Chennai & Pondicherry. Check.

Trying to decide what is scarier:  the gut-wrenching, gag inducing, lung destroying odors of the trains or the speed of light, deafening horn blaring, on two wheels tip over, veering dart & weave toss around of the buses.  While yes, overnight trips save you 1. the cost of accommodation and 2. a day to see things instead of whiz by them, the lack of sleep and agonizing hours of endless terror wipe you out for the entire next day anyway.  This is how I arrived in Chennai.  Somehow I still managed to find my way on to a city bus and across town to where I was going to stay for the next few days.  I had intentions of flying from Chennai to the Andaman Islands to do some dive, dive, diving (oh how I miss you underwater world!) but a look into prices left me blue and confined to city limits.  That’s fine.  India on my own.  Let’s see what’s going on. 

For most of that first day, I was super lazy.  I napped and did laundry.  Yes the bus journey was that devastating.  Oh, and I watched TV.  My room had a TV with a couple of English channels – woop woop!  You have no idea how exciting this is until you’ve lived without a TV.  Okay, okay I know there are some of you who have evolved past the need for mindless monitor watching but I haven’t had TV in as long as I can remember so yes, this was brain switch off, noodle rot, jolly good fun.  There wasn’t even anything good on but it was English and I was entertained.  I did go for a little walk, got a little intimidated, held my own, and made it back without too much of an issue, but yeah, most of the first day was a much needed write off.

Chennai is on the coast so if I can’t dive, then beach here I come!  My place was within easy walking distance from the beach through city streets that doubled as cart vendor sell anything spots by day, sleeping spots by night.  Homeless in India, as we all know, is a level unequalled anywhere else in the world.  Undeniable.  Got to the beach and was promptly knocked over by the smell…  Toilet.  This as-far-as-you-can-see beach was covered in trash, vendor carts, and the smell of yep, you guessed it, pee and poo.  I thankfully didn’t see any droppings (well, I may have then quickly blocked it out of my mind) but even walking as close to the water as I could, I didn’t smell the salt air of a major coastline, I smelled toilet.  Possibly human, possibly equine as there were horses meant for tourists to ride but yeah, stinky. 

I tried to sit and watch the waves for a bit with a tissue over my nose but was quickly spotted by a variety of sellers turned beggars once they sniffed out fresh, white traveler.  Funny how they zoomed past all the Indian holidayers on the beach and turned up the masterful sad and broken faces only when I was within reach.  So no sitting on the beach for me and walking on the beach was revealing a variety of disturbing bits so yep, exit to the street.

A second visit a couple of days later was much more fruitful.  As I adopted a sandy but sweet mama and pup to fill with clean water and biscuits, I became the centre of attention for the camel and horse owners who prowled the beach with their dolled up rides hoping to make a bit of cash. They couldn’t quite understand why I would care for these little creatures but after a broken English chat, they seemed to buy into the whole “be kind to all animals” kind of thinking.  We sat around under the shade of their decorated beasts and discussed how to best care for said money makers as well as whatever else crosses their paths.  Very nice men who wanted nothing other than to visit.  Nice, nice, nice. 

Not a bad city.  A university town with all the sadness of Indian inner city but an attempt at culture, it seemed, some order, it felt, and it was working, for the most part.  Highlight of Chennai (equal to the glee of TV) was finding … SUBWAY!  While wandering the downtown area I looked up and singing angels, a Subway.  A REAL Subway, not an underground train station but the king of sandwich shops of which is near and dear to my heart.  I yelped out loud and zoom!  I was in!  A near empty shop but identical to the western world (minus the beef but adding the curry and tandoori).  An unexpected comfort that I indulged in, guilt-free.  It has obviously been a long time, folks if instead of appreciating the local culture I am embracing sights from home.  I felt it was well deserved however, and enjoyed every lingering second of it.

That was the highlight of Chennai.  It was an okay city but an unremarkable city.  A jumping off point for the glories of the Andamans that lay just out of my reach.  Next time, next time.

Oh.  And I went to a movie.  I found a shopping mall which was limited in its offerings however it had a cinema and an English movie was playing; “The Life of Pi”, appropriately enough.  Let’s do it. 

So remember we’ve talked about how loud life is on this side of the world?  Yeah, that does not stop for something as silly as a movie.  Despite several signs, commercials on the screen, and audible requests to turn off your phones, it was irrelevant.  Not only did the phones ring, people answered them and had full on normal volume (shouting for Indian) conversations.  If they weren’t on their phones, they were having full volume conversations with each other or shouting at their shouting children.  It was jaw-dropping ridiculous.  Why are you here?!?!  Did you even want to SEE the show?!  Do you understand the concept of WATCHING A MOVIE?!?!   Oh, and I forgot the other part – you are given an assigned seat here in India.  All movie goers are packed nice and tight, close together whilst the majority of the theatre remains empty and they get quite distressed if you try to change your seat.  I moved, slightly, but it did nothing to ease the annoying non-stop chatter.

I was powerless.  So I focused and tried to close one ear to the chaos and focused and got through more or less all of it without entertaining too many graphically murderous thoughts.  Oh one more thing!  They had an intermission.  In a movie of less than two hours.  An intermission.  They paused the movie and turned on the lights so people could get up and go get more food.  At least that’s what it said on the screen and that’s what people seemed to do.  The couple next to me had boxes of popcorn for the first half and bags full of samosas for the second.  The intermission lasted a good 15 minutes and all I could do was put my head down and breathe.  What a country. 

But what a great movie for me to watch whilst here, just up the road from Pondicherry!  So what did I decide to do the next day, the same day of my 10pm train out of Chennai?  Yep, hop a bus to Pondicherry.  I was told it was only a couple of hours by bus so up and off to the bus station I go, a mini road trip before I head out.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

That 2 hour bus trip turned into just over 4 so I quickly whizzed my way round the very French streets of a now Hollywood famous town and parked myself at a rocky beach front lined with typical Indian food cart sellers.  A more peaceful Indian coastal town.  The street life poverty was slightly overshadowed by white-washed touches of elegance as sculpted hotels and cafes boasting real French boulangeries and “avenues” tunneled with leafy green trees drew your eyes up and away from the unpleasantries.   People seemed a bit more relaxed but sellers a bit more aggressive.  As I walked away from the alarming rate of a tuk tuk driver, he spat out a response of “you have French money, this is not expensive!”  Wow.  Pretty to look at, not anywhere I want to be. 

