering temple, I breathed an enormous sigh of relief at both the beauty and the energy of the place – it just exuded peace. Shanti, literally, on every level. There were a few monks pacing the lawn, presumably passing some hours in their daily walking meditation practise, and a few Westerners milling about. One ten-day retreat had just finished that morning, and some of the more hard-core meditators were staying on for part two. There couldn’t be a better advertisement for the retreat – people walking around vibrating peace, calm and contentment. I was inspired just looking at them.

We were given the guided tour, shown the ropes, including being introduced to the numerous systems in place to enable silent communal living, and taken to the eight-person dorms. Here we got to select our choice of one of the rather unappealling camp-beds, complete with filthy, low-slung mosquito net, something whose importance, at this stage, I ENORMOUSLY underestimated. Then it was time for a quick scout around Bodh Gaya to stock up on warm things (Bihar nights in February in a monastery campbed – chilly) and use up the last remaining power in our vocal chords before making it back to our self-imposed silent prison for 4.30pm. I had no idea really what to expect from the next ten days but I knew one thing – I was one hundred percent, most definitely, up for it. Amidst the chaos of India I’d been craving the chance to really turn inwards and get quiet, a chance to get a glimpse of and process what was actually going on for me. Here I was facing the luxury of ten days with nothing to do but this, and I sincerely couldn’t wait.

Sleepy Old Panjim and a Southern flyby

Hotel Blessings did exactly what it said on the packet. I couldn’t have had a nicer welcome into the slightly dog-eared little place, even the cockroaches were smiley and welcoming. It turned out to be a sign of things to come in Panjim, the beautiful little city (on all levels) that I had a mini love affair with for the mere 24 hours I was there.


Architecturally it’s a wonderful mix of cute and grand colonial Portuguese and delapidated Indian, nestled side by side in stark, striking, friendly contrast in the higgledy piggledy, up and down maze of streets. Catholic Cathedrals sit next to Hindu temples, Muslim mosques and truly prizewinning scaffolding structures . If I had a penny for every moment I’ve spent staring at, and photographing, amazing Indian scaffolding, I’d be a rich lady by now – this one, which is up there with the best, I stood opposite in open-mouthed wonder for nigh-on fifteen minutes as the builders scratched their heads at my bizarre taste in sightseeing.


But just LOOK AT IT – this isn’t construction – it’s ART!


Not quite in the same league, but here’s another runner up for the Indian construction collection, snapped in Panjim later on that day:


The people are a mellow, smiling bunch, eager to please but not pushy, the epitome of the peaceful Goan nature shared by the dosey dogs, cats, cows and goats. And the food is the creme-de-la-creme of the unique cuisine that you find all over Goa, a crazy mix of Indian and European; mainly Portuguese but drawing on a touch of French and Italian too. Of course most of the specialities are MEATY so I can’t say if they’re actually edible or not. Nonetheless, I thoroughly enjoyed wandering the sleepy backstreets and discovering quaint French-style bakeries selling recognisable breads, pastries and even a prizewinning cappuccino (a serious novelty in India), mixed in with little shops selling traditional Goan sweets, and, of course, the unforgettable, innumerable cashew nut sellers (how on earth do they all stay in business?). Days seem to pass by in a slow, timeless haze, the morning’s activities easefully slowing into the hot sleepy afternoons and quiet mellow evenings. What’s the hurry?


Due to a 9am checkout, rather than spending half the morning contemplating my navel (as has been known to happen) I actually had a full day to conquer the city. So, by 9.30am, after a sugar-fuelled bakery breakfast, I had climbed up to the Cathedral for a quick nose and photoshoot.


Outside the Hindu Temple down the road a little boy begging came up to ask me for a few rupees, but went away looking doubly chuffed at having gained a smart new hat and a handful of chocolates (the endless bag-reduction process in action again – this time I think I picked a more suiting benefactor). I followed my nose up one of Panjim’s most impressive hillls and ended up getting wonderfully lost snooping around the gorgeous mish-mash streets, but in the process discovered the gorgeous Sunaparanta Centre for the Arts.


Set in a stunning location right on top of the hill, it sits right next to this delapidated beauty, clearly its rebellious (not-so-little) sister:


The Arts Centre is a space mainly dedicated to visual arts, supporting and promoting both Indian and international artists – the current exhibition was of some really fantastic drawings (apparently – they looked more like photographs to me) of intricate, gnarly tree roots and bark, made by a local Indian guy, but at the time of my visit there was also an English artist in residence. Finally finding my bearings, I made my way into the more inhabited bit of the old town and had a good old snoop around some of the beautiful boutique hotels and quaint little restaurants before finally deciding to treat myself at the gorgeous Hotel Verite (with the equally gorgeous waiter).


Taking a pew in the window seats as I watched Panjim amble by beneath me, I felt like something out of romantic French movie and totally spoilt. What fun.


