I have been fairly absymal about updating my blog this month. Mostly because I’ve been fairly abysmal about doing anything but sitting in the sunshine and basking on Goan beaches, far removed from the India I have come to understand. This is a tourist town with a distinctly Indian flair – while the beaches are clean and the water clear, the sewage system still ran straight past my hotel’s beachside restaurant and into the water, making breakfast in the morning slightly unappetizing.Visiting Indian men prowl the beaches indiscreetly taking photographs of unassuming white girls in bikinis, and local women bring sarongs and anklets for tourists to purchase without even leaving their lounge chairs. “Come look my shop” they ask as they walk by, refusing to depart until you’ve said a definitive “no”. But more than all that, Goa is a hippie haven.
At the end of the sixties, literally hundreds of thousands of travelers packed up their backpacks and what little cash they had in order to make the overland trek from Europe to India. Once here, they found pockets of land to claim as their own. Dividing their time between the north and south, they found their way in Dharamasala in the summer, the home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. In the winters, they play on the picturesque beaches of Goa, one of the smallest Indian states. Once a Portuguese territory, it is a fascinating mix of European and Indian architecture, and Hindu and Christian religions. I’m sure this would have been a wonderful thing to explore, but I found myself more involved in the seaside culture. The people on the beaches, their interests, their ideas about the world and their bizarre sense of identity. I found myself feeling strangely out of place in this touristic paradise.
I am not a hippie. Despite the constant stimulus driving the average consumer to take part in the scene, with ample opportunity to get inked, get dreadlocked, get a pair of “Ali Baba trousers,” some sandalwood incense, a statue of Rama or an ayuervedic healing massage, I couldn’t jump on the boat. I was rather intimidated by it all. So, out of place with my as-yet-untainted skin, lack of piercings and swirling jewelry, and a disinterested in fermented mushroom tea, I spent afternoons wandering in my sarong, combing the beaches for shells with like-minded friends or lounging on a beach chair surrounded by cows. Evenings, I found myself drowning in the moaning chants of local musicians chanting to Rama at the popular restaurants or dancing to New Age trance at the local clubs. I couldn’t get into it, somehow I just couldn’t really believe it was all real.
But the people here are true believers. One of the first relationships I made upon my arrival was with Kristine, a twenty-eight year old (French) Canadian-American who had been traveling to the country for several years. With a ten year visa, she has been able to divide her time between the US and India, returning home to work in order to fund her trips back to her home in Rishikesh in the north. This trip, however, she had made her way south to Goa in order to spend time at Amma’s Ashram. I know little more about Amma than her fame as the “hugging guru” who travels around the world spreading love and well... hugs. Before her time at the Ashram, Kristine had come to Goa to relax, detox, and prepare to spend several weeks meditating. Her love for the country was contagious, and she truly believed in the spirit of the place. India, she claimed, would let you know if she wanted you. She’d send you home if you weren’t prepared, or you just weren’t supposed to be there. Her sentiments became realities through our friendship with Sarah, who had come to the country for a three month trip. Upon her arrival, she became ill and struggled with food and the infamous “India Belly” for the week we spent together. Her sleeping patterns never normalized and she was genuinely miserable and homesick throughout her stay. Sarah is no stranger to foreign and exotic landscapes. She has traveled through Thailand, Laos and Cambodia, as well as many European countries. But India was just too much for her. Or perhaps, as Kristine would claim, India wasn’t ready for her. Sarah changed her plane ticket and flew home after just two weeks in Mumbai and Goa. Kristine, on the other hand, who believes that India has embraced her wholeheartedly, found her calling in Goa. Within two days of arriving in country, she met the advanced student of an ayurvedic healer who specializes in massage therapy, something she has been studying off and on over the past few years. He was in need of someone to practice with, she was in need of a teacher. It only looked up from there. She could enhance her skills and he would have a subject to work on. She began her first sessions in Arambol within a week.