A couple of hours and I was back on a bus, trying not to look at my quickly approaching train departure time.  But as we neared Chennai, and the sun had set at while ago, the traffic became denser then altogether ground to a complete stop.  The bus driver actually switched off the engine.  So I waited, enquired, was somewhat reassured, then we were on the move again.  I knew that I had left my room in complete disarray and that for as late as everything else in India is, trains are painfully punctual.  We were crawling along in familiar territory when the bus veers off in a different direction to where I was sure we were meant to be going and again, we stop.  After a frantic head-wobbling discussion with a few men on board who knew the efficiency of train travel, I decided to hop off the bus and see if I could convince a tuk tuk to take me the remaining way with the very few rupees I had left in my wallet. 

Knowing that distress can be somewhat helpful in appropriate doses in this country, I tried to keep mine in check, stowing it up for when the situation became dire.  Sheep-like I followed hundreds of others who had also gotten off of log jammed buses and hoped that the wave of dust filled push and shovers  would take me to the main bus station.  I stopped several tuk tuks along the way who either didn’t know where I wanted to go or were asking an amount that would have taken me to the moon.  I knew the local bus I needed to take to get back to my place but even that no one could seem to find for me.  And the time was flying by. 

Although train tickets don’t cost a whole heck of a lot, they are often booked to over-capacity so I knew that should I miss this train, it would mean not only one but possibly two extra nights in a city I already wasn’t too fond of as well as missing and having to rebook an overbooked train I was to connect with after this train.  All of it was possible to reschedule and it would cost less than the end of the world but it was the thought of being stuck that was pumping my heart.  Come on Ganesha, get me out of here!

On a main road, weaving and fretting through rush hour traffic (which is all hours of the day), waving my hands to communicate my over-exhausted emotions, and with the help of a phone call to my guesthouse and two shop keepers, we were able to convince a tuk tuk to take me for the all the bills I had left in my wallet (which was a very fair Indian price but an unacceptable foreigner price).  And it was on.  At first he leaned back and tried to Rico Suave chat me up until I shrieked over the squawking horns and barreling down buses that he needed to go “FAST!  FAST!  TRAIN COMING!”  So fast we went.  Dangerously, several near misses, engine screaming fast we went, until I could barely take another second more.  Tuk tuks will forever be my nemesis. 

In 10 agonizing minutes I threw all of my belongings that had somehow exploded throughout the room inside my bag, threw money at the reception, and threw myself into one last but thankfully readily available tuk tuk to the train station.  I was down to minutes until departure.  As I dropped my bags on a seat, confirmed I was in the right space, took a look around, and breathed out, the whistle blew and we were on our way.  Holy Hanuman, I made it.  How is it possible that I actually made it?!  Thanks to “Life of Pi”, Pondicherry is now checked off the list and I have a few more grey hairs.   Moving on!

Light.

Light

Some people alter the paths we are on, others stop us in our tracks, and others still become part of us, continuing on with us, their world becoming part of ours.  I've met each of these types in the last 6 months and it's the last kind, the Light, that I have to share with you. 

My path was altered a short while ago by allowing myself to be blinded with a foolish and naive sense of awe.  I swallowed wooing words of flattery in a time of self-induced loneliness which foolishly made it easy to internalize the switch from woo to critical, loathsome words of deceit and destruction when the universe quickly changed directions for me .  Then I met someone who rebuilt my shattered self with loud and carefree displays that reminded me to simply live for the joy of living.  I considered stopping there, it felt good there, my fragility disappeared and I looked forward to possibilities of this comfort.  But I continued on.  Because I allowed myself to stop, I was able to continue on and because I continued on, I met someone who showed me Light. 

While I continue to deny connection to any godly being, I pray to none, believe in no one, and worship nothing, we arrived at the ashram, only we two at the same moment and I know that there was a reason for it.  Some meetings happen by chance, many by coincidence or even by accident, but this one for whatever reason, was placed as it was meant to be.  Although I had no idea and would have denied it if someone had told me so, I needed this meeting, I needed this Light.  I still don't believe in gods but I do believe in … something.

I looked and saw eager life shining through inquisitive eyes.  I heard words spoken, questions asked, and thoughts formed that seemed older than a short lifetime.  I was near love that is so simple, so unbiased, so universal that it transcends all physical limits; age, gender, country, language, or distance.  I felt peace just by being in someone's presence.  This is my Light.

Connections develop quickly but often superficially when you are confined to mind bending, body bending regiments 24 hours a day with very strictly monitored moments to socialize.  Some unions are fast yet fleeting once outside the guarded gates, others are the beginning of a lifetime of new possibilities.  Our blessed one day a week "free day" allowed for connections to develop into something more should the spark be there.  The first free day filled my heart by finding a soul sister, the second found me Light. 

We had exchanged daily greetings, had several brief chats, and had become accustomed to seeing each other around, noticing when one or the other was missing.  We had arrived, lost and confused, together, after all.  An ashram road trip to the cape of India was an opportunity to begin a series of conversations that wouldn't end for many, many days.  It started as so many travelers' talks start; where have you been, where are you going, what's your plan?  The pleasantries lasted a few minutes but soon the questions became personal, challenging, innocently confrontational without a hint of hostility.  They were genuine, soul prodding questions about my life, my heart, and the sometimes lonely journey of a girl traveling solo at this late stage of the game.  Perhaps the same questions that many people have wanted to ask but felt were off limits.  The earnest and honest approach of truly wanting to know about how I felt made nothing off limits and while I initially stumbled at the openness of the inquiries, something made me comfortable enough to just talk, walls slightly down, heart starting to open.  Why am I telling this complete stranger these things?  Why does this complete stranger even want to know?  Then, I simply stopped questioning myself and it began.  It was a long day of life and Light.  A long, liberating day. 

At the end of my two weeks, I left the ashram and my Light behind for a few days of frolicking at the beach but was firm in the belief that our paths would cross again.  And they did.  Light was waiting when I at last set out on my own towards my first real city in India.  6 days followed wherein we travelled a bit, laughed a lot, talked until we couldn't stay awake, and saw the world from the midst of giant eucalyptus trees.  We found our way to a small "farm", a collection of simple huts scratched into the side of forested cliffs miles and miles from the nearest town.  We walked until our legs ached, got lost until the stars lit the way, and were just we two despite the nearby chaos always available. 

