India trip recalled - part 2

My train left Alleppey at about 6:00 AM and arrived in Varkala mid-morning. I had booked a room at a hotel that is attached to an ayurvedic treatment center. Ayurveda is an ancient system of naturopathic medicine native to India. It is really for the treatment of serious disease, but because prescribed treatments sometimes include such pleasurable therapies as massage and use of aromatic oils, it has become a big tourist attraction for curious foreigners. I was one of those curious foreigners, and I wanted to get some ayurvedic magic.

But my first day in Varkala was a bit of a downer. I had requested the cheapest available room, one without air conditioning, which I thought would be unnecessary since February is supposed to be perfect weather in Kerala - not too hot. My room was on the top floor, and the view from the balcony was great, but the room was hot and depressing during the hours of direct sunlight. I tried to take a nap, but it was too uncomfortable. I went to find the manager to see if I could pay more and switch rooms, but I couldn’t find him, so I decided to just deal with it.

I walked down to the beach. People were either in couples or with families or groups of friends. I decided to have some lunch. I climbed the stairs to a rooftop restaurant. Some poor old guy who could hardly get up and down the stairs was waiting tables. Now, this was on the beach, and you could see the Arabian Sea just as well from the ground floor, but people fancy the idea of having a meal on the rooftop seating area where they can look out at the blue horizon. I felt uncomfortable being part of the transaction that required him to manage the stairs just for this small perk, but there were other tourists up there, and none below, so there I went. At least there were other tourists there, and maybe I could talk to somebody. While planning the trip, I had noticed that many guide books and online bulletin board posts implied that seeing other tourists is the last thing a traveler ever wants to do. In my case, as a solo traveler, I actually wanted to mingle with other tourists. I would have been glad to chat with any sunburned tourists wearing sneakers and carrying cameras. But they were all with their own companions, and anyhow I noticed that they were mostly speaking German, Russian, or some other languages that I didn’t know. The miserable old guy finally made it up the stairs with my vegetable curry. It was the worst Indian food I have ever eaten in my life. I’m sure it could be replicated with the following recipe: Add one cup of frozen mixed vegetables to one can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup; add curry powder, heat and serve. I ate it anyhow, quickly.

I went looking for an internet café. Having only a week in India, I had decided that I wouldn’t spend any time in internet cafes, but so far the day had put me in a bit of dismal mood, and so I didn’t mind killing a bit of time online. Anyhow I could at least check the train schedule and confirm my booking for the next place. While I walked up a side street, shopkeepers yelled at me for not going in their stores. I found the internet café and logged in. There was one message from one of my teacher friends in Kuwait. He wanted to know if I was having fantastic Indian cuisine. I went back and found an old message from someone I had contacted through the “Lonely Planet” website. It was a guy who has a guest house in Varkala. His place had been all booked up, but he had recommended the hotel with Ayurvedic clinic attached--the place where I ended up going. His email had been friendly, so I had written back a few times to ask various questions about ayurvedic therapies, train travel, weather and so on. In his last email, he had said that I should stop in and say hello while I was in Varkala. I decided to send him a note and tell him I was staying in the budget hotel he had recommended, and if I happened to see his guest house I would stop and say hello. I also sent a little note to my family, and then headed back toward my hotel.

By now I had the idea that it could be a long three days of wandering around Varkala by myself, so I decided to cough up the money for the “javeena” treatment, the biggest option of ayurvedic packages offered at the clinic. It was going to be six hours of various treatments, paid for by the day for up to six days. The same friend back in Kuwait who was interested in how I was finding the cuisine had told me about some kind of mega-enema they do that rids ones intestines of a lifetime’s acquisition of toxic oily build-up. I wondered if they would put me through something like that. Well, even if they did, I had no other agenda for Varkala, so I would go along with their recommendation. I was told to be there the next morning at 9:30.

Just outside my hotel was a lean-to where a young man whose otherwise handsome face bore an unfortunate scar was selling light-weight Indian clothing. The Indians themselves seem to have stopped wearing the loose, cotton pajama-like garments, but tourists like them. It was too hot for my jeans and T-shirts, and I wanted to buy some, but I didn’t want to haggle. I don’t like it anytime, I was in no mood for it that afternoon. I tried to get the guy to understand that if he would just give me a fair price I would pay it. It didn’t work. It had to be a contest, whether I wanted one or not. I ended up with a couple of flimsy pajama pants and a big cloth wrap for what was really not a bad price, but I walked away highly irritated by all the manipulation. Since the little lean-to was right outside my hotel, I had to pass in repeatedly for my remaining time in Varkala, and each time he asked me to come back in and buy more, and each time I made a curt refusal. When I think back about it now, I remember how on the last night I saw that the mans’s wife had made a pathetic little stick fire right outside the lean-to and cooked dinner in a tiny pot about the size of the pot I use to boil water for a cup of coffee. That was food for her and her husband and their little girl. I think about the fact that every time I passed, he smiled a goofy smile and asked me to come back and buy more, and I kept up my show of indignation that he had not let me do things my way. I think of that, and I am ashamed, and I wish I had bought a dozen or so pajama pants to give away as souvenirs.

