My Year of Living Draftily

50 Shades of Kalari

 

“Cobra pose,” he says gently.

I’d been warned about this one. Lying face down, I prop my highly oiled body up on my forearms and he steps with both feet onto my shoulders while hanging from knotted ropes attached to the top of a steel structure. He proceeds to alternately knead each of my stone-like trapezius muscles and then slide his foot down one side of back to my waist. I hold myself up as long as I can, but eventually the pain gets to me. I hear myself saying “that’s it, that’s it” as I slowly collapse onto my face. I may have undermined my argument by giggling all the way down.

“Cobra pose,” he says patiently.

Oh god. I reluctantly push myself back up and he drops a heel deep into my right trapezius and grinds away, flicking the back of my ear with his toes. I’m momentarily grateful when he lets up to switch to the left.

This is a unique massage experience for me – a fully nude oil massage by a male masseur using largely his feet, under/within a steel and rope structure that one fellow-retreatant called “very 50-shades-ish”.

Like most of the daily bodywork sessions I’ve had at the Ayurveda retreat the practice seems mainly focused on increasing circulation and moving lymph by means of long, sweeping strokes: limb-focused, half-body, or full-body. But the Kalari takes it up a notch with the addition of much – much – more pressure.

The massage is repeated in various ways over all my trouble spots, which in reality are likely everyone’s trouble spots because there is an obviously well-practiced pattern to his massage. The long, sweeping foot running from my hip down the front of my leg to the ankle produces a flight response every time he passes over my quad muscle/ITB, but I resist. For at least a dozen such strokes. He then hooks his toe in my knee to drag my leg out to a side-bend position, and without warning goes after the inner thigh with his heel, causing me to bolt upright in pain the first time, until my breathing can calm me back down to the mat. I let the sweeping movement stretch out the tightness connecting my inner thigh all the way to the ankle, helped along by a lot of deep breaths.

The Kalari masseur is never anything less than professional, despite the clickbait heading I put on this post. It helps that I can tell myself he’s seen thousands of bodies of all shapes and sizes, male and female, in the ten years he’s been doing this work.

After four (four! voluntarily! I'm paying for this!) such treatments I noticed a definite reduction in the tightness of my trapeziuses (trapezii?), as well as some of my other trouble spots. When I get home I’m going to see my Rolfer – also painful, deep-tissue massage – to see if she notices a change in my stone-like trapezius to…something less stony.

 

Ayurveda: Udayagiri Retreat Centre

My trip to India had more of a focal point this year than it has on previous trips. I spent three of the six weeks here at an Ayurveda retreat on the recommendation of a friend. A “full body re-set” she called it; who doesn’t need that by your mid-50s?

The retreat my friend did was the beach version of three run by the same group. I opted for the mountain/jungle version, mainly knowing it would be cooler in the Keralan hills, in the Wayanad District. A week or two on the Goan coast is a good beach vacation, but a whole month in those temperatures would do me in.

I didn’t have a lot of details about what to expect treatment-wise, beyond what’s on the website. And it was probably better that way: definitely some challenging times, of the “I’m paying to feel like this?” variety. But the quality of care and support, incredibly delicious food, and leaving with what feels like a different relationship with my body and a seemingly recalibrated (only word I can come up with) appetite made the overall experience a positive one. I was also impressed by how many people were there for a second or third time – there’s obviously something that keeps them coming back. Besides, given the range of experiences of the various people at the centre during my stay, my specific experience isn’t necessarily indicative of what another’s would be.

What I will offer is a photo album of my time at Udayagiri. While there are treatments and consultations every day, as well as multiple optional yoga, pranayama, and pooja  (prayer ceremony) sessions daily, there’s still a lot of downtime to do your own things: reading meditating, walks, photography, crossword puzzles (just for example). The centre also offers a tour of the nearby Ayurvada Yoga Villa/Riverside retreat centre, which is the main pharmacy that prepares almost all of the medications used by the other two, which I took advantage of. And I managed to squeeze in a morning safari at the Tholpetty Wildlfe Sanctuary on my last day. 

Enjoy the photos!

 

Then there’s that time I got run over by a horse…

As most of my friends know, I’ve got a lot of travel stories. I try to rein them in – honestly! – as I don’t want to be that person where every second sentence starts with “when I was in [insert exotic locale]…” Way too pretentious.