I loved to listen and as I listened, I learned, not altogether surprised by the depth and the ideas on the inside of an outside that so many others may have dismissed.  Stories of unconditional love, of childhood, of the future, of wonder, of strengths and doubts, of curiosities and certainties, of wishes and beliefs, all free from judgments and filled with hope.  While I couldn't relate to the life-giving love of country or religion, I questioned it and envied it; I wanted to know what it felt like and what it meant.  I listened to a wide open soul searching for itself, wanting to know who it is, what it means, and how to become complete despite already having found so much. I felt peace in Light's presence, in the questions and the answers and the unknown because for Light, love is the life force behind all of it. 

Not the hippie dippie hold hands and chant mantras with flowers in your hair kind of love but the love that ties us to one another, that allows us to wake up and hum off tune in the morning, that lets us laugh instead of cry when we miss that last bus, that draws people close because they feel good when they're near, that makes us want to be close to others because it's how we're meant to be.  Finding our way to those that live life instead of those that simply get  through it, seeing reasons to laugh instead of finding reasons to complain, letting go of what hurts us and holding on to what heals us.  All of the questions and all of the answers came back to love and how simple it can be when you can put cynical aside.   

Of course being asked many questions makes me question myself and this is what I will take with me on my journey.  Chilly mountain days & wood fire warmed nights with a wise old soul, a kind, gentle heart, and a presence full of life.  It was easy to stay, to get lost in the peacefulness of Light despite the odd glances from others as they attempted to complicate the simplicity of the two of us together.  Oh how we are compelled to put a label on something.  What do we do when there is no label? 

During our conversations, I got glimpses, clear ones, of what I want for my life, out of this life, in my life.  Because of this, I felt ready to move on.  How is it possible that after LEAVING the ashram, I found something to believe in?   While Light thanks me for being a teacher I bow my head humbly.  A brilliant, beautiful mind with a deep, peace-filled soul has set me off to explore India with my eyes and hopefully my heart wide open.  Thank you, dearest Light, for your love of life.   

A Beach, A City, & A Hill Station.

A beach, a city, and a hill station.  All in one little state. 

Varkala

After the ashram, it seems that most escapees head for a tourist friendly beach town called Varkala.  Western cafes and European themed restaurants  are jammed between over-stuffed shops spilling out radiantly colourful bits of silky clothing and tinkling trinkets that you are compelled to ogle over, if only for a quick fondle.  Stunning scenery as the long, broken cobblestone walk weaves along the top of jump to your death vertical cliffs overlooking the end of India open sea.  The beach itself was relatively clean and the rolling waves weren’t too overwhelming which encouraged surfers, swimmers, and fully-clothed waders to be constantly splashing about the water.  It was easy to see how travellers, local and foreign, could get stuck there.  A very comfortable holiday destination. 

And all of a sudden there were familiar faces everywhere.  Yes, the ashram was in Varkala.

While it was lovely to visit with people outside the confines of holy life, I had just spent 24 hours a day with some of these people.  Yes, you are lovely but I need to get outta here.  So what did my universe do to help me out with that?  Delhi Belly.  Bombay Bum.  Ganges Gut.  Whatever you want to call it.  Ugh.  I had one rough patch in the ashram just before I left where I slept for an entire day occasionally doubled over with stomach pains that thankfully never progressed to anything more.   Apparently once out from under the watchful eyes of cartoon gods, my body decided to show me the power of India.  A 1:00am wake up call that kept me no more than 5 steps from a much appreciated western toilet for a full 24 hours.  Nice beach vacation.  Thanks.

Really though, it wasn’t so terrible.  I was a bit fragile for a couple of days but I have no doubt there is much MUCH worse in store for me yet. 

I recovered enough to ring in a mellow new year’s eve with fellow ashramites watching locals explode arsenals of fireworks without the slightest ability for foresight hence running for their lives and stomping out small fires, shocked but howling with laughter at the outcome of their ridiculousness.  Ahhhh India, where safety is just a silly waste of time.  2013.  Beach, waves, pyrotechnics, peace.  A good one indeed.

I had a ticket booked to my first real Indian city and I was looking forward to getting on the move.  I have loved the time I’ve had so far but the travelling has been a bit… stagnant.  This is a massive country folks, there is lots to see.  So off to Madurai I go.  My first overnight train.  Ganesha help me. 

Madurai

So yeah, trains.  In India.  There are no words.  It’s absolutely pointless to try to explain them, you just can’t imagine.  It’s one of those things that you have to (or not) experience to believe. 

For the daytime trains it’s utter madness.  There is no way in the world that people other than guilt ridden fools like me actually buy tickets and try to remain orderly.  It’s a full on push and shove match with every possible inch of space occupied, often over occupied, by body parts and packages of all sorts and then once everyone is JAMMED in, vendors stomp their way through peddling everything from toxic waste like coffee and tea to e-coli laced samosas to random bits of who knows what you just might need.  You get sat on, stepped on, spilled on, and manhandled for the majority of the journey.  You just bear it.  They do. 

For the overnight trains, sometimes someone does come by to check tickets in the “sleeper cars” as you’re meant to be assigned to a bunk.  Sometimes not.  But the white face pays off and if someone’s in “my” space, they move.  Despite my bag being insanely oversized, I am quite short (this seems to be paying off in India!) so I manage to squeeze into my allotted space without much huff.  It’s too small and difficult to get a good photo of the sardine scenario but I’m sure there must be some horrifying renditions of it online.  I’ll try to find something.  Apparently there are 1^st class cars, tourist class cars, less cattle herding cars but I have yet to find them.  Ahhhh the elusive “nice trains”.  Where are you?

So yes, Madurai.  The overnight was relatively uneventful but I did have to do some watch and learn to sort out the sleeping thing.  Being my first go in a far too strange sleeper car, I of course didn’t sleep.  This meant that at every stop (and there are usually no less than seven thousand) you are gagged into fully alert consciousness by the suffocating smell of toilet.  I mean you literally cannot breathe.  And these are the small towns and cities.  I very well may die if ever I make it to the big ones.  I would gladly LIVE in a Canadian highway outhouse than have to face these rancid railway routes.  It really is that bad.

Okay.  Arrival.  It was something ridiculous like 5am but had the name of a place where I was to meet a friend and I was off.  Every time I asked directions and showed the address, I was sent a different way.  So I walked and I asked and I got turned around and I asked again and again and again every few steps and each time, someone sent me confidently in the wrong direction.  After an hour I was about ready to maim somebody by harnessing up one of the several stray dogs that were eyeing me over.  Finally after much consultation and head scratching within a group of men which included the likes of a shop owner, a policeman, a rickshaw driver, a taxi driver, a couple of coffee drinkers, and a few other stand arounds, a very kind man stepped in and confidently walked me to where I needed to go.  It took all of about 5 minutes.  Don’t ever ever  EVER ask an Indian for directions.  EVER. 

