We used to vacation...

Shame England can't catch this well. . .

We used to vacation

At the moment I’m sat on a beach front just out of Margao (Madgoan), the capital of Goa. Starting with the end of my time in Gokarna this chapter isn’t one with summits and valleys of productivity, rather the time has been spent in a very relaxed manner. However this relaxed, ‘shanti shanti’, mentality is a nice one to have while submerged in this vibrant culture, with different intriguing things to do.

German Ninja Circus

                The first of these small accomplishments is to be found on the slack line. A slack line is a long piece of material that is used to secure crates on lorries and ships. The elasticated material is about an inch in diameter, and very strong.  Strung up between two palm tree’s the slack line takes upon the nature of a tight rope. After a few days spending reasonable periods of time on the line I can now stand, balanced, on one foot. However the German lads who were teaching me were able to walk forward’s, turn around and walk backwards.

                As a nice aside to keep the moment fresh, one of the guys I’ll be traveling with has just started a crowing contest with a cock. By means of attrition the cock is winning. We have spent the last three hours relaxing in the afternoon sun, feeding an elephant and swapping stories over Chai.

                After Gokarna I spent a night sleeping on a rooftop. Nice as the thought was in the warm light of the afternoon, the night was a different matter. The rooftop held room for maybe a few dozen people. That night, with the mosquitoes buzzing around my ears and the roof dripping irregular from a dozen different places my mood was perfectly aligned to really despise the drunk, drugged up middle aged Mexican who stumbled to his mat loudly swearing in Spanish. With no exaggeration here, the guy lay thrashing across the place with his fingers down his throat trying to make himself throw up. He then switched to English and ranted on about wanting to kill someone. Accumulatively I got maybe less than three hours sleep. Though for the privilege of sleeping there and the convenience of leaving my bag there for 48hours it cost me less than 50p.

                The next day I wake late. I’d met up with Amber the day before, and that afternoon walked down the beach, into the jungle and along the stream. The forest blurs out of focus while you focus on that immediately around you, and then blurred back into focus when this gigantic Banyan Tree is suddenly found in front of you. At the bottom of the rough steps shaped from the side of the hill there is a large urn containing rupees. Inscribed on it are the words ‘Give what you want, take what you need.’ At the top of the hill was a rather disingenuous Guru who was much more inclined to drinking and smoking chillums than generating wisdom. It was around three in the afternoon when we arrived, and he looked like he’d consumed a true mess of drinks. Though the handsy Guru did chime a note of discord the place remained very peaceful. It had the air of one on the places in India which act as a well of symbolism, a whirling cornacopiate of Indian culture. The tree, music, smoke, fire, forest, Guru, laughter, children, tourists, smiles, the ‘please adjust’ mentality which is extended as an implicit invitation. The gentle heat, and the cooling breeze, the mixture of languages and the smell of fresh sweat, dry earth and wet leaves.

Arumbole. 

 Arambul has a famous sunset drum circle where different talented musicians and entertainers come to play, dance and perform. I made a minute video of Amber showing of her Poi skills on the edge of the sea, with the water lapping at her feet. She was performing fire Poi and managed to synchronies different pieces with an Australian guy who had luminous Poi.

                Tonight I’m going to get a night bus to Hampi where I’ll be staying till Monday night. One of the friends Amber made through her charity work is coming down for the weekend to, and he’s going to come rock climbing with me. Amber’s heading down to Gokarna for a dip in the phosphorescent plankton.

***

                The date is the 14^th of March and it’s been a few days since I wrote the above entry and my time in Hampi is coming to an end. I’ve really enjoyed the last few days. The place that I’m staying at seems to specialise in quartering climbers. It’s positioned at the bottom of a circular array of rocks at the back and sides, and in front of the main open aired, thatched roof lounge, a plateau of lush green rice fields occupies the horizon until it meets the cordon of distant palm trees.

                It’s much too hot to climb or go bouldering for most of the day. At sunrise and sunset the rocks are cool enough to climb, but for the rest of the day the roasting rocks amplify the challenge of climbing. It’s surprising how invigorating it is to use the upmost extremities of the body, two fingers from each hand and a few toes, to engage in a natural challenge 20 feet high. It’s also interesting how quickly you reach your limit. The first climb of the day is full of fluid momentum but gradually as the minutes tick past each clasping of the raw rock, each bashing of the toes seems to drain away the base level of strength in the digits. Each exhibition is composed of a minimum of two people. While one person climbs the other stands below behind a crash mat, arms upheld and at the ready. Sitting here and reading this it’s a goodly feat of the imagination to truly recall the sensation of losing complete control of your body. There’s something almost exhilarating about knowing that you simply can’t hold on to this rock a second longer, and that the next solid grip is within the extended reach of your arm, but not within the limits of your energy reserves.

