Category Archives: India

Let Them Drink Tea

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Yesterday was a travel day. Yep, we ventured out of our little piece of heaven. Traveled forty minutes on the sometimes barely existent road in a tuk-tuk to Munnar – the big city in these parts – town of 38,000 inhabitants.

 

Our plan for the day was to check out Munnar and then go on a TripAdvisor tour called The Tea Trail which included a visit to the Lockheart Tea Museum and Tea Factory as well as a visit with the tea pluckers as they’re called, and the chance to pluck some tea and follow it through until it turned into a cup of tea. We should’ve been suspicious right away since, the tea process being what it is, there’s no way our freshly picked tea leaves could turn into a cup of tea within an hour.

But all in good time.

The twisty, uphill road into Munnar, aside from being narrow and deeply rutted at least half the time, was breathtaking not only because of the near-collisions but also the fantastic views of the tea, which grows all over the place in extremely well-ordered glory, under a dramatic sky with clouds wisping around and in front of mountain peaks.

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And then, suddenly, and for no apparent reason, there was this.

 

Why carrots? Who knows. But they were incredibly fresh and their color was the brightest I’ve ever seen. Tempting to buy but we had nothing imaginable to do with them so we sadly gave them a pass.

After a discussion about our finances just days ago, we’d decided to be more cautious with our spending (read“my” for “our” and “I” for “we”). But within minutes I’d bought handmade chocolates for one sister’s upcoming birthday and a mini-kurta and smaller box of chocolates for the other. This necessitated our third post office experience – the oddest and funniest yet. But that will appear in a much later post with tips for the traveler to India.

There’s a saying that everyone you meet is your teacher. Way back in Mumbai we had a young man guide us through the Mumbai markets. He was sweet  but not much of a guide. We didn’t learn anything about Mumbai markets but we did learn little tips for getting along in India. One of the most useful of his instructions concerned bargaining – always start with an offer of 1/3 the asking price. Sounds insulting but it’s right on the mark. You get a feeling when the seller is finished and really won’t go lower. The final price will be 1/2 to 2/3 of the original price and everyone will be happy.

Our tuk-tuk driver from Munnar to the pick-up point for the tour started at 300 rupee ($4) and ended up taking us for 200. It was a 25-minute drive similar to the one from Ayursakthi Riverdale to Munnar – bumpy, with hairpin turns. He dropped us off at 14:10 for our 14:30 tour. It was a beautiful location overlooking the tea fields. We’d brought warmer clothes so the chilly mountain air didn’t lessen our enjoyment of the luscious green surrounding us.

At 14:40 there was still no sign of our guide/car and TripAdvisor wasn’t answering emails so we began walking the 500 meters downhill to the Lockheart Tea Museum through the enchanting (enchanted?) Eucalyptus tree forest.

My partner’s knee had started giving him grief in the morning. Downhill aggravated his discomfort more than uphill. He’s very fit – a gym fanatic – and definitely not a complainer, but at some point I waved down a tuk-tuk to take us the rest of the way, fuming at TripAdvisor and planning my scathing review of the tour we’d paid for.

At the museum and factory there was still no sign of TripAdvisor other than their stickers all over the place. The cashier spoke no English but the word TripAdvisor gained us free entry. We bumbled along on our own in the amusing museum with its silly relics – like ‘an English bathtub’ and a rusty old iron – and fascinating photos. Once again we found ourselves wondering about British rule. Every photo showed a work crew or social group with at least 15 Indians to every Brit. How in the world did they control India for 300 years?

As we sat at a picnic bunch overlooking the plantation, pondering the lovely view, TripAdvisor and other questions, a woman came running over and asked if we were with the French group. We said ‘no’ and once again tried to explain that we were a TripAdvisor ‘group’. She turned a puzzled face to ours.

No  French. No TripAdvisor. No worries. She herded us to the factory entrance where a pleasant man with excellent English said he’d been told we’d arrive at 10 (Eureka!), which was later corrected to 13:00, but happily agreed to guide us through the factory if we would just put on little blue crime-scene booties.