Woke my friend, got a room, cringed at the immediate decline the hygiene standards then set off to explore Madurai.  Early morning streets filled with all things Indian and I was doing okay.  Despite needing to get my head around a drastic drop in sanitation levels, it was exciting.  This is India. 

We explored a very impressive temple (I mean VERY impressive), walked market streets full of every and anything, took a rickshaw out of the city to see another temple, found our way back without incident, played cards and drank coffee on the rooftop of our guesthouse as the sun set, and celebrated a day well spent in a big city.  Next – mountain air and the middle of nowhere.

Karuna Farm

Hours and hours winding up up up on a horn blaring, corner cutting bus got us to Kodaikanal, a town high up in the hills where the air was cleaner albeit a lot colder.  A lively little hot spot with magnificent views and friendly faces strewn up and down vertical streets leaving this chub happily gasping for breath.  Again, more ashramites but it helped in sharing the cost of the obscenely expensive 4 X 4 we needed to hire to get us to our destination, about 5 kms outside of town.  Karuna Farm.  Just google it.  It’s not really a farm, well, I guess it is.  It’s a kinda sorta self-sufficient cluster of very basic cottages built deep into the hillside forests and oh my goodness, it is amazing.  Look into it.

I fell in love with the place instantly.  The little cottage with a wood burning stove hidden within morning mist filled jungle mountain views, with a long walk into town which takes you through sky scraping eucalyptus forests and small villages.  Quaint and simple and cozy and perfect.  We spent our days walking and getting lost and talking and exploring and living a very good life.  A one room cottage with a tiny little kitchen, boiling water on a gas cooker for bucket showers, freezing cold nose poking out from under piled on wool blankets, absolute nature-filled silence.  Dreamy.  I wanted to stay.

But there was India to see.  Despite a heavy heart my wandering ways won out and I had a bus to catch.  I think my time in that mountain town will remain a highlight of my travel days for a very long time.  A good shove off as I set out on my own.  I was heading to Chennai, an overnight bus this time.  Let’s  see how it goes.               

A Few Moments to Remember.

A few funnies / highlights from life in the ashram:

As we were across the lake from a lion safari park (poor lions – not cool!), often during the early morning or evening, food time, we would hear the lions roaring loud and proud (very cool!)

Once you signed in to the ashram, you technically weren’t allowed to leave.  We had certain periods of the day where we could request a pass and “sign out” but needed to be back to make it to those ever important lectures and such.  Caroline and I quickly figured out a way to conceal the passes we were meant to hand over to the security guard (yes, there were security guards) so we could use them over and over again without having to ask permission to leave.  Sneaky, sneaky. 

The director, the man in charge as the swami was away apparently, was South African.  Yes, maybe he was an ashram king but to be in an ashram, in India, I was kinda hoping for an Indian guru, know what I mean?

 I am sentimentally drawn to South African accents; they make me weak in the knees for my life in Africa.  The director near destroyed my love affair for this tongue as he may have been the most disengaging African I have ever met - boring, dull, flat, blah.  Trying to destroy my soul, are you?!

I may have developed a small crush on one of my Indian yoga instructors.  Especially after I saw him leave the ashram on a big, shiny motorbike. 

While I managed to control MY bodily functions, there were more than a few honking farts heard echoing throughout the yoga hall whilst moving through different postures.  And yes, I did laugh.  

There were some incredibly interesting people, some incredibly boring people (I think I fit into this category), and some incredibly weird people (maybe this category too) in the ashram.  A people watcher’s paradise (you would have LOVED it, Deb!) And the staff, well, a regular ole soap opera. 

Hippie-ville confirmed when I was oohed and aahed over at least once a day by both men and women commenting on my hair.  I got everything from "SO jealous!" to "Good for you, natural looks amazing!" to "Did you dye it those colours?"  Yes, I DYED it grey.  *sigh*  By the end I took it as an ego boost, at least people were noticing me.  Thanks ashram, grey is the new blond apparently!

The ashram hosted an AMAZING Christmas celebration, of which I was both surprised and over the moon appreciative.  Caroline and I almost got kicked out of the Christmas satsang however.  I convinced her to stay with the promise of cake at the end of the boooooring and atrociously massacred Christmas caroling session.  I then pretended to shoot myself in the face when we were told the director was going to read us a story about Jesus which resulted in us laughing until we couldn’t sit up straight, hence getting in a bit of trouble.  Oops.  I would NOT have survived without her.  The INDOOR fireworks and ginormous chocolate cake to wrap up the evening made every sitting second worth it.   

There were a couple of talent show evening performances ( I think to prevent ashram mass suicide) and as we all know, there are some people who are born to be on stage and others who think they were but really weren’t.  Still better than having to chant. 

I adhered strictly to the no phone, no snacks policy for the first two days until I saw everyone else indulging and jumped on board.  Off to the wee village I go for chocolate and biscuits to stash under my bed.

The ashram had arranged, bless their hearts, a group travel day so that we could visit the very southern tip of India, experience a bit of beach life, and visit some important temples.  Being very good at ashram scheduling doesn’t mean you’re good at travel plans, apparently.  We missed the ferry to take us over to the monument at the end of India as it was yet another Indian holiday crammed full of millions of people, our beach time was limited as decisions were unable to be agreed upon, and we were only able to zoom through one very impressive temple as so much time was wasted deciding who did and who didn’t want to go.  HOWEVER!  The end of India fair-like atmosphere was AMAZING, the beach area where we had to swim in our clothes to be respectful of the conservative company was FABULOUS, and the temple was jaw dropping GORGEOUS.  Despite all the waiting and rearranging, an incredible day in India.  Thank you, ashram!

On our “free day” Caroline and I headed out on our own to discover a nearby town under the wagging finger of the ashram law telling us to be back before 8pm satsang.  We smirked and skulked our way back through the gates around 11:30pm and had to insist that the scolding guard let us into the dorm so we could go to bed.  We took a scenic train ride, a backwater boat trip, explored a strange little town, hung out on a fabulous local beach, and solidified our forever friendship.  Treated like school children but absolutely worth it. 