Owned!

                At sunset the usual array of talented individuals come out and gather up on the rocks. Apart from the acute sensation of being in the wilderness, I’ve come across one of the most amazing sensory experiences in India. It’s called a Hang. Pronounced Hung this musical instrument has only existed for 10 years, and it’s excruciating rarity enhances it’s astonishing beauty. If you picture a person sat with their legs crossed, a miniature flying saucer placed in their lap. Reaching from knee to knee the two metal halves are bound by a wooden band. The hidden, bottom half has a doughnut like concave. The top half has seven or eight different sized dimples across a plane in the middle of the top piece of metal. In the direct centre of the piece is a dark nipple. The musician drums his thumb or palms across the nipple and picks up a drum like base. At the same time he dapples his fingers across the dimpled tones and atop of the base line an airy harp like sound appears with a splash of musical beauty. Sounding at the least like two wonderful complementary instruments the Hang is made by one couple in Switzerland. There’s a two year waiting list and a cost of around $1000. It would be worth it.

                Yesterday me and Sam spent an hour and a half walking with a group of travellers through banana plantations and parched earth to a genteel pool and waterfall like set of rapids. Unfortunately I left my camera at Goan Corner, and so was unable to snap the pictures river. That didn’t stop me from splashing around though and testing me strength against a prolific current. My bags are packed and my bill paid. I’ve eaten and slept here for three full days and two nights, and it’s less than £20. I’ve stopped wearing t-shirts during the day now, or else I go through two or three due to my desire to wear dry linen. In a few hours I’ll hoist my bags onto my shoulders and walk with all composed grace along the precarious paths of the rice paddy.

***

The ammunition.

                Lord Krishna was upset one day that his one true love did not share the same blue hue to her skin that Krishna did. Seeking advice from his mother, Krishna was told to change the colour of his love’s skin to any he so desired. Krishna went wild. ‘Holi’ is one of the few religious festivals that seems to be more revelry than religion. Though of course there is still a highly sacred atmosphere in Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna, even here there is a mischief in the air. Holi is festival of colour, and every person on the street is fair game to be bombarded by colour. Sold as dry powders the natural variety of colour is astounding. I’ve vamped up on sun glasses, a white dhoti and a scarf to act as a face mask. I should say that this is my ‘pre-impression’ that I’ve acquired through word of mouth and literature, tomorrow I’ll have first hand experience.

The Rainbow War...

The night before Holi is celebrated with great bonfires throughout India, though more so in the north. The story goes that an evil monkey demon who was impervious to fire was talked into walking Krishna’s love through an inferno. The demon did not know that it’s immunity from flame only occurred when it was alone. Krishna protected his true love while the monkey demon burned. The prequel to the fires is a local custom where a man and woman are armed with a bamboo beating stick. The man has to defend himself while the woman is tasked with beating him.

After a wholesome rest with the smell of burnt wood still in the air, Holi truly kicks in. All the colourful powders get added to water, and the street becomes a massive iridescent water fight. Duck lures and party whistles, chanting and the honking of car horn’s fill the ear.

                                                           *

                The sensation of being a well off, young, white male in India is as an interesting experience as any sensory one. Every day I see people who are poor, and without a fraction of the wealth that I take for granted. I won’t say much about wealth because I imagine anyone reading this will be well acquainted with it, and therefore can more easily picture both one side of the scale and the other. There’s a website called TED, and the slogan is ‘ideas worth spreading.’ One of the presentations that I viewed was on wealth and happiness. Apparently, so the scientist said, there is a proportionate increase in happiness in someone’s life when have a greater monetary means. In America I believe that this level fell somewhere around $70,000pa and that amounts over this some did not really increase the happiness of the individual. Wealth is a relative concept. In India, I think that an arbitrary figure which would more than suffice to provide the same level of happiness would be £10,000pa.

Catching Shiva's flame.

The history of India is a marvellous beast, but in some respects this country feels like it is still malting its winter coat. The main form* of discipline in most schools is still of a physical nature. I can in no way say with great certainty that violence is considered causal in all schools in India, but I can say that I can talk about specific cases, and I believe you can see the manifest effects.