The tour was very interesting. Who knew?

Turns out that all tea – black, green, and white – (white?!) – Orange Pekoe, Earl Gray and Chai – is made from the same tea plants. Black tea is made from the lower leaves, green tea from the top two leaves only, and white from the lone bud between the top two leaves.

Black tea is more processed, going through three drying stages, one of which lasts either 30, 60 or 90 minutes, a heating process, and one of three grinding options. Green tea is processed far less and white tea is barely processed at all.

Black tea is ground fine, finer or even finer, while green and white tea are not ground at all.

Finally, the death blow to my teabag drinking days, we saw that black tea, in its final stages, is separated out by color-sensitive  cameras into leaves, stems and fiber. Some tea is packaged with only tea leaves while other are packaged with a mixture of leaves, stems and fibers. It’s the second kind that goes into teabags.

Ugh!

The stems have no flavor but add color. The fiber adds bulk. The first is labeled ‘Orthodox’ tea and the second is ‘CTC’ tea. I never noticed that on boxes of tea but I’ll be looking for it.

When we had a tea tasting experience at the end of our tour we could definitely discern the difference. The CTC tea had a very  bitter aftertaste and the taste in general was less pleasing. Sadly, the white tea, which is coveted, has the most health benefits, and is very expensive, was flavorless. 

On to the fields where we were too late to meet the all-female tea pluckers. Yes, that’s what they’re called, though it may be a translation from some other language.

Turns out you have to arrive by 13:00 to actually meet those plucky women who are paid the equivalent of $5.65/day to pick 27 kilo of black tea with machines or 400 grams of green or white tea by hand. Pick less than 27 kilo and the per kilo rate drops. Oddly enough, a lower per kilo rate is paid for every kilo over 27, also. Go figure.

Pluckers who are permanent employees are given free lodging but we couldn’t figure out why some workers are eligible while others are not.

22.4 million tons of tea are bought annually in the world. That’s one heckuva lot of tea. China is first in the world of tea production with India a solid second and many other countries, like Sri Lanka, trailing behind.

The Lockheart Tea Factory sells tea to Twinings, Tetley and other tea brands. We might be able to see their export name, Harrison, on some boxes. I’ll be looking for that, too.

The lovely woman who accompanied us in the tea fields lives seven kilometers from the factory. She takes a short cut through the forest, which reminded us of the children we saw in Peru walking home from school up into the mountains. She laughed when we exclaimed at her daily journey saying that she’s still fat. While I found her pleasingly rounded, I wouldn’t have called her fat. Indians don’t find that a derogatory term, though, and use it freely about themselves and others. 

She kindly arranged a tuk-tuk to come get us, realizing that my partner’s knee was bothering him. She negotiated a price and we were off. The young driver was truly a maniac on the road, even more than usual, but we negotiated with his sweet brother (picked up along the way) a good price to wait for us while we ate dinner and then drive us back to Ayursakthi Riverdale.

Weighed our options ⚖️ – possible death on the road, good price, possibility that none of the other many many tuk-tuk drivers would be willing to risk life and limb on that road at night – and confirmed the deal.

He took us to a pure veg restaurant where we had what was very possibly our best meal yet. Manchurian Mushroom, Green Pea Masala, Coconut Rice, Garlic Naan, Coffee and the best Masala Chai I’ve had so far – all for a total of about $6.50. Our dinner was served on big banana leaves.

No forks in sight.

Indians eat with their hands – actually one hand;their right – which is why only foreign tourists get forks in many restaurants and why there’s a sink or two in the restaurant. Washing one’s right hand is essential after the meal. Before the meal is optional.

Some foreign tourists emulate the eating with the hands thing. I have to admit, I don’t get it. Adopting customs that are pretty, like wearing a kurta, or practical, like the Indian version of the bidet, is nice. Using a banana leaf instead of a plate is genius. Roll it up & throw it out after dinner. No dishes to wash! But foregoing forks? Really? A bit silly, imo.