My “borrowed” yoga mat was one of the stinkiest things I have ever set my body upon.  Ever. 

I sometimes fell asleep during the “relaxation” part of yoga. 

Our two “silent walks” off the ashram as part of satsang were some of the best chats I’ve had.  Silent.  Silly. 

On our first walk, we were told to not pat the local dogs as they believe that they are the gods protecting us.  The first dog I saw … taking a big poo in the middle of the street.  Oh, how I laughed. 

Despite the militaristic managing of a very popular ashram, I was surprised to find myself a bit sad to leave.  I can see how people are drawn back there year after year after year.  Powerful place. 

Humour is uncompromisingly important.  Life was serious, far too serious, in the ashram and I think it was simply due to the current folks in charge.  When an instructor arrived about half way through who laughed his way from one class to the next, the entire atmosphere changed (if the director wasn’t present).  Yoga is SO much more fun when you’re making faces at your neighbour and not taking your spirituality so seriously.  Again, thank Ganesha, Jesus, Allah, and whomever was watching over us that Caroline was game for all of the silliness.  Whew!  

Ashram Life. Do Your Homework.

I need to learn to do my homework.  Seriously. 

I'll have to break this up into a couple of different entries as wow, there is a lot to tell you.  Life in an ashram.  Me.  In an ashram. 

An ashram.  What was I thinking?  ASHRAM.  I didn't even know what that meant.  I googIed "yoga courses in south india" and this place came up over and over again.  I read the website, sorta, and thought, "why not?" I'm in India, "Yoga Vacation" it is then.  Plus, I was thinking of getting this chubby ass into some kind of bendy shape.  I didn’t realize that a "Yoga Vacation" in an ashram is a very different type of "vacation".  For this undisciplined, non-believing, yoga novice, it was a very interesting two weeks.

As I arrived December holiday season, the only sleep option I had was "the dorm".  This obstinately independent old gal cringed at the thought of sharing small amounts of space with far too many love-in hippie chicks strumming guitars and singing campfire songs but the colourfully animated Hindu gods peering down from every corner had a little plan for me.  I dropped my bag on an empty bed and met my cubical space mate within minutes.  A lifetime friend made instantly.  Ms. Caroline, my Belgian bon bon, was to become my trouble making soul sister for the next two weeks of yoga camp.  And to be fair, the dorm, while at capacity with 50 beds on each of two floors, was much better than I had anticipated. 

There is no orientation, introduction, or warning label to help lost city slickers ease into the life of sitting cross legged on concrete floors for hours on end or suddenly finding one's self in the midst of a couple of hundred bodies clad in flowing clothing chanting Sanskrit sing-a-longs whilst shaking tambourines.  Yes, my friends, there were tambourines.  There is a system, a routine, a schedule not to be messed with in an ashram but until you get the hang of it, at least a solid three days, you are slightly scared in your bunk that there may not be a way out.  (Can you spell c-u-l-t?)

Being used to having to adjust quickly, I figured out the day in and day out with minimal effort, as well as all of the possible loop holes.  *sigh*  Even in a holy haven, I am compelled to  always find a way to break the rules.  I know, I know, it's an ashram.  People come for the experience, the self-improvement, the dedication, the meditation; if you can't live by the rules, an ashram is not a place for you.  But I was there and I was committed to the YOGA so the other stuff, well, we just had to get a little more creative.  Here's a typical day...  seriously. 

5:20am wake up gong  I usually got up at 5am to avoid the morning mania of too many girls and too few bathrooms.

6:00am satsang  this is usually 30 or more minutes of SILENT meditation in a massive hall then a bunch of chanting and a not so inspirational message from the director, wrapping up about 7:30 or 7:45am.  Barf.

7:30 / 7:45am ish morning tea  first chance to chitchat by the tea tree.  {we aren't supposed to speak until after satsang} I always skipped the little tea break {I don't like tea} and went back to my bunk for a few minutes of "seriously, what am I doing here?!"

8:00am YOGA!!  yes! 90 to 120 mins of yoga, yoga, yoga!  This is what I came for! {I got my ass kicked, by the way.  Yoga is HARD!}

10:00am Brunch  vegan food served prison style but surprisingly, really good.  Looked like pig slop but honestly if you could get past the look of it ... yummy, good food.   No talking allowed whilst eating so most of us were up and out in less than 15 mins flat.  That and sitting on the floor, using our hands to eat, and being served out of stainless steel industrial sized buckets didn't make for the most social of atmospheres.

11:00am Karma yoga  an hour to serve your community by doing assigned chores around the ashram.  My first week's assignment?  - cleaning toilets.  Seriously.  Well played Karma, well played.  I lasted a week then gently demanded a change to afternoon tea server, thank you very much.

12:00 - 1:00pm Optional coaching classes  to get help with improving your meditation {yeah, right} or yoga.

1:00pm - 1:30pm Free time  WHAAAAAT???  You're meant to be doing some kind of silent self-study - bahahahahaha!  We would sneak off to the lake across the street or the village just down the hill.  Or sleep.  5am wake-ups folks.  5 am. 

1:30pm Afternoon tea  again, I avoided this as I don't like tea but had fun serving it and chit chatting the second week.

2:00pm Mandatory lecture  I made it to two of these.  Two.  In two weeks, two classes.  The director (bless his heart, is the most boring man I have ever encountered) mumbles on about something or other meant to be related to yoga or ashram life without actually ever getting to a point or completing a thought while half the people present try to crawl up his butt and the other half squirm about uncomfortably on the concrete floor watching the clock.  No thanks.

3:30pm YOGA!!  Yep, the only parts I came for.  Two hours of pretzeling - go yoga go!

6:00pm Dinner  another silent prison camp experience but again, food is YUM!

6:30 - 8:00pm Free time  this usually meant desperate attempts to access internet or escape off the compound again.

8:00pm Evening satsang  More meditating, more chanting, and more unbelievably boring and uninspired story telling until about 9:30pm.

10:30pm Lights out  and I promise you, almost everyone was asleep before then.

This was ashram life.  And I learned how to avoid the boring stuff.  If you didn't get out of bed for the 6am satsang, some senior volunteer staff would come to gently shake you awake and shame you into attendance.  Solution?  Wake up, sit up on your bed or loiter around the bathroom until said staff member makes her rounds then slip back into your bunk after she leaves as she only swoops through once.  2pm lecture - just disappear.  Noone comes looking for you for this because everyone is scattered doing various things so this is an honour code thing.  One which I failed fully and completely.  8pm satsang, a little more tricky but usually I took a seat at the very back of the hall where I could lean against the wall and/or sneak out mid-meditation.  Okay, okay, maybe I missed out on a massive spiritual experience but come on!  Me?!  Sitting straight backed and silent on a bamboo mat covered concrete floor trying to find my enlightenment?!  Sorry.  Not ready. 

