Aside from the debacle at the airport in Mumbai, my trip to India has been planned with a military-like precision. My objective was to have as little alone time in India as possible. I see the irony in this now - with a billion people wandering about, there's no such thing as being alone here. But the basic thinking was this - minimize time alone wandering as a single female tourist and reduce the likelihood of, oh, I don't know, wandering down the wrong street and just 'disappearing'. A paranoid view of things? Yes, by all means.
So I really did intend to do the sun salutation pose in yoga class for a full two weeks, then hop in a pre-arranged taxi to the airport, and make my way north to Delhi to join my tour group. By day 4 at the ashram things were looking up - my appetite was shrinking, so moaning over the meals was gradually on the decline, I'd made peace with the fact I was going to skip daily lectures and wasn't going to gain a deeper knowledge of yogic theory, and while I still hadn't found a 'comfortable, seated, meditative position', I think I had acclimatized to life at the ashram.
While I still was a reluctant attendee at satsang, as my pathetic attempts at medication were getting me nowhere, I'd even started to enjoy some of the chanting. The ashram had two Swamis, or spiritual leaders, Little Swami and Big Swami. Their spiritual names were much more complicated and impressive, but I never got a handle on them, so my friend Cate and I took the liberty of renaming them based simplistically on their respective girth. Little Swami, the director of the ashram, was a medical doctor in a former life, quite dishy for a monk, but a bit monotone in his delivery and therefore lacked the sparkle or pizazz to catch my attention. Big Swami was a large guy in his 60's whose orange lunghi (long wrap skirt, sort of like a sarong) stretched across his abundant gut in a way that defied the low fat diet the ashram served up. (I am convinced he must have had a contraband supply of snacks - beetroot salad and lentil stew would not maintain this gut for long.) He had a large, booming, super-impressive voice and really got the temple rocking during the opening chant. And any monk who can work a joke about Michael Jackson into a spiritual lesson has got my attention, I admit it.
Nevertheless, cheetos and an obnoxious Hindu festival combined to make me seek escape from the ashram ahead of schedule. But perhaps I should explain.
A week into the yoga vacation program we were given a day off for good behaviour. Cate had done some research and found mention of a hilltop look-out about 35km away from the ashram which featured views of the surrounding tea plantations, so we set off in an autorickshaw with high hopes. We wound through quiet villages for an hour and a half, and with each passing kilometre it was clear we were travelling where few Western tourists bother to go, as people would stop what they were doing so they could take a good look at us as we slowly rode through town. We chose to look at the experience as a karma yoga gift to the people of Kerala, rather than the other take on it that was possible (feeling like a star of a circus freak show). About an hour and a half into the ride our driver stopped at what appeared to be the outpost for the Indian equivalent of the Ministry of Natural Resources. No one, our driver included, spoke English very well, but the rough translation was we'd ended up at an entry to a national park, and entrance to the park was restricted unless we had permission from the head office in Trivandrum (2 hours away) and paid a ridiculous fee of 6000 rupees each. And we were not even allowed to get out and take photos (which would have been crap, as we were on the side of the road in a bush) because there was a temple nearby which beadie little lady eyes were not allowed to view. I've since learned that a couple Hindu gods were bachelors, and as a result, women are not allowed to view temples that are dedicated to these gods, but at the time it sounded highly sexist and just wrong. So we headed back down the hill, and simply to amuse ourself, had our driver stop off in a small town for a little retail therapy. We purchased anklets at a tiny jewelery shop and bought some much needed snacks. I think it's possible that the chemicals that are in cheetos may have messed with my brain a bit, because after I inhaled a bag in 2 seconds flat, the ashram lost a bit of its appeal. Sort of a been, here, already done this feeling.
The second contributing factor to my flight from the ashram was the zeal with which the local village was paying tribute to a gaggle of Hindu gods. Our first morning at the ashram, along with the morning bell at 5:20 we were greeted with Hindu music echoing through the darkness. At the time, I mistakenly thought the ashram used the music to get us in the spirit of things, and I found it added to the atmosphere quite nicely. But it turns out we'd arrived at the ashram right in the middle of what must be the longest festival in the south Indian calendar, because for the next week and a half Hindu music was blasted from a series of loudspeakers about 18 hours a day. It started around 5am and played solidly till early afternoon, took a couple hours off (probably while the villagers were on siesta), then started again around 4ish and went till midnight. The chances of me actually succeeding at meditation were pretty low, I admit it, but there's no way I could find any inner focus with Hindu music blaring all the time. We kept hoping optimistically that the festival was almost over, but once my masseuse explained that it would continue till late March, Cate and I decided to hit the road for a couple decadent days at a nearby beachtown.