Talking with Kristine made me look at India in a different way. The more I thought about it, the spirituality of the place became impossible to ignore. The whole country exudes it. In a world where literally thousands of Gods live in relative harmony, it is hard to believe that there isn’t something bigger here. While that the country is predominantly Hindu, accounting for 80% of the practicing population, Islam makes up the largest minority, with 12% practicing and other, smaller groups such as Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism and Zoroastrianism also thrive. It is a God-loving country and I have learned to be more accepting, and I try to think about it when I mingle with locals, and with the expat hippies who love and thrive in Goa. To them, spiritual music fills you with love and positive energy. Yoga and dance allow for spiritual power to enter the body. Their jewelry, tattoos and dreadlocks are visual expressions of their belief in peace and harmony – the importance of being at one with the earth. The result is a distinct vibe of “Om” that radiates through this world – promoting karma and goodwill towards others (most of the time). I enjoy the positivity it creates through the environment. It is comforting to think “what will be, will be” and to know that the people here believe that what goes around comes around. It makes me feel a bit more optimistic about human nature, somehow.
My spiritual education has also been enhanced as I am in the process of wrapping my head around Aldous Huxley’s epic philosophical novel, Island (provided by my very own travel guru, Bus Stop, during our visit in Cairo). This book, based on the fabricated island of Pala, describes a utopian landscape of his ideal. Here, western scientific knowledge and come together with Buddhist philosophy to create a paradise. He describes the beauty of the finding truth through one’s own experience, among other Buddhist beliefs. He promotes drug use for enlightenment and self-knowledge, group living, and experiencing danger in order to become spiritually open. Unfortunately, despite the fascinating subject matter, it is a bit of a chore to plow through the book, especially when everyone else on the beach is reading Shantaram, which sounds much more exciting (and Johnny Depp is in the upcoming movie!). And I’m certainly not completely sold – on Huxley’s ideals or the Goan hippy mentality. I’m keen to have a my astrological chart read, I want to think that by being good individuals we might have a positive influence on our own lives and the lives of others, and I haven’t ruled out a discrete inking, but I’m not a there yet....
The environment in Arambol, while magical, became oppressive after a week and a half. I was ready to ship out and maneuvered myself into a group of wonderful Swedish boys and an American girl from Boston. We made our way to Hampi yesterday on an eighteen hour overnight bus, and found ourselves in paradise of our own. Magical boulders have ornamented the landscape in bizarre shapes and formations. Water buffalo meander down the red dirt roads along deep green paddy fields, and the ruins of famous Hindu temples litter the quaint town. We arrived to the last few days of a festival celebrating five hundred years since the cities construction. There is a celebratory atmosphere at the moment, and I have returned to the India I left behind when I arrived in Goa. The constant stares, the dirtiness, the smelly streets and persistent street vendors. A few days here isn’t even close to enough, but I’m off to the big city, Mumbai, in a few days to catch up with Gautam of Ratan Villas in Mt. Abu.
At the end of the sixties, literally hundreds of thousands of travelers packed up their backpacks and what little cash they had in order to make the overland trek from Europe to India. Once here, they found pockets of land to claim as their own. Dividing their time between the north and south, they found their way in Dharamasala in the summer, the home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. In the winters, they play on the picturesque beaches of Goa, one of the smallest Indian states. Once a Portuguese territory, it is a fascinating mix of European and Indian architecture, and Hindu and Christian religions. I’m sure this would have been a wonderful thing to explore, but I found myself more involved in the seaside culture. The people on the beaches, their interests, their ideas about the world and their bizarre sense of identity. I found myself feeling strangely out of place in this touristic paradise.
I am not a hippie. Despite the constant stimulus driving the average consumer to take part in the scene, with ample opportunity to get inked, get dreadlocked, get a pair of “Ali Baba trousers,” some sandalwood incense, a statue of Rama or an ayuervedic healing massage, I couldn’t jump on the boat. I was rather intimidated by it all. So, out of place with my as-yet-untainted skin, lack of piercings and swirling jewelry, and a disinterested in fermented mushroom tea, I spent afternoons wandering in my sarong, combing the beaches for shells with like-minded friends or lounging on a beach chair surrounded by cows. Evenings, I found myself drowning in the moaning chants of local musicians chanting to Rama at the popular restaurants or dancing to New Age trance at the local clubs. I couldn’t get into it, somehow I just couldn’t really believe it was all real.