I do have a confession to make, however.  Those satsangs, I didn't skip all of them.  There were drums.  Random tambourines and shaky shake instruments are scattered throughout the hall on the laid out bamboo mats so anyone can pick them up and jingle along as the Hare Krishna brain washing is happening.  A few of the staff members and sometimes a yoga vacationer had a bongo bongo drum so it made the chanting more like music.  And yep, I got into the groove.  The people who played the drums were AWESOME!  I even tried to meditate as I figured, why not?  Tried.  But mostly I did my best to sit still and be quiet.  They gave us little chant booklets that had the sanskrit written in English sound alikes and by good golly, I was singing and bouncing to the drums by the end of it all. 

Then I had one of those seeing myself outside of myself moments and shuddered - I had become a hippie chick, brain washed into a Hare Krishna cult.  *sigh*  They got me.  It was the drums!  Those damn cool drums!!  Thankfully my cynical self prevailed and I slept my way through the last few satsangs.  Sorry Ganesha, but did you really think I'd start praying to an elephant headed child after only two weeks?  Come on now.

Speaking of Ganesha, have any of you ever had any Hindu experience?!  Holy cow (bahahahaha!  Get it?!?!) they have some wicked gods and goddesses.  I have no idea how many there are (something ridiculous like 34 million!) or what even a fraction of the stories are but yes, these deities are first rate soap opera drama stars.  I really must find a few of these tales.  I can promise you that I will never bow down to a monkey faced man but I know it will make for some super interesting bedtime reading.  There were some spectacular paintings of these girl/boy/animal creatures in our meditation hall so it gave me lots to admire whilst everyone else sat cross legged with eyes closed.  Yesssss, I was watching you, my pretties, I was watching.  Kali is my favourite.  A badass godess who lops of men's heads and collects them on her belt.  You go girl!  Excellent fairy tale material folks - look into it. 

The ashram itself was beautiful.  Set across the street from a lake (which was rumoured to house local crocodiles but we went for a swim anyway) and quite far from any of the chaotic hustle and bustle of Indian city life, it was purposefully idyllic, peaceful, and green.  Fridays were our "free day" so we could choose to leave the ashram and do as we pleased as long as we were back for evening satsang (again, yeah right).  The second week I was there was not the usual routine as it was Christmas so they had all kinds of cultural events going on.  I still skipped the lectures but the evening satsangs had a few local dances and entertainment sessions.  MUCH better, much much.  Underneath it all however, the ashram is a business.

I suppose it has to be, I guess.  They run yoga courses bi-weekly and teacher training courses several times a year.  They can house hundreds of people at a time all of whom they have to feed, but yes, they rake in the cash.  A few chats went round with hopes upon hopes that a good portion of the money that comes into the ashram goes back out to help the local communities but with all the new construction happening on the property, it's really hard to tell.  Benefit of the doubt, they are carrying on with giving and generosity.  For me, it was clean, relatively comfortable, and a good intro into yoga, ashram, and dorm life.  I'll take it.

Would I do it again?  Hmmmm...  hard to say.  I really liked the yoga.  Really.  It's the one time in my life that being short was a bonus as I progressed with the bendy, flexible poses pretty quickly but the meditation, lecture stuff?  Fail.  I'd like to learn to meditate, I guess, but I disagreed with so much of the tuning out the world and focus on god that I don't think I'd ever get very far with it.  Sitting and being quiet, yes, I will work on that, getting closer to "god", nope.  No thanks.  Give me a bit more time in India though I may be running for another reclusive respite.

What I'll take with me as I bid farewell to a regimented routine of smelly yoga mats and tambourine shakers is a few unexpected but strong friendships that I hope to have for years to come.  That's what this is all about after all, isn't it?  The people we meet along the way. 

Caroline, soul sister, partner in crime (we often got shushed for giggling during meditation or dirty looks for chatting during quiet time) deserves a special mention.  She is a beautiful and incredible woman who is on the brink of major life changes.  It was so fabulous for me to watch her experience the sights and scenes of India with the same awe and bewilderment that threw me ass over end when I first set out on my own years ago.  She's up for all of it and I can't wait until her new journey begins.  I know I wouldn't have lasted the two weeks without her.  No way, no way, no way.  Road trips, long chats, bendy buddies, and tolerating my desperate searches for chocolate; see you again soon, sister. Om Shanti.  Shanti.  Shanti. 

Easy India Intro (knock on wood!)

Who knew an easy life in India was possible?  My intro has been strangely easy peasy and I’m thinking maybe I should just stay put.  Why throw myself into the filth and chaos, the death and destruction, the miserable mayhem that is waiting for me if I leave this mini holiday destination?  Because I’m in India and that’s what I’m meant to do, that’s why.  But for now, I’ll appreciate every single second of this very easy life in India.

Taking the advice of my ever wise travel wifey Deb, I have started my India journey in Fort Kochi, in the southern state of Kerala.  Surprises awaited as a cushy and silly cheap AIRCONDITIONED (!) airport bus took me from a relatively calm airport arrival experience the two hours to this little tourist haven and dropped me near a guesthouse I had arranged via reviews online.  Location:  excellent, owner:  fab, room:  dark cubicle.  *sigh*.  That’s okay, it’s only a room.  I won’t be here much anyway.  In the process of my first messy attempt at local food I met an incredibly enthusiastic little Hong Kong born Canadian man who claimed to be a retired teacher and who talked more than any single person I think I’ve met in a very long time.  I mean, it was … wow…  he talked.  But not conversation, simply talked.  Regardless, he had some interesting stories and a lot of information so I took in what I could and just let the rest flow.  He put me on to his guesthouse as he had initially stayed in the same cramped room where I was staying but found a gem of a guesthouse for a cheaper price and a whole lot more.  I’m in.  Bag packed, moved out of my cell, and into my palatial suite by 8am.  I almost wept when I saw the room – it was beyond perfect.  Owned by who must be the nicest family in all of India, I signed up for 5 days and may not ever leave. 