So I still can't meditate. I still can't sit still for more than 2 minutes without some muscle in my inner thigh starting to twitch. But I mastered the shoulder stand, which I'm quite pleased about, and more importantly, can now actually relax in a yoga class and not get all frustrated and pissy because I'm not 'accomplishing something'. And people, that's huge.
So I really did intend to do the sun salutation pose in yoga class for a full two weeks, then hop in a pre-arranged taxi to the airport, and make my way north to Delhi to join my tour group. By day 4 at the ashram things were looking up - my appetite was shrinking, so moaning over the meals was gradually on the decline, I'd made peace with the fact I was going to skip daily lectures and wasn't going to gain a deeper knowledge of yogic theory, and while I still hadn't found a 'comfortable, seated, meditative position', I think I had acclimatized to life at the ashram.
While I still was a reluctant attendee at satsang, as my pathetic attempts at medication were getting me nowhere, I'd even started to enjoy some of the chanting. The ashram had two Swamis, or spiritual leaders, Little Swami and Big Swami. Their spiritual names were much more complicated and impressive, but I never got a handle on them, so my friend Cate and I took the liberty of renaming them based simplistically on their respective girth. Little Swami, the director of the ashram, was a medical doctor in a former life, quite dishy for a monk, but a bit monotone in his delivery and therefore lacked the sparkle or pizazz to catch my attention. Big Swami was a large guy in his 60's whose orange lunghi (long wrap skirt, sort of like a sarong) stretched across his abundant gut in a way that defied the low fat diet the ashram served up. (I am convinced he must have had a contraband supply of snacks - beetroot salad and lentil stew would not maintain this gut for long.) He had a large, booming, super-impressive voice and really got the temple rocking during the opening chant. And any monk who can work a joke about Michael Jackson into a spiritual lesson has got my attention, I admit it.
Nevertheless, cheetos and an obnoxious Hindu festival combined to make me seek escape from the ashram ahead of schedule. But perhaps I should explain.
A week into the yoga vacation program we were given a day off for good behaviour. Cate had done some research and found mention of a hilltop look-out about 35km away from the ashram which featured views of the surrounding tea plantations, so we set off in an autorickshaw with high hopes. We wound through quiet villages for an hour and a half, and with each passing kilometre it was clear we were travelling where few Western tourists bother to go, as people would stop what they were doing so they could take a good look at us as we slowly rode through town. We chose to look at the experience as a karma yoga gift to the people of Kerala, rather than the other take on it that was possible (feeling like a star of a circus freak show). About an hour and a half into the ride our driver stopped at what appeared to be the outpost for the Indian equivalent of the Ministry of Natural Resources. No one, our driver included, spoke English very well, but the rough translation was we'd ended up at an entry to a national park, and entrance to the park was restricted unless we had permission from the head office in Trivandrum (2 hours away) and paid a ridiculous fee of 6000 rupees each. And we were not even allowed to get out and take photos (which would have been crap, as we were on the side of the road in a bush) because there was a temple nearby which beadie little lady eyes were not allowed to view. I've since learned that a couple Hindu gods were bachelors, and as a result, women are not allowed to view temples that are dedicated to these gods, but at the time it sounded highly sexist and just wrong. So we headed back down the hill, and simply to amuse ourself, had our driver stop off in a small town for a little retail therapy. We purchased anklets at a tiny jewelery shop and bought some much needed snacks. I think it's possible that the chemicals that are in cheetos may have messed with my brain a bit, because after I inhaled a bag in 2 seconds flat, the ashram lost a bit of its appeal. Sort of a been, here, already done this feeling.
The second contributing factor to my flight from the ashram was the zeal with which the local village was paying tribute to a gaggle of Hindu gods. Our first morning at the ashram, along with the morning bell at 5:20 we were greeted with Hindu music echoing through the darkness. At the time, I mistakenly thought the ashram used the music to get us in the spirit of things, and I found it added to the atmosphere quite nicely. But it turns out we'd arrived at the ashram right in the middle of what must be the longest festival in the south Indian calendar, because for the next week and a half Hindu music was blasted from a series of loudspeakers about 18 hours a day. It started around 5am and played solidly till early afternoon, took a couple hours off (probably while the villagers were on siesta), then started again around 4ish and went till midnight. The chances of me actually succeeding at meditation were pretty low, I admit it, but there's no way I could find any inner focus with Hindu music blaring all the time. We kept hoping optimistically that the festival was almost over, but once my masseuse explained that it would continue till late March, Cate and I decided to hit the road for a couple decadent days at a nearby beachtown.
So I still can't meditate. I still can't sit still for more than 2 minutes without some muscle in my inner thigh starting to twitch. But I mastered the shoulder stand, which I'm quite pleased about, and more importantly, can now actually relax in a yoga class and not get all frustrated and pissy because I'm not 'accomplishing something'. And people, that's huge.
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