But the people here are true believers. One of the first relationships I made upon my arrival was with Kristine, a twenty-eight year old (French) Canadian-American who had been traveling to the country for several years. With a ten year visa, she has been able to divide her time between the US and India, returning home to work in order to fund her trips back to her home in Rishikesh in the north. This trip, however, she had made her way south to Goa in order to spend time at Amma’s Ashram. I know little more about Amma than her fame as the “hugging guru” who travels around the world spreading love and well... hugs. Before her time at the Ashram, Kristine had come to Goa to relax, detox, and prepare to spend several weeks meditating. Her love for the country was contagious, and she truly believed in the spirit of the place. India, she claimed, would let you know if she wanted you. She’d send you home if you weren’t prepared, or you just weren’t supposed to be there. Her sentiments became realities through our friendship with Sarah, who had come to the country for a three month trip. Upon her arrival, she became ill and struggled with food and the infamous “India Belly” for the week we spent together. Her sleeping patterns never normalized and she was genuinely miserable and homesick throughout her stay. Sarah is no stranger to foreign and exotic landscapes. She has traveled through Thailand, Laos and Cambodia, as well as many European countries. But India was just too much for her. Or perhaps, as Kristine would claim, India wasn’t ready for her. Sarah changed her plane ticket and flew home after just two weeks in Mumbai and Goa. Kristine, on the other hand, who believes that India has embraced her wholeheartedly, found her calling in Goa. Within two days of arriving in country, she met the advanced student of an ayurvedic healer who specializes in massage therapy, something she has been studying off and on over the past few years. He was in need of someone to practice with, she was in need of a teacher. It only looked up from there. She could enhance her skills and he would have a subject to work on. She began her first sessions in Arambol within a week.
Talking with Kristine made me look at India in a different way. The more I thought about it, the spirituality of the place became impossible to ignore. The whole country exudes it. In a world where literally thousands of Gods live in relative harmony, it is hard to believe that there isn’t something bigger here. While that the country is predominantly Hindu, accounting for 80% of the practicing population, Islam makes up the largest minority, with 12% practicing and other, smaller groups such as Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism and Zoroastrianism also thrive. It is a God-loving country and I have learned to be more accepting, and I try to think about it when I mingle with locals, and with the expat hippies who love and thrive in Goa. To them, spiritual music fills you with love and positive energy. Yoga and dance allow for spiritual power to enter the body. Their jewelry, tattoos and dreadlocks are visual expressions of their belief in peace and harmony – the importance of being at one with the earth. The result is a distinct vibe of “Om” that radiates through this world – promoting karma and goodwill towards others (most of the time). I enjoy the positivity it creates through the environment. It is comforting to think “what will be, will be” and to know that the people here believe that what goes around comes around. It makes me feel a bit more optimistic about human nature, somehow.
My spiritual education has also been enhanced as I am in the process of wrapping my head around Aldous Huxley’s epic philosophical novel, Island (provided by my very own travel guru, Bus Stop, during our visit in Cairo). This book, based on the fabricated island of Pala, describes a utopian landscape of his ideal. Here, western scientific knowledge and come together with Buddhist philosophy to create a paradise. He describes the beauty of the finding truth through one’s own experience, among other Buddhist beliefs. He promotes drug use for enlightenment and self-knowledge, group living, and experiencing danger in order to become spiritually open. Unfortunately, despite the fascinating subject matter, it is a bit of a chore to plow through the book, especially when everyone else on the beach is reading Shantaram, which sounds much more exciting (and Johnny Depp is in the upcoming movie!). And I’m certainly not completely sold – on Huxley’s ideals or the Goan hippy mentality. I’m keen to have a my astrological chart read, I want to think that by being good individuals we might have a positive influence on our own lives and the lives of others, and I haven’t ruled out a discrete inking, but I’m not a there yet....
The environment in Arambol, while magical, became oppressive after a week and a half. I was ready to ship out and maneuvered myself into a group of wonderful Swedish boys and an American girl from Boston. We made our way to Hampi yesterday on an eighteen hour overnight bus, and found ourselves in paradise of our own. Magical boulders have ornamented the landscape in bizarre shapes and formations. Water buffalo meander down the red dirt roads along deep green paddy fields, and the ruins of famous Hindu temples litter the quaint town. We arrived to the last few days of a festival celebrating five hundred years since the cities construction. There is a celebratory atmosphere at the moment, and I have returned to the India I left behind when I arrived in Goa. The constant stares, the dirtiness, the smelly streets and persistent street vendors. A few days here isn’t even close to enough, but I’m off to the big city, Mumbai, in a few days to catch up with Gautam of Ratan Villas in Mt. Abu.