The days have been busy as I have wandered around a very friendly, again EASY waterfront / port town.  Big cargo ships, fishing nets, boardwalks decorated with nonsense souvenirs, and shiny shops full of expensive must-haves in the forms of spices, flowy colourful clothes, and “antiques” to adorn your heart and home.  The people are relaxed and smiley, even the tuk tuks only ask you once if you want a tuk tuk, and yes, life floats by here. 

I lucked out in my timing as Kochi was hosting India’s first Biennale; the town has turned into a supersized abstract art gallery, some of which is really very good.  I’m the first to admit that I have zero creativity.  Zero.  I cannot draw, paint, sculpt, carve, play an instrument (okay, well I played the flute a million years ago but that doesn’t count), or do anything that requires any stretch of creative imagination so when I see a broken up Walkman (yes, a cassette playing Walkman) running a continuous reel of tape with white noise playing as some kind of Burmese symbolism, sorry folks, that’s not art to me.  I have no ability to appreciate broken children’s toys or shredded plastic or random scribbles and scratches on a wall, or a mess of colour that may or may not take some kind of shape. I can appreciate nice things, I can appreciate talent but sadly a lot of the “abstract” is lost on me.

Hence, for me, a historical moment for India will not be remembered by the tremendously influential and meaningful art work but by the free MIA concert in the local park.  An Indian born UK / US pop singer whose music befuddled the local crowd but was most appreciated by the travellers in the area.  And by the way, Indians can’t dance.  I was thoroughly amused not only by the concert but by watching the local boys giving their all trying but failing monumentally to dance, clap, and generally get into the groove.  How on earth Bollywood came out of this country is beyond me because at least in Kochi, these boys ain’t got no rhythm.  Wow.  Pure entertainment.  But a good time was had and yes, my timing was lucky lucky.  Free stuff – who doesn’t love free stuff?! 

I had some fantastic company whilst at the guesthouse and was able to explore the area without the usual “alone girl” hassles.  Spent one day on a scooter with an Italian couple (I had my own scooter, just in case you were wondering how three of us managed on one bike) to find an amazing, almost empty, stretch forever beach with big waves (from the sea and the locals) and hot, hot sun.  Then the couple, an Israeli woman, and I rented a car, complete with driver, to explore a tea plantation far too many hours away.  The driver was a very sweet, gentle man of the tender age of 72.  Yes, 72.  The blue cataract rims around his dark, kind eyes were my first warning sign but by the time we were in, there was no turning back. 

Tea plantations bloom and blossom in steep rocky hills which often turn into treacherous territory in most areas so the roads to access these towns are narrow, windy, and often poorly maintained.  As we wove our way at far too fast of a speed around these Indian roads with a dozy old man determined to pass every vehicle out for the day, all of us (whom are all fairly experienced travellers) were noticing that he didn’t seem to see oncoming vehicles until far too late, that he didn’t seem to hear the warning horns of vehicles around the blind bends in the road, and that he didn’t seem to care about his general state of unawareness.  We four were fairly convinced this would be our last trip.  Ever.  At one bright and sunny midday point high up on a narrow section of the road, our dear sweet driver insisted on passing a massive dump truck whilst navigating one of these heart lurching blind bends.  As we rounded the corner fully exposed on the wrong side of the road, all four of us holding our breath and silently cursing old man stubbornness, a large vehicle of some sort bore down fast and heavy on us, we being directly in its path.  Blind Old Man swerved into the dump truck he was attempting to pass with a solid smash as the rear of our car connected with the front of the truck.  *sigh*  None of us the least bit surprised but really?  I’m PAYING to die?!  You’ve got to be kidding me.

Angry words were exchanged between the drivers as the four of us quickly exited the vehicle and stood on the safety of the opposite side of the road, as far away from the mess as we could.   We’re fine, we’re fine, the car is fine (a ding and scrape smash, no biggie), but Jesus, what are we going to do about this guy?  As the truck driver was on the phone to who knows who, our little old man scurries over to usher us all back into the car.  We’re pretty sure he pulled a sneaky quickie and we may have been accomplices in a hit and run but meh, we’re on our way so not much we can do. 

We continued to beg and try to reason with him, insisting that we were in no hurry and that by slowing down we could actually enjoy the scenery instead of white knuckling the upholstery and biting through our cheeks but he was on a mission.  Things to do, places to see. 

The day was long, somewhat stressful, definitely life threatening but overall, a success.  We wandered through tea plantations, ate good food and cake (three cheers for cake!) and learned lots about each other.  The stories, the stories, it’s always about the stories.  I now have happy homes where I can lay my head in Italy and Israel if anyone is interested in heading that way.  We arrived home by the skin of our teeth many many hours into the darkness with little sleep as we were all far too fearful to close our eyes in the car.  Strangely enough, he seemed to become a better driver once the sun set.  Go figure.  Another day, another adventure.

Spent a lot of time the next day trying to get my life together and make a bit of a travel plan but failed miserably and ended up with a few hours of sleep before a 3:30am alarm to make it to a 5am train that was taking me to my very first ashram.  I know nothing about where I’m going, what an ashram experience is meant to be, and if I will actually be able to tolerate a 2 week health focused, very regimented program but I’m excited about my first go at yoga and as is my newly adopted motto inspired by travelling so far…  why not?  Hippie life, here I come.       

Beach Life in South Lanka.

Okay, okay, okay.  You know life is good on the road when you just can’t find time to write.  Where did I last leave you guys?  Ella?  Wow.  That was a lifetime ago.  Let’s do a quick catch up (well, “quick” as in condensed because yeah, you know me.)

After the chilly but captivating tourist town of Ella I decided to head for the beach.  Mirissa was supposed to be the place to go.  Regular run about lugging bags on and off of overfull buses flying warp speed down the middle of crowded roads, aging me every minute, then conveniently get dropped right outside a decent guesthouse and settle in.  Decided to stay a few days as an annoying travel cold was kicking in full force and I thought life would be good by the sea. 

It was so nice to be back at the water.  This was meant to be the centre point for whale watching; blue whales, biggest beauties in the sea, can be seen from boats shuttling eager camera wielding tourists to and fro.  This was my grand plan.  The owner of the guesthouse immediately set out trying to sell me on his best, the only good, government regulations boat and I stepped back.  You know when your little ding ding bells go off and waving red flags pop up?  This guy was all smiles and “I help you!” but yeah, I said I’d get back to him. 

