Now that I've managed to put a distance of time between my somewhat sullen departure from the subcontinent, my overall feeling of "meh" has, with perspective, transformed into something a tad more positive.
By the end of my five and a half months in Goa - not India, but Goa, which is a completely different beast - I was practically running to the airport to get away. This was sad in some ways, but not entirely unexpected in others.
Fortunately, I can now look back and see that things were actually worth it and those five and a half months contained a lot of
everything. Many experiences, hundreds of new people, language, animals, sea, questions, so much growth I didn't even notice it at the time, new understanding...... wow. No wonder I was dying to get out and basically incapable of travelling more than 3 km while I was there, I experienced more standing still than I ever expected or could realise in the moment.
I was disappointed for a short while about how little I'd moved around, what I hadn't seen, how little I'd achieved in terms of what I had planned (I should know better by now about that whole "planning" thing), how something I'd really believed in had turned to ash in my mouth. This in itself was an experience as I thought I'd stopped being disappointed - it's good to be humbly reminded that you're still human.
But now, and only now, I've been able to say "Hang on a minute, what about....?"
....the fact that I lived in what is essentially Brighton (socially speaking) in a much better climate and did not conform to that very easy ex-pat-ish lifestyle?
I worked in a yoga shala and stopped doing yoga.* I took a step away from it and questioned it - something I hadn't done before. This is good: it means I'm likely to come back to it later but with my eyes open.
I was surrounded by people from all over the world, and I sought refuge in a nook of India-ness and spent time in that warm place. I learned some Hindi, and even some dialect.
I managed to communicate enough with a Nepali who spoke about three words of English to become his friend. I gave him some coloured pencils when he drew me a picture in pens so that he would draw more; he did. I think they are still up in the kitchen despite his departure in January. He was nineteen, married with a child and looking to go and work in Myanmar. His life gave me incredible insight into how different things could be in other people's normality. He used to sit next to me when I worked on the computer and watch, learning, fascinated. We'd listen to music - some of mine, some of his, some of the other kitchen staff's. It was a pleasant exchange. I gave him a hug when he left. He was like family.
I taught his slightly senior cook, from the Himalayas, some more English as he helped me with my faltering Hindi. We got there, somehow being at the same level, but filling in the other's gaps. He sadly left when his brother died, too quickly to say goodbye.
I adopted one of the long-term workers as my little brother, and he gladly took me on as his
bade bhen (big sister)
. We got on ridiculously well**, but in very much a sibling manner. We still do, in fact, as he tells me about his girlfriend troubles (multiple) and I tease him in a way I never had the opportunity to do, being the younger sibling in my family.
I became very close friends with the head chef (surprise?) which was also across a severe language barrier. But there was a mutual understanding there that probably came out of a deep appreciation of food and flavours. And trust, which developed when he first shyly asked me what something was. It turned out to be a dried apricot, but I only got that through eating it. He'd asked me by giving me the packet. It took a few days for the penny to drop that he couldn't read. So it became my project to start teaching him to read and write, gently, discreetly and respectfully. He was illiterate and innumerate because, basically, he hadn't been to school - not uncommon in the slightest in India. When I discovered this my understanding of the world changed for the better: I was enawed by his mind, which was, although uneducated, amazing. Not being able to read or write meant that he had to keep
everything he knew in his head. And he knew a lot - about food, flavours, herbs, plants, flowers ayurveda, hot foods, cold foods.. as well as having 4 languages that he spoke fluently and enough English to communicate sufficiently well in short bursts with everybody. He learned quite quickly, although we didn't get much time to have proper lessons.
The first time I sat down with him to go through the first half of the alphabet was spontaneous, but immediately became ceremony, I realised after. That was back in December when my Nepali and Himalayan friends were still working there. I sat down with Head Chef, a piece of paper and a pencil.
"Now, we learn the letters," I announced. And we, logically, began with A.
"The sound is /a/. Tell me a fruit that starts with the sound /a/," I teachered on.
Himalayan and Nepali had sat down behind Head Chef and were craning to see whilst trying really hard not to be too obtrusive. Doctor (who was a carpenter, but also acted as a doctor when required) was having chai at the end of the table and pretending not to be interested. I saw Himalayan raise his hand slightly. I ignored it to give Head Chef his chance. He had taught me how to make
masala chai, afterall.
"Apple?" He replied, looking pleased and earnest at the same time. Everyone at the table relaxed visably, as if a serious hurdle had been cleared. "Yes!" I encouraged and wrote "apple" under "A" and drew an apple. That was why I had spent ten years learning this profession.***
We continued. The others sometimes getting vocal when HC struggled to find a word, I only once sharply stopped Himalayan and he apologised profusely - he only wanted to show what he knew, but this was not his lesson.
We finished at J. Everyone stood up and went back to work thoughtfully. Another day I gave him the rest of the alphabet with a picture for each letter and quickly went through it with him. I saw him once or twice take the sheets out of his pocket and write things down very carefully. Sometimes he would spell something out for me while he was chopping and I was working on the computer.
By the time he left he could write "Dinner, please write name" on the blackboard outside the kitchen all on his own, which I saw as an achievement. I hope he is still using it.
I saw some wonderful sunsets (and it's time for a photo).
 |
| Sunset light. |
I somehow earned the respect and intrigue of an Indian wandering philosophy teacher. He wore a lunghi and had a beard and spent time meditating in the mountains. He had a wicked and quite silly sense of humour and loved the shala dog as much as I did. We never really got onto anything too deep, but we did brush around some potentially endless philosophical discussions. Only once in the kitchen did we sit about with chai and the shala owner, the three of us discussing dogma, people, beliefs, politics and the like for a good hour or so. We shared a
thali once and talked about banalities. A surface was not really scratched. I'm sure we'll meet again in the most unexpected of places and sit and chat properly about things of a metaphysical nature.
I spent a lot of time talking to animals.
I learned about ayurveda, I understood food more, I connected things more. Reiki treatments I gave got great feedback, and results: some a lot more tangible than others. That, at least, showed some development.
I can now make chapatis (two types!), poori and paratha. I understand flavours and dhal and curd. I know what a balanced meal actually consists of. I cannot look at turmeric for a little while, but I'll get over that.
I know what to do with aloe vera.
I met a Transylvanian Beekeeper who harvests the most expensive honey in the world, a Swiss Product Designer who seems to work on really obscure and fascinating projects, a Belgian Lunatic, an Australian Monty Python & Douglas Adams Fan, a Very Gentle Israeli ex-Roadie with more tattoos than I have ever seen on one person and other folk from far and wide whose thing in common was backpain.
I discovered that I really do like cake and coffee whilst looking at the sea.
I became even more reflective on what one should use one's voice for and what not.
I listened to a virtual stranger pour his heart out about his forced marriage and subsequent unhappiness, before his liberation and time in meditation. He thanked me, he told me I was an old and understanding soul, who knew the world and had a gift for listening. He's probably partly right.
I was not once mistreated. I would occasionally get unwelcome attention when I sat alone at sunset, but generally speaking they would go away if I asked them to. Or would be apologetic when I got up and left.
In conclusion, I did not improve my backbends or my sun salutation but I can do that in Italy with my favourite yoga teacher; I did, however, learn so much that I couldn't even see it until I got away from it and those lessons are definitely the best. There is a lot of "I" in this post, which is egocentric and not something I generally approve of, but
I grew and am still growing on the back of what I experienced there in that small village in South Goa.
I may pop back for chai one day. Or, I may not.
* This could just be my inner rebel doing its thing...
**He was also a Libran and a snake (12 years my junior).
*** I say this with no irony.
