Gorgeous Goa

As it had been years since I frequented the rickety frames of a Eastern tuktuk, I foolishly decided to ride one from Margao, the main train/ bus station in Goa, to Agonda beach, my home for the next month. The severe lack of suspension coupled with dubious, if not downright dangerous, driving style of my ballsy driver has potentially left me with several slipped discs. Perhaps not a great prelude to a month of intense physical exertion, buuuut you live, you learn.

Fernando Rodriguez, ostentacious tuktuk operartor, comes from a line of potentially 5 generations of Portuguese Goan settlers from what I can gather, I generally only understand one in every fifteen or so words, but he is very jolly, and a great host for my inaugral journey into the state. Although, I was somewhat preoccupied by the eight enormous webs cradling sizeable, dark masses I've spotted strewn sometimes maybe 8ft wide through the plumage of a muddle of tropical trees in great expanses of lush jungle, inevitably containing a million untold terrors.... My crazy colleague Charlie was perhaps right, an umbrella may not have gone amiss when passing through such terrain.

After about an hour and a quarter, or twenty crippling kilometers, I checked into my basic room at Fatima's and checked out the stuunning beach about 100m from my door. I swam blissfully, bobbing about by my myself in an unbelievably quiet and serene expanse of fine sandy goodness, fringed with palm and banana trees, then took a stab at hooping (which lasted no more than two-three hundred seconds in the scorching heat), before it was all too much and i took a well-deserved nap.

                                   
At 5pm, all the 200hr yoga teacher training students met in the guesthouse restaurant for an initial meeting with Deepak, the equivalent of our yogic guru for the month - who turns out to be pretty good fun. We ate a delicious vegetable curry whilst discussing the evils of mass food production in the West. 

But now, time for bed. Here ends the smooth and painless gliding of my joints and the effortless contraction of my meagre muscles. We rise at dawn! (ish).

7am marked the beginning of our yoga journey, and Sampoorna marks the occasion with a 'Homah' or Fire Ceremony. This practice offers thoughts and emotions to the Divine oneness of the Universe. And so we sacrificed the impurities of our lower nature into the Fire of Awareness and look forward to accessing our higher beings with the ultimate goal being Samadhi - enlightenment. A tall order for the month, but I'll give it my best shot. Keshava the yogic monk chanted mantras from about 6:30 until we finish around 8am which was pretty mental. 

Om Srim Hrim Klim Glaum Gam Ganapatye Vara Varada Sarva-janum Me Vasamanaya Svaha
Seek the Bessings of Supreme Consciousness manifested in the form of Ganapati, embodiment of auspiciousness, remover of all obstacles, dispeller of Sorrow, and who fulfills all desires.

The ceremony was beautiful and we tossed various items into the flames to mark the spirituality and materialsm of our goals, purifying ourselves and the enviornment of the shala where we will practice yoga (the fumes also being great for alleviating mozzy attacks, double win).

The rest of the day consisted of introductions to Anatomy, Asanas (yoga poses), Ashtanga, Alignment and Philosophy classes. The whole day was aweomse, inspiring, full of a great international broth of yoga disciples, beautiful weather, a glorious sunset, fantastic food, and only ever so slightly marred by the early discovery of my very own resident coackroach. Which fell within a millimeter past my face from the top of my bathroom door this morning., invoking a cartoon leap into the air of atleast 3ft. I can obviously no longer sleep with the light off in this place. Ever. First lesson in Philosophy: never harm another living being. Damn. 

Fine dining

So yesterday morning was more of a struggle. Travel arrangement casualty number one.... I wake up at 7:17 in my scrotty little room. My train just left. Damn.

So I wistfully wander the streets trying to locate a travel agent, tip toeing around laid out locals snoozing on the pavements, to find Mumbai barely rises before 8:30am. There's only one thing for it, much more much needed sleep...