The beach in Mirissa, meh.  Nice and small.  Crashing waves way too rough for me.  Some surfers braving a bit of break towards the cliffs at the end, lots of super expensive but shabby beach front restaurants, it was pretty, but meh.  Didn’t even take any photos.  Hopped on a bus or two, explored the small towns either side of Marissa, tried to sleep off my cold, and looked into the whale thing.  Turns out I’m a little too early for the big shows.  The boats that had been going out (4 – 5 hour trips with some big rocking swells) were resulting in one, maybe two tail showings.  That’s it.  Hmmmm…  several hours of seasickness and a big chunk of cash for a fleeting glimpse of a tail – I think I’m going to pass on this one sadly. 

I learned very quickly that in Mirissa, when you say no, the relationship is over.  The guesthouse guy, a fat-bellied horker / snorter who wore nothing but a very dirty lungi, became pouty and angry with me, even when I caught him in a lie about prices, and stopped speaking to me entirely.  I’d smile and offer an extra cheery “Good morning!” which was either entirely ignored or acknowledged with a grunt if others were in the room.  No big deal for me as I didn’t see him that often, but really?  Come on now.  The very sweet and slightly senile mother-in-law whose house it actually was spoke zero English but spent an evening showing me her fabulous wedding photos and making it clear in the brilliant art of charades that she really didn’t like her son-in-law, the current man in charge.  That was all I needed to put my guilty feelings right.  It seemed like anywhere that you went to ask for info on various things, if you didn’t commit and buy right then and there, it was a ‘harumph!’ head turned away, get out of my sight reaction.  Not the nicest people in Mirissa.  A very long and uneventful few days there. 

So off to the next beach town, Unawatuna.  Say it.  It’s fun.  Wanted to do some diving.  Similar to Mirissa but WAY more options in terms of places to stay, bigger beach, and definitely more of a tourist hotspot.  Plan – DIVING.  Visited a few and chose one that I got a pretty good vibe off of.  Showed up to dive and they insisted on giving me fins that didn’t fit (I have ridiculously small feet).  Hence, fail.  Got into the water and there was just no chance that the dive was going to happen.  If I lose a fin, I have to pay for it and even with socks, I couldn’t keep them on.  Itty bitty baby fins, surface current too strong and got nowhere despite massive effort.  *sigh* waited on the boat in utter frustration.  *whine.  whine.  whine.*  I want to dive.  Second day tried a different dive shop, German owned so yeah, everything was tip top.  The dives however,  … crap.    Always happy to be in the water but I had really high hopes for this jewel of an island.

The south coast of Sri Lanka was smashed by the tsunami so perhaps this is why there’s so little to see.  Well, for me, this spoiled dive princess.  Murky waters, no coral, hardly any fish, even the wrecks looked like shadowy mounds of moss.  Only two dives and it was enough.  That being said, if anyone is looking to set up shop, this is the place to be.  I swam off on my own for a bit and with some serious effort I was able to find a few very cool and tiny hiding bits of interesting life but the dive guides here just have no idea what to look for.  The few shops in town are all in the business of scoping out new staff and dives sites as they know their current ones don’t have much to offer.  Jacques Cousteau’s grandson was diving with the shop when I was there as he is setting up some new projects.  Being just out of a civil war there is mega business to be found here and I’m sure with some time and a little searching, Sri Lanka will be on the map of “world’s wicked dive spots” in no time.  If anyone has a wad of cash they want to invest, let me know; I’d be MORE than happy to set up shop for you there.  Seriously. 

I liked the atmosphere in Unawatuna, but got the boot from my guesthouse, quite by surprise.  It was THE most fantastic sleep spot so I decided to stay for a while to do some wandering but when I came back after my dives on the second day, the owner said “You’re leaving tomorrow.”  Thinking it was meant to be a question, I laughed and told him that I was going to stay as I might dive a bit more and hadn’t had much of a chance to explore.  “No,” he told me, “you’re leaving tomorrow.  I booked the room for someone else.”  A quiet but heated discussion ensued wherein the rudeness of his behavior and desperately lacking communication skills despite speaking very good English were clearly outlined for him.  He didn’t care.  I was leaving tomorrow.  

All was fine though as Eva, the gorgeous German I had spent time with in the hills, was in the next beach town of Hikkaduwa (again, say it.  Love these names!)  and was staying there for a while.  She said it was very chilled out and a must see.  So I went and saw. 

The biggest of the touristy beach towns but GORGEOUS beach.  Not quite Mozambique, nothing could be Mozambique, but the closest I have seen.  Love, love, LOVED the beach.  One long strip of guesthouses, restaurants, and shops with loads of sunburned Russians and chilled out surfer dudes lounging about.  Oh, and did I mention the beach?  I could walk for MILES on soft, CLEAN sand and only run into a few people here and there.  The waves were big and the strangest currents came in and swept you straight sideways off your feet in warm, wild water.  Despite a few panicky moments of “holy shit I’m being dragged to my death!”, the water was good fun for playing.  A week melted by and I did a whole lot of I’m not quite sure what.  It was divine.  The locals even seemed more chilled out there.  Did some city exploring, ate way too much food, walked and walked and walked, rented a scooter and drove around, laid in the sun, and even drank wine.  I found out much too late that after my year of yearning in Indo, Sri Lanka had all the worldly wine you could ever want at really good prices.  *sigh*  I still got a good bottle worth in though so all good.  All good. 

The week was great, it was SO nice to hang out with really good company and be a tourist instead of a traveller for a bit.  I was seriously contemplating extending my visa in SL for another month but the time on my Indian visa was ticking away.  It was time to go. 

Sri Lanka – two thumbs up and on my list for must go back to countries.  I feel like I saw and did almost nothing of what the country has to offer after only a month.  It’s clean (compared to Indo and apparently to India, of course), the people are LOVELY, you can do the usual ignoring of the incredibly annoying tuk tuks and touts without any worry of aggression, the men are still icky and in some towns after a few run ins I was confined to my room after dark but for the most part, no issues at all, the food is YUM!, and it’s still all new.  Everyone I met who has had an India experience says that SL is a very soft India, all the good stuff of India, a warm up for or necessary wind down to India but India aside, I really, really liked SL.  Trains and tea, climbing mountains or swimming in the sea, SL is an upcoming love affair for sure.  Get here now, before it’s overdone.  And if you need a travel partner, let me know.  I’m definitely up for it.  Definitely. 

I’m off to India, completely unprepared, no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing, and to be honest, a little scared out of my mind.  Bring it on.