After fuelling up it was time to tackle the Indian Post. I’d been putting it off for weeks and I was determined to make that bag lighter; the homeopathic remedies suitcase, those extra books and gadgets I obviously don’t need, those organic spices – I know it seems harsh to deprive myself of such obvious essentials but, ruthlessly, they all had to go. Actually I couldn’t have picked a better place than Panjim for my first Indian post office experience – a big, clean, spacious building complete with gardens and fountain (!), INDIANS QUEUEING IN LINES (!), staff who spoke English (sort of)...amazing. And so I began to learn the intricacies of the Indian postal system; what a long, drawn out, beaurocratic mind-boggler, but one I was totally pleased to be a part of. Because I was sending ‘medicines’ (why do I have to be so bloody honest) I wasn’t allowed to use a normal box (?); I had to have the thing SEWN together with special labels and the works. Following the general direction of the nice lady’s finger, I went ambling down a dusty side street to find an old guy in a dark little shop waiting for me. I didn’t have to ask or explain a thing as he took my belongings from me, gestured me to take a pew, and proceeded to get on with focusing every ounce of his skill and energy into making me the most beautiful little sewn-up parcel. Talk about labour of love. This man’s whole purpose in life is to sit in this dark little room and create little parcels of beauty to be sent on their way through the Indian Postal system. It reminded me of the laundry people, infusing their simple work with equal care and devotion. Just sitting there watching it was a meditation in itself, as he measured, cut and sewed the cloth, measured, cut and sewed the clear plastic pockets, prepared the white paper labels, put everything inside, sewed the whole thing closed and handed it over to me with a beaming smile. All for a mere 80 rupees (about a pound). In the grand scheme of things the whole thing was actually totally unnecessary – what difference does it make whether it’s sewn or boxed? – but in practise this bizarre rule keeps this man, and doubtless many other people, in business, not to mention bringing a little bit more beauty into this world.

Since then it seems to have become a bit of a mission of mine to test out the postal systems in various Indian states (and in Indonesia, Malaysia and Thailand, for comparison!), assessing both their wrapping and their delivery skills, and I can confirm that they are not all quite so well organised. In Bodh Gaya, land of the Buddha’s enlightenment in Bihar (India’s poorest and most notorious state), I didn’t even come close to achieving any of the above stages on my own. I found the post office, not so far from the main temple, but couldn’t even get in the door for the throngs of people bulging out of the building and filling all of the surrounding pavement space. I scouted around for someone who looked like a parcel-maker (sewn or otherwise), but couldn’t see any amidst the blaring music shops and fly-ridden street food vendors, and soon gave up due to the onset of heat exhaustion and nausea from what has to be the most intoxicating air pollution in all of India (and that’s saying something). But, later that day, with the help of an angel of a local Indian guy (friend of a friend) we had another shot at it. Well, I say ‘we’ but I did sweet nothing, just following eagerly as our friend took us to some tiny back alley tailor (three weathered guys hunched over Singers in a space the size of a small cupboard) who stitched up the package (despite the lack of medicines inside) for free and gave us a thick black marker to scrawl on the canvas (no fancy labels here). Things were reaching fever pitch back at the post office just before closing time as it appeared to be time for the payment of allowances or something, but somehow or other we managed to squeeze our way into the mass and, by the force of crowd peristalsis rather than any free will, were popped out into comfort of the back office. The clerk in charge was not best pleased at having to deal with an insignificant package to England when normal service hours were CLEARLY OVER MADAM but, according to my translator, he would do this as a VERY SPECIAL FAVOUR. Grunt, scowl, grab your money, throw the package onto the floor in the corner of the room. As we fought our way back through the mass of grasping hands I quietly bade farewell to the contents of my package, fairly sure that I would never see them again. But, to my enormous surprise, I was recently astonished to learn that my little parcel did indeed make it out of Bodh Gaya, out of Bihar, and even out of India, all the way to the London UK and safely onto the doormat of my London sister. Incredible India.

After my Panjim Post Office experience I took the local bus the short hop over to Old Goa, the old capital and now a preserved collection of churches and state buildings. I enjoyed snooping around and getting a sense of the bygone capital, but there are only so many churches in various states of preservation (or decay) that one can take in of a very hot Goan afternoon. Added to that was the fact that it turned out that apparently I was in attendance as the entertainment of the afternoon, as LITERALLY crowds of school children and their teachers (who dominate the patronage of the Old Goa sites) seemed to find me an absolutely hilarious site. I am not exaggerating one ounce when I say that they were literally standing in groups and pointing and laughing at me. Having been in India some six weeks, I was fairly hardened to being stared at pretty much everywhere I went, but this took it to a whole new level, one that I really wasn’t feeling best equipped to deal with in my slightly tired, monument-weary state. When it happened the first time I looked around to see the funny sight behind me – nothing there. “Could it be me they’re laughing at?” So I checked myself, wondering if I had made a classic social blunder - large stain down the top or skirt tucked into pants? All clear. Oh well, I walked on feeling bemused but let it pass over me as best I could. When it happened the second time it started to become clear that they were most definitely laughing at my hair. The new ‘do’, which hadn’t caused much more than a second glance or a nice compliment elsewhere I'd been in Goa, was apparently the wierdest, most unfathomable thing imaginable and they didn’t have any qualms about making this blindingly clear. What surprised me most was that it wasn’t just the little kids huddling and giggling; the teachers were at the forefront: “Look at the circus freak, ha ha ha”.

