India as Emotional Bootcamp

I’m not embarrassed to say that I cried a lot in India. Nearly every day. Normally, I am not a Crier but rather a Repressor. This tendency to bury strong emotions, good or bad, has led to some problems in my life which I am committed to resolving. And I have India to thank for that. 

India doesn’t give a shit if you’re hesitant or scared. India will force you out of your own head and sweetly demand that you open your heart, scars and all. It isn’t India’s job to be respectful, or fair. India doesn’t owe you anything. I came to India to learn. Yes, with my cohort but also to test myself. And I learned a lot more than I really wanted to know. I learned that I am anxious. I learned that I will always believe in the kindness of strangers, even as they are groping me. I learned that I value the wrong things. Money doesn’t matter. Job titles come and go. Relationships are only beneficial when they are healthy. I learned not to dwell on someone else’s bullshit. I learned that my intuition is crazy awesome. I learned to listen. I learned that I can feel it when someone is being dishonest and I can also feel it when someone has the best intentions. I learned to trust my gut, literally. My stomach is strong; it took every gastrointestinal assault India threw my way! I learned that I am not an alcoholic; I just really like the feeling of a glass between me and the people around me. I realised that I am stronger than I thought, not physically but the kind of strength that can carry you through a dark place and into the light. I found out who my friends are. I learned to appreciate simple things like a smile from a stranger or a really great belly laugh.

Bollywood star in training

Most of all I learned to see the beauty in the seemingly random events in life. I was getting an oily, ayurvedic massage in a woman’s tin hut one day in Varkala. When it was finished, suddenly a huge clap of thunder shook the beach, we lost power and the hugest monsoon began. I had my laptop with me and was really far from my guesthouse, so she invited me to stay until the rain slowed down. She lit candles as her eight children rushed into the hut and away from the rain. We didn’t speak the same language, but we found a common love: dance and performance. The woman’s youngest daughter performed for us, singing in Hindi and dancing. Every movement told a story, and for four hours I sat there, mesmerized. Eventually she convinced me to get up too and I showed them some tap moves and ballet poses. I felt ridiculous and also accepted by these strangers whose lives I was able to penetrate for one evening in the dark. I felt honoured to have spent the time with her family. At home, I would have felt like an intruder, or felt anxious about being trapped in a hut with strangers, but it was one of those moments which I will always treasure. We had nothing in common but the rain and the fact that we both know what I look like naked, but we parted as friends.

I swear I wasn't holding them at gunpoint.

God's Own Country

This is Kerala's state slogan and dear lord is it true! Named as such because of the myriad of natural wonders in such a small, but "wealthy" state, Kerala boasts beautiful white & black sand beaches, lakes, rivers, mountains, canals & forests. Moving north from Trivandrum (read my premier blog about the train experience there), I was so looking forward to the promise of a chill vibe atop sheer, red-clay cliffs in Varkala. A part I forgot to mention about the train was that I was kicked out of the a/c cab as I had unwittingly bought a ticket for sleeper class with just 10 minutes left in my journey. So I waited, where else, in the urinal cab, trying not to breathe and counting the palm trees that whizzed by. So ready to get off that train, I considered just leaping out as soon as I felt the train slow (hey if the kids can do it in "Slumdog Millionaire", why can't I, right?!) But eventually it did slow and I was the first off the train, battling hordes of school kids who ended up hanging out of every train door and barred window.

Steps to the beach etched into the cliff

I grabbed a rickshaw for Rs70 to Varkala Beach and instantly the memory of the train slipped away as the Arabian glistened and beckoned me like the salty temptress she is. Dividing into three areas, Varkala caters to mostly european tourists on the north and south cliffs while Hindu devotees pray at the inland Janardhana Swamy temple before making their way down to Papanasam Beach to scatter the ashes of their dearly departed. In the morning they wade into the waters and the sea around them turns turquoise with the ashes. I didn't want to take photos, it felt too intimate even watching their procession.

The guesthouse I can my eye on was closed for renos, but the owner sent me across the Tibetan Market lane to another guesthouse, Thiruvathira. She doesn't look like much from the outside, but inside she is all cool marble floors, netted four poster beds, clean ensuites and for my room, a balcony overlooking the villagers huts. It was exactly what I was looking for, and for only Rs350/night, it was a bargain.

My morning view, chai in hand, text in the other

Ms. Vasantha runs it with warm, yet independent, hospitality. When I tried to give her a tip to thank her son for carrying my bags up to the room, she misinterpreted and instead brought me a chai tea. This became my morning ritual, sitting on my balcony, watching the birds bathe in the monsoon rain or the villagers put out clean laundry to dry, reading my suddenly interesting textbooks and drinking the most delicious chai I have had yet in India.

Varkala is most definitely a tourist destination but the half-naked white bodies on the beach keep to their side while the devotees worshipping their ancestors keep to their section, seemingly in perfect harmony. The dress code is more lax here, and I reveled in wearing sleeveless long dresses or tank tops over the ever comfortable "ali baba" pant. I spent the first day chilling at a cafe overlooking the water, drinking lemon soda and watching the waves try to carry the tourists out to sea.

I had a proposal to write while I was in Varkala so I spent much of my time cafe hopping between wifi connections. Thank you to the Little Tibet Cafe, Cafe del Mar & People for letting me chill out for a couple hours, ranting when the internet connection was touchy and feeding me wonderful Tibetan momos (dumplings) and thai soups. Shopping at the many vendors became like a sport, bargaining with young girls who were as smart as they were persistent. My favourite girl was 19, had been married for a year and was 5 months pregnant. Over a henna tattoo, she told me how lazy her husband was, how she did all the work while he sat and smoked with his friends. She hadn't wanted to be married but of course her parents "strongly encouraged" the union. She was the eldest daughter of seven children and as such, it was her place to marry. After that story, I was happy to "over pay" for henna and a sarong (Rs700=$14CAD). She asked me if my parents would "make me marry" in Canada. Ha. If we were an Indian family, I'm sure I would have been betrothed to Adam Zroback at age 9, over a few too many beers at a soccer party. I have never been so glad to be Canadian. No offense to Adam Zroback of Powell River, of course. ;)

North beach, Varkala