                In truth, before I spin a few stained experiences into a negative anecdote, I feel like I should climb down from my moral peak. Each country has its own messed up complexities. I want to spend my time in India improving the country in some small, mostly insignificant manner and I don’t think that provides much ground to presume. However talking with people has allowed me a raw resource, from primary research I can say that casual molestation of tourists, and therefore you presume Indian women, continues nigh on unchecked. I’ve found that when thinking about this issue I’ve failed to find an even keel due to my desire to balance all the questions at hand.

                                                                                 *                At the railway station in Mumbai me and Amber sat and waited for three hours to get our train. We’d eaten before arriving, and had spent a good few hours picking up books that day so all was well. A mid-twenties Indian man was sat next to me for a few hours. He was dressed in dark blue jeans and a western styled t-shirt. We shared a Chai without exchanging many words. I read my book, with the melody of the station in my ears. He read his newspaper with earphones in his. Maybe forty minutes before my train was due three middle aged, large Indian men came and stood over my fellow reader. They slapped him round his head for having his earphones in, and then slapped him again for not being on his feet. Shaking the paper they gave him a verbal roasting. He seemed to protest that the paper was in a different dialect to the one they presumed it was. This took the wind out of their sail for a moment, but they soon found it again with an open hand. Telling the man to get his things and move they tackled the stare of us westerners by making suggestive motions to show our bags weren’t safe around the likes of the departing man. . . In the street this morning we walked through throng of laughing children and smiling men. Amber had her camera out, and taking pictures of objects seemed to signal a mass surge of both actors and directors. Men would strike a pose only to break it and move the camera man to a spot with a better back drop. Smiles bred from smiles and if natural mischief and amusement were not enough then the trickle of Hindi that me and Amber can squeeze out between us (her more than me) is sure to act as a fuel for the laughter. If we’re sat on some temple steps and a flood of teenage lads come and sit with us, some father with a babe in arm comes and peels them away from a distance with the beckoning of one finger. Any man, woman or child you stop and ask will either be happy to help you, or act as a spark to ignite the help in others. You seem to be surrounded in sea of passion, and yet by the colour of your skin you mainly gravitate towards you generosity, happiness and respect. Of course people do try to take advantage of you, but in my particular circumstance the people who have tried to take advantage of me have in some way interacted with me. Not once have I even thought beyond casual precaution that I might be mugged or beaten. And so because I always have the ability to interact with those who desire to pull the wool over my eyes, it’s simple to produce an easy smile and with a polite decline confidently walk away. For me, even at the worst the situation has not yet ever called for anything beyond the Hindi word for ‘enough’.

Spirituality or spirits. Same Same but different.

                And so, it’s a marvellous and queer sensation being a young, well off white male in India. It seems that I’m engaging on a dual learning process in comprehending the dynamics of Hindi life, and the boundaries of my interactions within it. I truly hope that in a few months time I look back at this as the moment that I was stood beside the pool, and though dressed correctly, just still an observer. By the end of my time in India, I want full submersion.

***

Mathura sunrise

‘Resin on my heartstrings.’

                After waking from the early morning experience with the Ghats and the groupy temple attendants I found my cache of accumulated poetry on my computer. Happy days. Amber and I spent the hot mid-day hours languishing under a lazy fan, discussing, reciting and generally dancing with poetry. We both dipped a toe in the water and tried to conjure something to the surface. Hers was a lot more successful than mine, but I’ll put mine in any way for the sake of amusement. This was one of the occasions where an act far supposes the ability to describe it, so i’ll just put the pieces down and move on.

Picking the pink flower.

This is yours . . .

By Amber Macintyre

Holi

Daytime fireworks

Colours and Heat

Ongoing Festivity

Dance

Laugh

Eat

Repeat

Daytime Fireworks

In your eyes

Reflected

Paints

Smiles

Highs

We can all be the same under rainbow colour

Dancing to the drums under a rainfall of flowers

Even the necessities become celebrations

Eating and drinking the festivity sensations

Daytime Fireworks

Cover the street

Timeless carnival

Dance

Laugh

Eat

Repeat

Heartbeats

I lie so close your heart beats in my ear

It feels like you are me as your lifeline I can hear

It doesn’t tell me of the current charging around to each bodily crevice

This is evident in your fingers and the warmth with which they caress

It doesn’t tell me if you are nervous or if it’s all fake

For this is proved already as the notes in your voice shake

It doesn’t tell me of how much you love me

In your shining eyes this is plain to see

This is not an emotional tool for which I can pick at information

But the timed drum beat of your heart brings me condemnation

For believing in immortality, with your heart beat in my ear

I know to treasure what I have because the end is near

***

Sunset over Hampi