I guess this inhabits the same realm as the Indian staring thing, something which I met more full-frontal later on up in the North. There simply is NO social conditioning that says that staring is bad. Like so many other aspects of Indian mentality, the method here is just plain simple – see something wierd, enticing, intriguing; look at it (why wouldn’t you? ...It’s interesting...). No question of hiding your interest “to show face” or ‘polite’ concern for making that person feel uncomfortable – all of this is adding layers of confusion to the simplicity, the honesty, of the situation. Although being on the receiving end of it can be far from pleasant if you’ve grown up in a less brutally honest society, at the same time it shines headlights on your own insecurities and has the potential to blow you right open to the raw, fearless you. You have to boldly own everything about yourself and your actions because no-one here is going to pretend that they didn’t see or notice your unusual, perhaps undesirable, traits or behaviours. Doing yoga respectably clothed in the ALLOCATED space of a Rishikesh meditation ashram (which is in a semi-permanent unfinished state), every day a certain young builder would come up to fetch something from his bag. I would carry on with my business but he would stop and stare, mouth open, for what seemed like hours. I felt so WATCHED, so INVADED, “why can’t he just STOP STARING and LEAVE ME ALONE?” After days wearing me down, one day I tried to gesture to him to PLEASE stop staring, pointing to my eyes and trying to make an understandable sign language. He had absolutely NO idea what I was implying and just mimicked me right back; there was clearly nothing in his mindbank that said he ‘should not’ look at me – he wanted to, and so he did. Wildly enfuriating at the time, because I was clinging to wanting the situation to be other than it was, but I soon began to realise that there was huge learning to be had here. I cannot stop him staring, he has every right, it is a free country and they are his eyes. If I really don’t want to be stared at, don’t put myself in that position – don’t do yoga there, end of story. Much better still, find the mindset to continue with my yoga unaffected by his staring; its invasiveness is a construct, albeit a powerful one, of my mind. By the same token, if they want to laugh at my braids they are fully entitled to. If I can’t fully own them I needn’t have them. Ultimately it’s only problematic if I make it so. Let them laugh, let them stare, let go of the paranoia that says I’m less of a human being just because they find something about me entertaining. Why complicate things to such a degree when really they can be very simple and life can be so much happier? At heart it becomes a truly Buddhist practise of letting them be in their space while I try to rest comfortably in mine: let them enjoy their laughter while I stay honestly, happily braided and bending.

Well-known truths, of course, but there’s nothing like personal experience to embed something good and proper.


Nonetheless at the time it wore me down a bit, so after conquering about half the site I called it quits and took a longer-than-expected detour down to the river to watch the occasional cargo ship pulling in and out and make friends with a spectacularly gnarly banyon tree:



Following my misleading nose I ended up walking in a giant circle around Old Goa through a seemingly endless, overgrown, deserted no-man’s-land:


and on through some tiny outlying villages (where I nearly abducted some truly beautiful children) before finally coming back full circle to the ancient metropolis, my safe return welcomed by some truly enomous bare-bottomed monkeys:


Emerging from the time warp of Old Goa I swiftly realised I was running about five hours behind schedule and had missed all possible public transport down south. So, not having many days left to play with, I treated myself to a taxi to Palolem, about three hours down the coast. Bloody good thing too as when I got there the sweet little operation that is ‘Sevas Huts’ was inordinately hard to find, tucked away at the very end of Patnem Beach, the quietest part of this uber-mellow boho beach resort. Although I had a bizarrely silent welcome, the place was perfectly low-key and exactly what I had been craving after the tourist cheese of the past couple of weeks.


I was shown to my bamboo beach hut, complete with its own yoga-perfect porch and, the highlight, my open-air bathroom.


Over the next 48 hours I spent many happy moments sun- and moon-bathing upon my throne (here's the skyward view),


one of which took an interesting turn when a large green frog leapt out of the bowl mid-stream. He wasn’t the only one who got caught unawares and we both leapt sky high in shock (grateful for the lack of ceiling).

I had the joy of my beach hut being in earshot of their surprisingly beautiful on-site yoga classes given by a wonderful Himalayan Yogi - what lucky people to have their yoga introduction from this sincere, knowledgable, humble man. Omm. Lovely, and how refreshing. I only had one full day in Patnem and Palolem and it went by in a flash, eating my way around the various yummy cafes and soaking up the rays and the atmosphere of the place.