I woke at 11:20 in a reasonably foul mood, partially plagued by the 9 Vesuvian bites on my ass (great, malaria and it's only day #2), by the waste of money (tuppence for the 380 miles in question, to be fair), by the missed sun rise infused train journey, and the unexpected extra day in beautiful Bombay...

The view from my 'Delight'ful bedsit

But these things are sent to try us, and since I am on my gap yar spiritual journey of yoga and meditation in Indya literally, I thought forgeeetttaboutit! And though I do have a niggling thought that; had I got through to Jack before bed last night he would have inevitably told me to most certainly not rely on my trusty, but now disgraced, Casio (furious you were right there big guy...), sweet karmic reverberations did, as a result, have me serendipitously stumble across the lovely Pooja. A beautiful and open minded bio-med student turned incredibly talented seamstress. We converse at length about the similarities and differences between our cultures, but mainly to be honest about food. It turns out i haven't had anything near enough authentic Bombay culinary excellence, so I am fortuitously whisked away to meet friend Carpesh at a cool place a little further North call Onk Kake - Punjab for Hey! Younger Brother - and so begins my brief introduction to Indian eating...

I must try paani puri - which turns out to be those curious little crispy spheresI've been seeing piled high on the road sides, which are 'sweet and at the same time sour and at the same time salty'. Bhaji actually means vegetable, daal is curry and sukh means dry. Wow, and as an intriguing side note; my dictionary knows that starbucks better appears as Starbucks, but it knows nothing of bhaji or daal. It is definitely missing out.  I had the sneaking suspicion that local UK curry houses aren't perhaps fully demonstrative of the fragrant spectrum of sumptuous Indian offerings, but I am sort of still constantly surprised. 

We eat roti dunked in a myriad of delicious sauces, navigating precariously but joyously with our hands until I can barely move. And then comes some rice. For the main aspect of the meal. Dear lord! After we finish (well, as much we can, all for 1.80 GBP!) and have a quick group snap; I practically roll out the resturarnt, turgid with Thali, bid Pooja and Carpesh a fond farewell and stroll back to watch the sunset at the Gate of India before my train to Goa. Within about 2 milliseconds I am spotted again, the only white skin amidst a mass of dark shades. They are currently occupying a considerate 4ft perimeter, with the occasional handshake thrust upon me. Oh! Strike that, they've closed in.....

I had to pack up my shiz and bail, as the fury of photos became slightly alarming. I've got a wicked photo of a wall of intrigued Indians snapping a photo of me...I'll put it up soon. And oh yea! Pooja answered the ginger barnett mystery. It's henna! Which makes more sense... Sort of.

                              

The bus sleeper bus was pretty sweet and I slip into a languorous laid back lethargy snoozing fairly immediately. Two hours later I wake up, and we're still not even out the city! How I slept through the relentless beeping I literally do not know. Over the next 14 hours I sleep mostly, and we stop several times to let people out and the only sound to break the night's silence is the occasional obstreperous hocking up of a filthy loogey, favourite pass time of Indian dudes it seems, before they pelt them out the nearest window or onto the floor. Nice. I guess they say better out that in, but in this instance I'd be inclined to disagree.

Ironically, the only awesome apostrophe I've seen so far was spotted around this time:

    d'not spit

An interesting twist on the omission of a letter, but each to their own! What I am growing to like about the culture is they it all their own way; apostrophes, half built houses, highly questionable driving methods, strained looking power cables clusters, the cheeky extra half hour on the time difference. I kind of like it!

Oh! Remind me to mention the bats next time! I made it to Agonda in Goa, and have had the induction with some other epic yogi bears, but insufficient hydration perhaps, coupled with intense cooking from the sun beckons my weard head to sleep. Peace out.

Mumbai madness

So the flight was fairly chilled. The meals got progressively better as we ventured East. The first between London and Doha; a myriad of suprirsingly succulent fruits, yogurt and some sapid, sloppy sweet crepes. 