But I’ve got a good one to add to the repertoire, so I’ll record it here in all its glorious detail. Friends, when I next see you, you’re invited to stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

Agonda Beach, again, provided a gentle, if hot, start to my Indian Adventure (v 5.0). In the few days I’ve been here I’ve taken to dawn walks on the beach as it’s still relatively cool.

On my fourth morning, I’d walked to the south end of the beach and was on the return lap to my guesthouse when I stopped to take photos of a herd of the elusive (not) Goan Beach Cow. I’d already photographed them 20 minutes earlier, but the light had shifted and they were so gently illuminated! Through my camera I noticed a man on the far side of the cows waving his arms and shouting, definitely alarm-like. I looked behind me, towards the sea on my left, and saw two horses galloping at full speed at the water’s edge, hooves pounding. I also noticed a jogger coming in the opposite direction, on a collision course, and saw her veer (wisely) up onto the high beach towards the cows to get out of the horses’ way.

I was a good 15 feet from the water’s edge, so assumed I was a spectator to this just-averted crisis. I put my camera back up to my eye to maybe catch the horses thundering past on the water-side of the cows. But again, I saw the dude still waving his arms. I started to look behind me, and just as I turned my head to the left I noticed the pounding hooves sounded much closer than I’d expect, and before I can even see it the massive black chest of the larger horse slammed into the left side of my body.

I hit the sand hard, though was thankful for at least a soft landing spot and no connection with the pounding hooves. If I'd been a couple inches further to the left this would have turned out very differently. The horse carried on still at full speed, its novice rider shouting and obviously not in control of the situation.

This whole scene – from first noticing the guy waving his arms to hitting the ground – played out in about five seconds. The horse unilaterally made a last-second decision not to pass between the cows and the sea and instead headed for higher ground. Through me.

People were on me immediately – both the jogger and waving-arm guy and others. They helped me ascertain that I could move all the things I’m supposed to move, with no extra-mobile parts. They got me onto my feet where I discovered I couldn’t put weight on my left hip, though I could still move it – not broken, but not fine either. Waving-arm guy – eventually found out his name is Hari – helped me to a nearby sunbed in the shade. He ran off and was back in a few seconds with a frozen litre of bottled water that we applied to my hip, which appeared to have taken the brunt of the blow.

The rider managed to get his horse back under control several hundred metres down the beach, then came back to check on me. Turns out he’s from Toronto, and was suitably Canadian with his apologies. He had been taking riding lessons for a while on the beach – the other rider was his instructor – but on that day, in that moment, the horse had other ideas about who was in control. Ah well, shit happens.

Hari helped me back to my guesthouse down the beach, with a lot of hobbling, and left me with the makeshift icepack. I cleaned off the sand embedded seemingly everywhere; it was if I’d hit the ground naked.

While water could clean me off, no amount of brushing and blowing is going to fully clean my brand new camera. It was literally its first shooting foray since I bought it about a month ago. I’ve done my best, and it’s still working, but some of the lens functions don’t sound or feel good. I’ve coined a new collective noun for those last few grains of sand that you acquire from various beachy locales that will never, ever fully be gone: an insidiousness of sand.

Serendipity had landed a group of midwives in my guesthouse for the weekend, on a break from their teaching work in Hyderabad. They advised me well on pain management to allow me to keep moving so I didn’t stiffen up, and what symptoms to watch for that may indicate anything more serious than the deep bruising that will eventually surface (and none of those symptoms have materialized, thankfully). A mix of ibuprofen/swimming/paracetamol/slow walks/icing/Tylenol PM got me through the day and night. Even better, the dreaded “day-after pain is worse” didn’t happen. By the next day I could fully put my weight on my hip and was walking without a limp. But the abatement of the acute pain has made me aware of the general ache throughout my body: left shoulder, back of my ribs, stomach muscles (??), left side of my neck – all have some low-mid level complaint.

As luck would have it, I leave in two days for an Ayurveda retreat in Kerala, a program that involves lots of massage. I think I’ll be getting my money’s worth.

And now you’ve heard this one before.

Tiruvannamalai: Temple obscura

Back in 2008, on my year of Indian travels, I made the trek to Madurai in southern Tamil Nadu to visit the massive (6 ha) must-see temple to the goddess Meenakshi. It’s particularly noted for its seven enormous, intricately carved and colourfully painted gopurams (towers). I arrived at night, and specifically chose a hotel situated to give me a good dawn view of the towers. I went to the roof to scope it out before bed; in the dark I couldn’t make out any detail, though I found it strange that such a highlight was not lit up. Their hulking shapes seemed strangely smooth given their supposed ornateness, but I set my alarm anyways.