Ambling back in the afternoon I took the plunge and approached an Ayurvedic man who I had eyed up earlier in the day. He simply shone out at me, his bald brown shiny head, glistening eyes and beautiful posture simply mesmerising as he sat peacefully reading his book – he was positively GLOWING. I’d been wanting to stock up on some Triphala and this seemed the perfect opportunity (to my innocent eyes), so up I went and told him what I was after. Upon which I swiftly got sucked into spending an inordinate amount of money on an extensive herbal concoction that was to cure me of digestive troubles I didn’t know I had. Even though I walked away financially shell-shocked (and wondering why, at those prices, he’s selling off the floor of a tent and not a marble-countered store), I have to say I couldn’t really regret a nonetheless beautiful encounter that truly made my smile radiate from deep within. Upon checking my pulse, tongue, eyes and nails he decided that it wasn’t Triphala that I needed every day of my life – better a unique herbal concoction that I was to take twice a day for the next month and I’d be’ cured’ for life. Oh really? Fine, sounds perfect (until I got the bill). With which he slowly and methodically selected individual jars of coloured powder from the sea of possibilities swimming in orderly rows on the tent floor in front of us. He patiently introduced each of the twelve herbs to me in turn, telling me its name, its properties and its benefits, before scooping out a perfectly-heaped tablespoon and placing it in line with the others upon his A4 paper palatte. When this ritual finally came to an end he did, much to my dismay, mix the beautiful array of colours into one big brown mess and empty it into a plastic bag, a much less appetising concoction that I had been led to expect (and one that more faithfully reflected its truly REVOLTING taste – boy, did I struggle with that over the coming weeks). Despite the shock of shelling out no less than three thousand rupees (yes that’s about thirty five quid, a HUGE amount of money in India) for herbs I didn’t even know I needed, I nonetheless shared some priceless words with this shining man amount life, love, beauty, my astrological chart and Sai Baba (truly all the rage in India, it seems). Words that left me reeling as I floated into my shoes, out of his tent and back down the beach, full of love for life and people who know how to help you stay connected to the joy in it. I still feel that I didn’t really get much from those herbs – try as I did to get them down daily – but, regardless, that priceless encounter nourished me to a level deeper than money can buy.

Having totally missed my chance to attend and of the dusk yoga classes, I ambled up, past a truly Palolem style beach party:



to Neptune’s Point, for a sunset view and goodbye to the bay before going for a Reiki treatment back at my huts.


Although, to be honest, I spent most of the session wondering if he was actually doing anything, at the end of it he surprised me with his detailed insight into the energetic patterns and problems in my body. Too bad, then, that I was leaving the following day, as he seemed convinced he too could cure me of all my ills (these ones, however, I was definitely sure I had). Oh well, the right thing will always come at the right time, best just keep on living with my dodgy right shoulder.

And so I reveled in my second and final blissfully peaceful night on a quiet Goan beach, quietly resolving to myself that I would be back here before long to meet my Ayurveda man, the mountain yogi, my star-gazing toilet. Maybe ‘ll set up camp here and teach yoga for a bit? Here, and the next beautiful place... Dream... dream... dream...


But before that, get ready girl cos you gotta face that whole crazy world up in the North. Apprehensive doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Greased up and into the jungle

The problem is that I’m just not that bothered about lying on the beach. It just seems like so much EFFORT to lie there bearing the beating rays and sweating profusely, all in the name of accelerating my pathway to old, wrinkly skin. I definitely seem to have turned a corner with this; old friends and family I’m sure would vouch for the younger me as a dedicated sun-worshipper, sweating it out for hours on end in stupidly-low-factor suncream and, amazingly, usually turning a nice shade of deep brown as a result (though there were certainly a couple of memorable beetroot occasions). But, these days, at the ripe old age of 30, I just can’t be bothered with it anymore. I guess it’s one of the side effects of being happier in my own skin, white as it may be. I still love to be in hot, sunny countries, but I’ll take my peace in the shade any day.


Anyway, on a Goan beach it ain’t just the rays that’ll wear you down; the beach hawkers are VICIOUS and they WILL NOT take ‘no’ for an answer. I tried my “no thank you, I’m not interested in buying ANYTHING” with all the patience and politeness I could manage and in every possible variation, but to no avail. Apparently all they heard was “I might look totally disinterested but really I’m gagging to buy something from you, I just want you to hassle me good and proper first”. Reading a book becomes nigh-on impossible as you’re attention is 100% taken up with either fending off a current predator or anticipating which one is going to pounce next. I know these ladies are only trying to make a living, and by all accounts it’s a pretty tough one, but nonetheless I did find it oh-so-trying to be constantly defending my right to NOT BUY to people who CANNOT hear ‘no’. Amidst a few pretty aggressive scenarios involving ladies apparently deeply offended that I wasn’t fulfilling my role as tourist and buying their wares, lying on the beach swiftly lost any of its last remaining appeal.

The thing is, I genuinely wasn’t shopping. I haven’t been the slightest bit interested in buying stuff from the minute I left the UK in December. Firstly I simply can’t carry anything else, secondly I do have a budget, and thirdly this trip is partly about getting away from the acquiring and hoarding that tends to happen when I set up in one place for a while; limiting my acquisition and consumption, freeing myself from my belongings as much as possible. I stuck stalwartly to this even on a trip to the famous Anjuna Flea Market with a couple of fellow yoginis, and after a two-hour stroll through the endless stalls, vaguely reminiscent to Camden Market in the blend of ‘ethnic hippy meets goth’, successfully came away empty-handed. While my friends, on the other hand, showed off their incomparable bartering skills refurnishing their entire houses and ensuring next year’s Christmas Shopping was mostly conquered (in mid-January). Do I sound smug? Ho ho.