Followed many hours later by a paneer tikka massala between Doha and Mumbai with delectable dashings of piquant pickles and some enigmatic almond gloop. A rather tasty prelud to the next few months. Then came the long overdue realisation that long haul flights come with complimentary booze... Cue several pops at the Chilean merlot, which partially impaired my ablity to absorb the yogic anatomy anthology I have in my inventory.

Luckily for me, an amible Spaniard on his fifth trip to India, to inaugrate a repspectable route of reliable mango retail between Mumbai and his motherland (they have the best in the world in India it turns out - can't wait), helped me discover some stashed immigration cards behind an unmanned desk - as of course, I'd missed inexplicably missed that mandate during the flight

After a 2 hour snooze on an uncomfrotable marble block, I rose wearily at day break to take on the trek into town. Skillfully circumventing the undulating sea of taxi touts, despite the alluring allusion to 'speed' promised in semi-legible, shaggy vinyl on every spare inch of the beaten chassis, I bounced forth on good advice from a severely good-vibes guru from the airport, to bump shoulders with Bombayians on the barborous public transport.

During a tense exchange experienced when asking for advice from the belligerent bus ballot bloke on the 308, I found salvation in a beautiful Indian girl who gave mevague direction in broken English and directed me to the front 'ladies only' carrige. I felt more at ease in the company of females. Most were travelling in small family cohorts and here I was more likely to steal a surreptitious smile, once the short-lived scruitiniy is over and she suddenly realises that are simply someone's harmless sister or daughter.

Touchdown in town, sweating to the nines. Even the meagre 11 kilos on my back has become somewhat of an immediate burden due to the wall of heat which sweeps over the city as the sun rises. So it's an uncharacteristic quick decision, motivated by a desire to shower with a level of immediacy, following some guidance from a tiny ginger gentleman (a staggering proportion of Indian gentlemen opt for this perplexing shape), to lodge at the Delight Hotel, a delightfully overdressed description of what turns out to in fact be; some ridiculously rudimentary rooms. But passable no doubt.

                             

                                  

                                  

                                                                      Creepy puppets at Gandhi's house.

I learned that Gandhi's real name was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, and Mahatma means simply the High-Souled one, or Venerable in Sanskrit which came to be his name naturally in honour of his services to the people. It was so interesting to learn about his many acts of peaceful civil disobedience in favour of India's independence and think about the implications from within the country. And I had randomly learned shortly before that Mumbai is named after Koli Goddess Mumba, or Maha Amba, the Great Amba, who was patron of salt, the subject of one of Gandhi's epic marches. 

              

The rest of the day is spent battling the crowds during a Jain holy day, agreeing to accompany a tiny native called Ashak on an auspicious expedition of the city, and trying to avoid the attention of a mass of misguided Mumbaians at the Gate of India, who seem convinced I'm some sort of glorious, glamarous celebrity and insist on photographing me with every member of accompanying friends and family units. Worst things have happened at sea. 

I ate at the infamous Leopald's Cafe, a location of the 2008 Mumbai bombings, and featured heavily in Shantaram as the criminal convene for the cities baddest. They do a lovely garlic naan incidentally, and I saw no obvious drug deals. Spot of shopping, then bed!

First impressions of India? Aflame with radiant sunshine, gorged with 11.98 million friendly faces, scented by the ambrosial agreeability of inscence billowing out of every entrance, with a reprehensible landscape wrought in relentless realms of rubbish, all accompanied by a deafening cacophany of incessant car horns; I can't help but conclude that the attack on the senses is simply sublime. 

Still, southward bound to the beautiful beaches.....

Intrepid Trip trepidation

The last 2 months have been hectic. Planning to take some time to chill out, isn't actually
that chilled out, it turns out. But someone told me that ''prevarication is the thief of time," and so I thought I'd coin my own term in ultimte conclusion and response:

Don't say ummm, say Om ॐ