The next morning I scrambled up the stairs with my camera and multiple lenses well before the sun’s rays hit, but light enough to see. And what I saw was the towering gopurams – definitely impressive in size – all completely encased in scaffolding that itself was shrouded in sheets of woven palm. They had just started a repainting effort that would take at least two years to complete.

Fast forward to January 2016 and I’ve left myself a couple of days after my nearby meditation retreat to explore Tiruvannamalai. Tiru’s two claims to fame are the Sri Ramana Maharshi Ashram and its far more ancient Arunachaleshwar Temple. Built at the foot of Mt. Arunachala, an extinct volcano that is revered as the fire incarnation of the Destroyer of the Universe (Shiva, represented by the “phallus of fire” that at some point emanated from the volcano), the temple is also a highlight on Tamil Nadu’s crowded temple tour trail. Its 10 ha complex, one of the largest in India, is surrounded by high walls and four towering gopurams, these intricately carved as well but all gleaming white.

Or so I read. Because when I arrived all four gopurams were covered in bamboo scaffolding. No palm sheets this time, but definitely obstructing the view. There are several smaller internal towers that are coloured, but also scaffolded for painting.

Is it just me? I can imagine that it must be a huge job to keep up on the maintenance of these ancient and complex structures (the temples, especially the large ones, are wealthy enough to afford it), and the before-and-after difference is worth it, but still...

My time in Tiru was split between two distinct parts of town. One is the travelers’ enclave around the Sri Ramana Ashram; I wasn’t staying there but many of the participants from my retreat were so it was a handy area to run into a few folks for dinner and enjoy a welcome change in diet (hello, German Bakery!).

The other is dominated by the temple, surrounded by the usual temple bazaar chaos and services. I’d spent some time wandering in the ashram, and stayed to enjoy some lovely bhajan (devotional) singing. But it was walking barefoot through the Pongal (harvest festival) crowds in the temple that I felt that familiar “happy place” feeling rising up from my gut, my chest, until I’m wandering about the temple with a smile on my face. I don’t recall a smile, or the happy place feeling, as I drifted among the ashram devotees – Western and Indian – at the tranquil, cerebral, and comparatively quiet ashram complex. 

There’s nothing wrong with the ashram, of course – if I wanted to sit and meditate I’d choose it over the temple in a heartbeat – but I just don’t connect to it in the same way as I do the temple. Maybe I gravitate to the stimuli of the temple – the colours, the excited people, the smells, the bells, the non-stop photo ops. You don’t just “visit” an Indian temple, especially a busy one on a festival day (and there are a lot of festivals), you are immersed in it. Even without participating in “darshan” (viewing of the god figure, for which there are long corralled lines behind bars, people calling to me for photos just for something to do while they wait in the heat) I can’t help but be part of the mass, even as part of me is somewhat floating outside of it all.

By the time I make my way out and retrieve my sandals from the two girls near the entrance (10 rupees and “Photo!”), I’ve forgiven the obstructed views of the temple’s most obvious features. Its gifts were received regardless.

Driving in India: the land the shoulder check forgot

 

1. Goa

“Driving in India is very dangerous,” says my taxi driver as we’re overtaken by a motorbike and car simultaneously. We’ve only just hit the main road after leaving the airport in Goa, the final leg of my 44 hour journey from Canada to India.

After this opening statement he tells me he’s a very safe driver because he only drives 70-80kmh, as he follows the bike that just passed us to pass a large truck, via the shoulder to the left of the truck (India drives on the left, a holdover from the British Raj days).

That dubious manoeuvre complete, he proceeds to rattle off a slew of accident stats for India, each more alarming than the last. I top him with my go-to India traffic factoid from a global report released while I was here for my year-long trip in 2008: India then had just (2007) pulled into first place for the absolute number of road fatalities globally, surpassing China for the first time. Which isn’t that surprising given the population size of both countries. What was surprising was that while India was responsible for about 10% of global road fatalities in the year of the study, it managed to achieve that with only 1% of the world’s vehicles.

Badami: Small Town Charms

I learned my lesson in Bijapur: early means early. I’m out of my room at 6:30am, walking off confidently in the dawn twilight according to the directions I was given, repeated by the first person I come across at the main road.