I had arrived in Candolim having decided that, seeing as I was gonna be hauled up in a tourist beach hole for 2 weeks whilst I dedicated my early mornings to the Ashtanga Gods, this would be a good time to get on and do that Ayurvedic Massage course I’d been dreaming about. I’ve read and studied Ayurveda a fair bit, including spending a month studying the nutritional side of things in a Sivananda Ashram a couple of years ago, but have been wanting to learn more about the therapies. I’d been thinking of doing a month course here in India but decided other things had to take priority this time around. I guess I’m just skirting around the edges because I’m not quite ready to commit to the seven-year road to becoming an Ayurvedic Doctor through the Indian University system. So I thought I’d start with massage, and see what I could learn in a week or two.

On my first day in Candolim I went for an amble to check out the various places running courses, trying to see beyond the enticing (and not-so-) advertising to the actual quality of what was being offered. I probably should have looked around a little longer, but was equally trying to restrain my Vata/Libra choice-spawns- indecision tendencies. So, after a bit of a chat with the manager of this one place, I decided to commit to an 8-day course. Saji seemed knowledgeable, the place professional and clean, and he was uniquely unpushy, which is developing enormous appeal amidst the chaotic, unrelenting pressure to buy people’s services that I am encountering all over Asia. Cynical as it may be, it is starting to seem like anyone who doesn’t have to force their product in my face probably has something actually worthwhile to offer. But, of course, there’s no topping the taste test, so I booked myself in for a trial massage first. No lady masseuses free that afternoon (convenient?), so I was booked in with the boss himself, which he thought preferable seeing as he was going to be the one teaching me. Ayurvedic Massage being of the particularly personal nature that it is, I continued to remind myself that it was all in the name of learning, if only to keep from wanting the wooden massage table to swallow me up as this man was slathering me in oil and emphatically rubbing it in figures of eight around my breasts. Somehow this kind of thing has a slightly different quality in India, with her deeply embedded social dress and contact codes, and especially because they are particularly tight for women. When I was sat in reception later and a couple of Russian guys walked away after they were told they were only allowed a male masseuse, because “it’s the law”, I asked him why I appeared to have been an exception. His reply, that he seemed to think perfectly reasonable, was that it was ‘ok’ (by law?) for men to massage women but not vica versa. Suffice to say it was a bit late to get myself in a stew about it, the damage having already been done, but I do thank my lucky stars that I have been lucky enough to grow up in a less totally sexist society. Omm.

Sexist politics aside, I wanted to learn and couldn’t faff about forever. So I bit my tongue and got on with it, from then on dedicating my late mornings to learning the art of the world’s most oily massage. After my yoga marathon and a blissful breakfast on the beach, I would head over to ‘AyurTouch’ for 2 intense and exhausting hours of pummelling in huge wave-like motions across various bodies. Despite what he had promised, theoretical information was rather limited (to say the least) – beyond some basic guidelines about the various oils, this was kinaesthetic learning, good and proper. Watch and do, and again, and then some more. Far from learning about marma points and working intuitively with individual bodies, it was more ‘massage by numbers’, learning a set sequence of moves and perfecting the various techniques. Although I had anticipated more than this, to be honest it was exhausting enough in itself, not least trying to commit the whole hour and a half sequence to memory in a relatively short time. For the first few days I was taught by one of the younger guys working there, a sweet and rather handsome young man, whilst the boss lay there grunting in two-toned (‘good’ and ‘bad’) assessment of my efforts (apparently that no-females-touching-males ‘law’ didn’t apply here). But, on day three, my luck came in when they swapped roles and I got to practise my apparently-fast-improving skills on the rippling young Adonis. All in the name of (much more enjoyable) learning. On day five I got passed over to a trio of girls to learn first-hand the difficulties of head-massaging women. All of the glowing compliments about how us Brits are fast learners and how I really did have a good technique went down the pan as they got increasingly frustrated with me and my stubborn fingers refusing to massage in smooth circles across the scalp, instead getting hopelessly tangled in the thick black curls. That, combined with head lady Sheeba coming down with a nasty cold that robbed her of the last of her patience, and I started to feel that the novelty of the English student had certainly worn off. By day six the boss was nowhere to be seen and my ‘training’ consisted of being locked away in a treatment room with one ‘body’ but no presiding teacher, to relentlessly practise and memorise the hour and a half sequence. Thankfully my ‘body’ was the sweetest and most encouraging of them all, one of those rare, eternally patient people who really want you to get it and will kindly but firmly persevere until you do. Actually I never did fully get the hang of the head and the arms, but nonetheless her enthusiasm and smiles at my getting to the end of the eight days made me feel like perhaps I did actually have some talent there. Perhaps.