As it was, I had my new purchase, and I wasn’t going to look in any more shops, so I fixed my gaze forward and walked ahead without turning my head to give anyone a chance to coax me to their displays. I walked the full length of the cliff top “boardwalk” of restaurants and souvenir shops and finally came down a stairway to a section of sandy beach. I almost didn’t go in. I didn’t particularly want to. I had to push myself. I had to tell myself that it was my responsibility to have a swim, since I had come all this way. And when I swam out to where the young tourists were body surfing in the waves, I felt sure that with my bald head and graying beard I was certainly the oldest person out there. But I had fun. The water was clean and blue. The waves were perfect. I remembered how to start swimming just ahead of the incoming wave so that it would pick me up and carry me in. Playing in ocean waves is probably one of the most ancient forms of play in human experience. It washed away all my negativity. It let me forget about my isolation and alienation. I spent about an hour in the water, and when I saw that the sun was going down, I started back to my hotel.

When I got there, the manager said he had a message for me. I was supposed to call another hotel. It took me a second to make the connection. I used the office phone to call. The voice on the other end spoke perfect British English. It was indeed the guy I had exchanged a few emails with, and he said why didn’t I come over and have a drink. The directions were tricky, but I decided to give it a try. I got a shower, changed into my new PJ’s, and headed out. The hotel was in much nicer resort section of Varkala. It turned out to be a very classy place with beautiful furniture and gardens. Even though India has an economy that can accommodate budget travelers, there do exist luxury accommodations for those with money to spend, and when you have it you can experience real elegance. This guy was an Oxford-educated Brahmin from another part of India who had somehow landed in Varkala. He was as worldly and urbane as any Manhattan socialite. He made some drinks of fresh watermelon juice and rum, and asked me about America, Japan, Kuwait, Hilary, Barack, what I thought of India, etc. He talked about the great changes taking place in India and shared some funny stories. We got on the subject of Goa. My assistant had once told me about how wonderful it was see the relics of St. Francis Xavier. This guy told me that the Indian newspapers had reported that the body was no longer going to be brought out for public display unless there was a protective window in front of it. Apparently some woman had gotten caught up in religious fervor, and started kissing the feet of Francis’s mummified “incorrupt” body. She got carried away and actually bit his big toe, which unfortunately broke off. I supposed it’s a bit irreverent, but we had a good laugh about that. It was late by the time I headed home, after what had certainly turned out to be a long day of twists and turns.

The next morning I reported to the clinic. The night had not been very restful. It was hot, and the ceiling fan was noisy. I would get up and turn it off to get some peace and quiet, then when I got too hot I would relent and turn it back on again. Finally I used some foam earplugs that I had in my shaving bag, but then it was that uncomfortable feeling of pressure in the ears. Needless to say, I did not wake feeling particularly rested, and there may have even been a touch of hangover from the rum. I was curious to see how the ayurvedic thing was going to go.

The doctor wasn’t there at all. Two small Indian guys with very little English ability were the therapist team. One of them gave me some kind of face tickle thing that involved drawing simultaneous, symmetric patterns of swirlies and circles up and down the two sides of my face with the tips of his fingers dipped in some kind of herbal oil. I couldn’t really call it massage, because in my mind, massage involves pressure and kneading of the muscles. This was some kind of tactile hypnosis, and it was immensely relaxing. Then they put me into a loin cloth and had me lie on large wooden table, made from the trunk of some special tree with a sort of pan carved into the top to catch all the oil being used. And the amount of oil used was astounding. It smelled wonderful. If you’ve ever had a professional massage, you may have smelled aromatic herbal oils before. In ayurvedic massage, they use a huge amount of it. I think the oil itself is thought of as a medication, and the massage is partially conducted as a means of administering it. Some people might not like it because it is really gooey and oily. But the smell is wonderful, and the method of massage is bilateral. Two people work in tandem on either side of you, so that if the pinky of your right hand is being massaged, it’s guaranteed that the pinky of your left hand is being massaged at the same instant. I think the integrated right-left sensation does something to the brain. They massage your entire from head to toe. (Well… actually, there is a spot or two that they don’t touch--darn it! ) I have to admit, it can be quite stimulating, but the therapists are priest-like in their approach. They are absolutely in perfect sync with each other, and if any communication is necessary they actually use little gestures to avoid talking, or whisper so quietly that you think they’re performing a religious ritual. And maybe they are. I compared this to time or two I’ve been in florescent-lit hospitals where loud-mouthed nurses gossiped with each other and doctors played the radio while they waited for the anesthesia to knock me out. The difference in just basic regard for the sanctity of healing is mind-boggling. Even if an alternative model of healthcare like ayurvedic medicine is scientifically empty, the culture that surrounds it is alone worth serious recognition and regard. My third therapy for the morning was another oil therapy. This time, a tiny, steady stream of oil was allowed to fall onto my forehead creating little rivulets that followed gravity along the contours of my head. It went on for a very long time. I imagined that gallons of oil were being used. Again, it was deeply relaxing and hypnotic. After it was over I asked to see how much oil was used, and it looked like less than a pint. Anyhow, it was amazing. After a good wash with hot water and soap, I walked on cloud feet down to the office where I regarded the doctor and the few staff people working in the office. “How do you feel?” asked the doctor. “I - feel - wonderful,” I said in the voice of one who has achieved nirvana. And I immediately signed up for full treatment for the next day.