My confidence wavers after about 10 minutes, so I check again. No, I’m heading in exactly the opposite direction I should be going. I should know better to confirm the details that seem obvious to my enthusiastic helpers that aren’t so obvious when I hit the road. I turn around, pass my hotel, and head into town. The road is still relatively quiet, mostly other walkers, still cool, it’s actually quite a lovely walk. When I reach the main T-junction at the town, executing the right/left directions I was given makes more sense (and I check a few times as I go).

I’ve now left the rising bustle of the main roads and am in a quiet residential neighbourhood, itself just waking for the day. In fact, some haven’t woken, and I almost tread on two children still fast asleep and wrapped in a blanket on the road, I think in front of their small house. Maybe it’s cooler outside? 

Bijapur: let the real travel begin

I had a few days to kill before heading to Hampi. Goa was a lovely tropical vacation, of course, but it didn’t really feel like ‘traveling’ – I kind of felt like I was slacking in some way. Which is fine for a while, but you eventually need to get to the heart of the matter, and that’s not to be found on a Goan beach.

I feel I have different muscles that I use for different kinds of travel. I noticed the shift almost as soon as I hit the train station in early in the morning in Margao, Goa’s main hub. This isn’t the beach anymore. The energy of people on the move infuses the open air station. The chanting of “chaichaichai...” by a passing vendor as I entered put me firmly in Indian train station mode, awakening a whole different set of senses and even body memory. I had a sense in that moment of my trip finally starting “for real”, even though I was almost two weeks into it. My pulse quickened and I could tell that I was already really enjoying (really?) this. Except for the part where I tried to use the station washroom with two packs and absolutely no chance that I’m putting anything on THAT floor! But you figure it out.

Goa: Agonda Beach

 

After writing about how India is an assault, I started this trip in the least assault-y place in the country, Agonda Beach in Goa: an enormous expanse of white sand stretching into the distance with gentle surf, lined with a string of low-rise wood/palm/thatch restaurants and beach huts. It caters to a range of travellers but definitely has more up-market feel. Fish, fresh fruit and WiFi are plentiful, and it all adds up to a pretty idyllic tropical vacation spot. Early morning yoga, my favourite waterside meditation rock, beachside breakfasts, power tanning (under an umbrella, let's not get crazy), fresh mango juice, sunset beer or G&T, lovely woven palm hut, cool showers on steamy afternoons - these are a few of my favourite things.  With the 12 days I just spent there, I have about doubled my Goan beach time in 18 months of Indian travel. Rank amateur by Goan traveler standards (this is a long-stay kind of place), but baby steps.

Leaving the bubble: Theory #1

It’s been a struggle to stay awake the three hours I had to kill in Moscow. I navigated the steps to get my onward boarding pass, one last security screen, got on the airport’s free WiFi to see if Facebook and any last minute emails could keep me awake. Barely. FB friends don’t know how close they came to seeing a post from me that read :”...last layodjwnhortsdjd...”

Then the 1am flight got delayed. Kill me now. I lent my phone charger to a nice couple from Tajikistan, but the language barrier was too great to go beyond basic geography. My head snapped forward for the umpteenth time. So need to sleep on this last leg.

Finally, we board. I trudge down the cold gangway to be greeted at the plane with a chorus of “namastes”, folded palms, and a woman in a beautiful orange/yellow/red uniform sari. I’m on Air India, I’d forgotten! It’s a wide-bodied plane with row upon row of burnt orange seats on red patterned carpet. There’s a distinct smell of Indian food in waiting.

And that’s all it takes. I’m excited, I’m fighting back tears. Still on the ground in freakin’ Moscow and my body has gone into India-arrival mode. I recognize it immediately, and the question arises in some layer of my consciousness: why does India do this to me? What has me so hooked, so hard?

My Inner Beach Bum

I'm so not a fan of Goa. I'm one of those travel snobs, particularly in India, that sees Goa as the place where people go when they have no real intention to visit "India", they just want a cheap vacay on the beach. Or a place they can afford to stay/drink/smoke on the beach for months at a time. The slightly more adventurous may make the epic eight hour train trip to Hampi - their taste of 'real' India - for a few days, which is laudable except that a few of them seem to not realize they're in a very different place than Goa and assume the same wardrobe and behaviour is acceptable (it's not).

After four days in Benaulim, I was cured of such pretensions. Almost. Somewhat.