For a few days I also had a series of Nasya treatments in an attempt to clear the remnants of the ad hoc travelling colds and headaches of recent months. Despite the glamorous and restorative pictures, it was essentially a pretty primitive process that achieved little more than inducing revulsion and nausea. I stuck with it, as prescribed, for the recommended full 5 days, obediently inhaling the herbal steam bath before taking up a supine pose on the wooden table for the horrid onslaught. As I lay with my head tilted back, Madam Sheeba administered the world's most revolting ointment into my nostrils, massaging my sinuses as it trickled down them and towards the back of my throat, all the while encouraging me to snort, draw the whole lot down and then “spit, ma’am, spit, spit, spit!” it out (and whatever you do don’t swallow). I’m not sure whether I was simply too blocked to actually successfully draw down anything to spit out, or whether I am so deeply British Middle Class that I simply cannot hock it up, and especially not when I have an audience. Hocking it up, wretching, spitting, along with belching and farting all seem to be perfectly acceptable public behaviours in India – Nature calls and all that. I actually have a lot of respect for this (though I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the sound of my hotel neighbours cleaning out their stomachs at 5am); it certainly removes another layer of paranoia-inducing ‘should nots’ from societal behaviour. Natural functions are natural functions, some things are genuinely better out than in, and why on earth have we made them into such a taboo? How wonderfully refreshing to be in a country where a middle class woman can belch in public and nobody turns a blind eye (other than me; it startles me still, because this really does take some deconditioning). Nonetheless, as I lay on the treatment table, head tilted back, three bemused Indian faces peering at me as if to say “Why aren’t you DOING anything? Why aren’t you making ANY efforts to help yourself? Do you really have blocked sinuses or did you just want to try this for FUN?”, I simply couldn’t do it. It would seem that I was struck with stage fright; I couldn’t manage more than a feeble little snort at best, let alone hocking up anything worthwhile spitting. I faithfully went back every day for the same revolting treatment, all so that I could walk away feeling nauseated by the desperately bitter ointment running down my throat, but ultimately no less snotty.

After a few days of my busy yoga and massage schedule I started to feel totally exhausted. Pretty amazing how tiring it can be pummelling someone else’s body, it really takes some stamina. So I welcomed the weekend, when it came, when I got some time off from both and tok a day trip to a beach up further North in Goa in vain search of a friend who was teaching up there. Although still very much a tourist beach place, Arambol has a much more mellow, hippy, backpacker vibe(with noticably less tourist hassle!) than cheesy, middle-aged Candolim; in place of fish and chips and football bars were quaint bamboo beach huts, tie-dyed clothing and yoga and meditation adverts every two paces. And the beaches themselves, which I discovered on a long afternoon hike up the coast to some quieter coves beyond the main stretch, are simply stunning. Here's one that even has a little (only just) inland lake:


I actually only made it a few days into week two before deciding it was time to move on. Come the end of the massage course, I decided my work in Candolim was done – although I was enjoying the yoga I wasn’t learning anything new and, in truth, I was craving being able to work in the slower depth I’ve cultivated in my private practise. I’ve come to the conclusion that, if you have an established practise, there’s really only a limited amount you can get out of a couple of weeks learning with a new teacher – it takes that amount of time for them to start to get to know you, your practise and everything you bring to it, and only after this can they really help you progress. It’s a long-term relationship, longer-term work. I wasn’t about to settle down in Candolim for the next few months so, rather than see out my last couple of yoga mornings, it seemed more worthwhile to check out some of the rest of Goa in the few precious days I had left before heading North to Bihar. To be honest I was on a bit of a mission to find the soul of Goa that I knew must be lurking in there somewhere.

But first...it was time to indulge the 15-year old in me and do what I have often thought about but never quite gotten around to...get my hair braided! My last evening in Candolim I spent with the lovely Claire of ‘Claire’s Beauty Parlour’ as she patiently twirled my hair into millions of tiny plaits. Gloriously pointless, yes, but also extremely cheap, so why not? I was surprisingly pleased with the outcome and, judging by the amount of passing comments I got over the following weeks, it seemed to be quite a hit with the Goan boys ;) Shame that after about 10 days I started growing a fuzz halo, its growth no doubt escalated by my daily stint of standing on my head. Furthermore, having not quite mastered the laboriously precise hair-washing technique, my head was growing itchier by the day. So, after thoroughly enjoying my ‘new look’ for a couple of weeks, I parted company with my braidy friends, the long and laborious undoing process a meditation in itself.


I definitely wanted to explore Panjim and Old Goa, the state’s capitals of now and days gone by. But before that I wanted to get a taste of the wilderness of Goa and was struggling to decide how to tackle it (the trials of travelling alone). Somehow I naively got the (wrong) impression that if I actually made it to the Bhagwan Mahavir National Park, I wouldn’t be able to find any accommodation or a guide to help me find my way. So, not wanting to be stranded on the edge of the Goan Jungle, and having read some extremely favorable reviews, I put my experience in the hands of an organised tour. Whoops I did it again, oh dear. The advertising led me to believe I wsa heading for an exhilarating, get-your-hands-dirty-face-your-fears jungle adventure; it didn’t quite spell out that it would be a one of the TAMEST order. As our merry band of 16 set off in the bus from Candolim, our guide, Hercules, told us to buckle up for the time of our lives. We were about to go into the deepest jungle and live proper primitive for the next 36 hours – we were going to (drum roll please...) come face-to-face with bugs, snakes, wild animals, we were going to get dirty and sweaty and face our fears....