There was a break during which I wandered around and met a drummer from Varanasi (Benares) who wanted to sell me an Indian drum and would to teach me how to play it for as long as I had time to learn. And then an afternoon session of more Ayurvedic treatment, but I guess I’ve said enough about what that’s like.

That night I went to one of the better beach restaurants in Varkala and ate chicken tikka masala (my idea about eating as much vegetarian food as possible while in India was not panning out) and watched the sun set over the Arabian Sea. The owner of that restaurant is a Hindu and plays a repetitive kirtan chant every evening that goes on and on and on. You think, “Oh, this has gone on a long time. Surely it will end now.” But it goes around one more time, and one more time. I heard one customer say something about not liking it as he got up to leave. But I didn’t mind. I sort of enjoyed the time-lapse that it created. At the same time I wondered about how I would feel if I were at a restaurant and the owner played some devotional Christian music. I don’t think I would like it. I certainly don’t like it when taxi drivers in Kuwait play Quran verse recitation. Why was this ok? Maybe my heart and mind were open from the day’s therapy, or maybe it was just because I was in India, and anything Indian was part of the experience.

Day three (Tuesday) in Varkala was primarily taken up by the ayurvedic treatments. I have to be honest - the first session was the most powerful, and at times I wondered in I had opted for too much and that maybe it was getting to be overkill. How much can you really slime around in that oil without getting sick of it? The power enema never happened, but there were some other interesting treatments. One of them involved taking some kind of mud made from ground plants, seeds and roots and plastering it onto the top of my head, after which a helmet of banana leaves was tied on to hold in the heat and moisture so that it could soak in. That seemed really silly and didn’t provide any particular sensation, but it had some comedic value and I kind of wish I could have had my picture taken with the banana leaf helmet.

I went back and met the drum guy. I decided I would buy a drum. He wanted to barter instead of taking money, which I thought was interesting. He claimed that his drums were of his own making, and I had no reason not to believe him. He said that since coming to Kerala, his daughter hated it and had stopped talking. She hadn’t talked to him for months, he said. But in Kerala there was good education, and she was going to school and learning to read and write, which he could not do. He said that after such a long period of not talking, she finally asked him for a favor. All the other children at school had electronic gadgets. CD players, MP3’s, cell phones, etc. India really has become very technical, and you wouldn’t think it would reach the poorer classes, but it has. She wanted some gadget to take to school. Anything I had, he would trade for a drum. Even if it was just a few American music DVD’s. This made me sad on a few levels. First of all, it was sad that the lure of this kind of materialism--a coveting of the most superficial kind of flashy tech crap--was obviously hitting the simple lives of India’s humble working class. And this guy didn’t care about that his daughter was getting sucked into it -- he just wanted to make her happy. I remembered hearing an interview of a woman who had raised her son living in a car. They were homeless, but the boy wanted some $100 Nike shoes to wear to school. She broke down in tears as she talked about how she saved for a year to buy him the shoes. She couldn’t give him a home or decent life. But she would get him those shoes. I actually considered trading my cell phone for the drum. It’s a nice one, and I got it used for a super low price from a wealthy student at my school. I think I flipped a coin to decide, and the phone stayed with me. I ended up swapping a pair of jeans, an old pair of cross trainer shoes, and a hat, for one of his best drums which was made with a camel skin. I threw in some money too. It all fit him perfectly, which made me think it was a good choice. He told me to come back in April, when I have another break, and he would teach me how to play that drum. It’s a tempting thought.

Enough about India? Bored yet? Well, I’m not through writing about it. The next morning I boarded a train headed back north where I had arranged to spend my final few days at a homestay run by a very traditional Brahmin family in village outside of Cochin. I will write about that in my next post.

I have written this in bits and pieces over the course of the weekend, which is now over. It is now late night on Easter’s Eve, and time for me to go to bed. Tomorrow morning I will get up and walk to school, for Easter Sunday is just another work day in Kuwait.