Oh, really? Because it seemed more like a jungle theme park to me. I have come to the conclusion that organised tours really are for a different kind of person. I’ve given a few of them a go these past months travelling and always felt that I’m being fed a superficial and patronising tourist ‘experience’ and basically been quite BORED. But at ‘Jungle Book’ (I should have guessed by the name) it appeared I was the odd one out – as we filled in our feedback forms at the end of the trip, while I was busy voicing my opinions on how the trip was ultimately lame in comparison to the promotional blurb, others were complaining that their mud huts hadn’t been cushy enough. Talk about different standards. But ultimately I guess I was the one who had misjudged the whole thing. Organised trips are for people who want things to be ORGANISED for them, for people who don’t have the guts or resources to launch themselves into the unknown, who don't really want an exhilarating adventure. If you want to have an authentic experience it seems you have to go it alone. The problem is, as a solo traveller, it sometimes becomes very difficult to access certain places or activities. I didn’t want to be stranded on the edge of the Goan jungle all alone and I couldn’t get anyone at the mud hut place to answer the phone. So it seemed I had two choices – miss out or go with the tour, despite my reservations.

As I rather unelegantly launched myself and my bag onto the bus, I took up a pew amongst the smattering of sour-faced tourists already on board. I tried a few ‘hello’ smiles but they didn’t have much effect, so I got on with reading my book. As the bus progressively filled up a youngish man took up the seat next to me, defiantly staring straight ahead rather than chancing a communicative glance slightly to his right. Eventually I broke the ice and introduced myself to the Norwegian ‘Jake’, upon which he unfortunately seemed to decide that I was his new best friend and proceded to glue himself to me for the duration of the trip. On the way to the ‘jungle’ we took in a Spice Farm which, despite being a bit of a tourist show, was quite informative and enjoyable. Hercules walked us around and introduced us to the various spices, all growing in their natural setting, and their magic properties – turmeric, beetlenut, cinnamon, cloves, allspice (yes it is actually just one spice!), pepper, curry leaves. And did you know that ginger, cardomom and honey are a powerful natural viagra? Well, now you do. Here's a picture of our 'how to swing from tree to tree' demo (don't try ths at home kids):


After that we were fed a yummy lunch, a true Indian thali - tasters of lots of different dishes and eaten off banana leaf plates. I thought I would follow in the traditional trend and eat it with my fingers, simply because I was becoming accustomed to after six weeks in India – I actually love eating this way, it really seems to taste better. But my behaviour didn’t find fondness with my fellow tourists, many of whom were pushing the unrecognisable food around their plates with their forks and asking if there were any chips to be had: “Oh look, she really has gone ‘all Indian’”.


After that it was back in the bus and on to the ‘Shanti Eco Village’, the not-so-little settlement of mud huts that was to be our accommodation for the night. Having been led to expect the worst from Hercules’ dramatic introduction, I was extremely pleasantly surprised – I was given my own mud hut, which had a fairly comfortable bed (despite the fairly primitive and extremely LOW mosquito net) and even a wardrobe, something I had barely seen in previous weeks. Not that I was about to use it, as the whole place was rather buggy, to put it lightly; a perfect environment for me to continue my practise of selflessly sharing space with all of Nature’s creatures, no matter how black, crispy, many-bandy-legged and goggly-eyed (ugh). Even better, it was en suite WITH A SHOWER – cold water, of course, but nonetheless, what was that about being dirty and stinking? Far from being the basic benchmark accommodation, this was pushing on for Michelin-starred.


After getting settled it was time for the elephant rides. Far from being let loose bareback on board a giant mammal in the depths of the jungle, as the exaggerated advertising had led my naive and overactive imagination to believe, we were paraded in four-person elephant chairs up and down a 400 metre-long stetch in the middle of the eco village. Hurrah.



Following which all 16 of us were bundled into a cart ‘train’ and dragged up and down the lane by two huge beasts with rather boney necks and tell-tale eyes – that was the 40-second bullock cart ride, and it made me feel sick to my stomach. I know they’re inordinately strong and have always been working animals BUT, nonetheless, to be kept purely for tourist rides...I was not proud to be a part of it and, besides, it was totally boring.

After that it was back to the mud huts for a scrub up and don the glad rags for a stroll (we actually got to use our own legs here) to a local ‘traditional village’, perhaps the least ‘traditional’ (whatever that means anyway) of all the villages I’ve seen in India – well-kept houses with satellite dishes and enormous TV screens. We paid a visit to the house of the (deceased) Brahmin’s (the highest caste/social class) wife – technically the ‘chief’ of the village but apparently this doesn’t carry any weight any more – at least not in these parts (the same can’t be said elsewhere in India). In bygone days this family would have ruled the roost and all the other inhabitants of the village would have had to pay them a certain amount of their income (rice or whatever) and a lot of respect, but these days, here, at least, it’s barely anything more than a title. Although our little visit was painfully set-up, she was nonetheless very sweet and accommodating, playing her part so perfectly you never would have guessed she did this every night or so.


She kindly showed us into her (very small) house, complete with the protective entrance Tulsi (holy Indian basil) plant, and even her grandchildren were on hand to sing us a little song. Ahh.

After a face off in the lane with an aggressive sow protecting her calf from our gang of village intruders, we made it safely back to the eco-village for dinner, swiftly followed by the ‘elephant show’, where they dressed the poor beasts up in the most ridiculous costumes, made them do tricks and play football and then, ‘the highlight’, where we got to fed them energy balls and have a photoshoot. All to a high amplitude sound track and circus voice-over. How terribly jungle rough and tumble (?). Athough it is quite astonishing that an elephant can indeed dunk a basketball into a net, and even paint a Picasso lookalike with a brush held in its trunk, nonetheless I was rather mortified to be sat there watching this whole parade. Were these huge, beautiful and clearly highly intelligent creatures raised for this? Apparently the justification is that, what with elephants becoming increasingly less used as work animals in India, the need for them to be trained for such purposes is also decreasing. Training an elephant, notoriously harsh and done by pressing on particular pressure points behind their ears with your feet, is a secret tradition passed down only within the family line of 'mahoots' (elephant trainers), where the eldest son always will follow in the father's footsteps. Mahoots, and hence their knowledge, are becoming more and more scarce, and there seems to be a risk of the great secrets being lost altogether. So this is the justification for putting these animals through fierce training methods, all so that they can prance about for tourist light entertainment.


After a campfire and a spot of intercultural entertainment, it was early showers as we were to be up and on the jungle trail at 6am. This was probably the best bit of the trip, a nice walk through some of the national park, but hardly a strenuous jungle expedition, as we had been warned.


We made it back to meet the less energetic members of the group at Tamdi Surla, an ancient stone temple on the outskirts of the national park, at 9am. Surprisingly odd place for a temple, but apparently it sprung up as a while back this place actually used to be on a trade route and so they decided it needed a temple, a very small and beautiful one at that.


The perfect place for a spot of yoga, in fact. Well, you could hardly call it yoga. The ‘introduction to yoga’ (you see, we were getting the full Indian experience) was the most uninformed and inappropriate hour I have ever spent on a yoga mat, taught by a man who barely knows his own arse from his elbow (quite literally), let alone being qualified to instruct others in finding theirs. I was genuinely surprised some of the less mobile members of the group made it out alive. After no breakfast (I skipped the rather dense, nutritioness offerings of chips, rice and potato curry...for breakfast...?) we were taxied off to a beautiful natural lake for a bathe and a bask, only to be swiftly joined by our elephant friends.


As the beasts approached the water Hercules ordered us all to clear out and sit on the rocks to the side as the elephants can get quite frisky at bathtime. Giiven the size of them I was happy to oblige. There was a small expat British family also bathing there who, although not exactly in the line of fire, ignored the orders and continued going about their business. As the elephants waded in and started enjoying a bit of a soak, Hercules’ voice got progressively louder and louder until he was outright threatening the innocent lady, ordering her to "get out of the pool at once, else the elephants would be sent home again and “everybody’s fun would be ruined.” Not taking kindly to being ordered around when she had simply set out for a quiet innocent afternoon with her family, only to have her usual bathing spot descended upon by a large tour group, she outrightly refused. And so, the elephants were sent out of the water while she had a face-off with Hercules, adamently standing her ground like a true feminist Brit. As I sat on my rock observing the whole scene, I have to say my sentiments were with her, especially when the other English members of our group decided to pipe up and put in their four-pence worth: “I’m ashamed that you’re British” (oh pleeeeease). Yes, she could quite easily have moved but, quite frankly, WHY ON EARTH SHOULD SHE? It is, as she pointed out, a free country, and tourist companies don’t have more rights than individuals, no matter how much weight they might think they have to throw around. Here here. After she’d had her say about human and elephant rights, things quietened down and the elephants got on with bathing themselves and everyone else, spouting trunkfuls of water over our heads in the notorious ‘Elephant Shower’ that Hercules and his tour company were evidently very proud of (it’s AMAZING what training can do). Call me a spoil sport but, given the circumstances, I wasn’t full of enthusiasm for this whole set-up charade; I was shocked at our guide’s appalling handling of the situation and rudeness (a little politeness and tact can go an awfully long way...), and my feelings about the captivity and training of these gorgeous animals fuelled even further. I was glad when, just as we were making our way back to our bus, a window opened itself up for me to quietly express to the lady how deeply I had shared her sentiments, regardless of her ‘Britishness.’


Finally and thankfully, after a wash, brush up and feed, it was time to head back on the bus. I was done with Jungle Book, with being treated like a child in need of tame entertainment, with people who, try as I might, I really don’t have much in common with, and I was definitely ready to prize myself away from the leech-like buddy I had acquired. Having requested to be dropped off in Panjim for the next stage of my Goan adventure, I was quite literally thrown off the bus on a busy road outside Panjim with not a clue as to where I was going (this might have been a backlash from the rather honest feedback I had left on the form). Yet again I’d become accustomed to having it easy after eleven days in Goa, no having to fight and struggle to achieve the simplest of things. But it was a sudden, although welcome, jolt back into reality as I found my laden self standing on an uncrossable highway trying to flag down a tuk-tuk to take me to a decent bed for the night.

Saluting the Mellow Goan Sun

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.