Lessons learned from our Munnar Tea Outing:

1. It only takes 3 minutes to steep tea leaves and is well worth the wait.

2. The Lockheart tea trail tour is great! Do it! But it’s done just fine without the commission  to TripAdvisor and the added hassle of trying to hook up with them. Go on Monday – the only day the manual plucking of green and white tea is done. Get there before 13;00.

3. Pure veg restaurants probably prepare better veg meals than restaurants that provide veg and non-veg options.

4. Locals know the better restaurant choices. Ask them.

But what about the family?

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This trip started out as one of those ‘round the world’ tickets where you have to keep traveling in one direction – east or west – and can’t cross any specific ocean more than once. I must’ve played with that planning tool on the Star Alliance site for twenty hours or more over the course of several months.

Tel Aviv – St. Petersburg – Mumbai – all over India – China – Bora Bora – Alaska – Oregon Coast – California – Salt Lake City – Mount Rushmore – The Badlands – New Mexico – San Antonio – Fort Lauderdale – New York City – Toronto – The Bay of Fundy/Nova Scotia – Iceland – Tel Aviv

Juggling weather, direction, time.

How much is too ambitious? Australia, yes or no?

Should we rent an RV to travel around the US? A car with motel stays? Flights for the long bits?

But then the time came to make real decisions like renting out the house for the year and what to do with my yoga studio and my husband started hemming and hawing. There were hesitant chords of concern about leaving our lives for so long. I tried to ignore them. Gloss over them. Treat them like background noise.

A year. Twelve months.

I had to admit to myself that it was sounding like a really REALLY long time to me, too.

The house wasn’t the problem. Neither was the studio. Though I love both.

It was the kids, the grandkids, and the friends who have become no less our family in the 30+ years that we’ve shared a life.

So twelve months became ten months became six months and here we are with the second month of our six-month trip drawing to a close.

In this technological era, it’s pretty easy to keep in touch with people. We share our amazing surroundings and the interesting people who inhabit them with a WhatsApp group for our English-speaking friends daily. We post on FaceBook for our Hebrew-speaking friends or send separate WhatsApps or emails. We send messages to our family WhatsApp group, too, and keep in touch with them with video WhatsApp weekly when we can find a strong enough WiFi connection, or with audio WhatsApp when we can’t.

We spoke with our youngest son and his wife yesterday from an isolated snack food kiosk in the jungle as they drove home from an office party in Silicon Valley, California.

We remember the days, not too long ago, when we sat in Internet Cafes, paying for the internet per minute and waiting endlessly for the atrociously weak and slow connection. Then there was Ko Mak, an island in Thailand, where we had to hike an hour to the other side of the island daily for the only internet connection because I had left Israel in the middle of interviewing candidates for a position and had to go over resumes.

Earlier there just was no internet – impossible for our grandchildren to envision – so we made the occasional phone call when we could.

It seems that most of the important people in our lives are healthy and major crisis-free so far during this trip.

Before we left we knew that one friend was scheduled to have a small, probably cancerous, tumor removed from her kidney, and after we left we received the good news that all had gone well with her surgery.

One granddaughter had an ugly eye infection that seemed to linger endlessly. Endlessly finally came to an end after way too long a time for my taste. Her swollen-closed eye then returned to normal.

The worst of it so far has been a shocking but benign head tumor with sudden, unexpected, surgery that’s meant weeks of rehab for a neighbor who’s like a younger sister to me. That was a tough one because I knew that my presence could’ve been important for her morale, but, thankfully, her recovery seems to be going well.

Life is full of surprises – big and small; pleasant, unpleasant and neutral – and they don’t cease when we’re far away from our usual haunts.

So here’s the deal.

Relationships with people are one of the most important ingredients in the tasty soup of life. There’s our relationship with ourselves; our inner world. The one we take with us wherever we go, whether it’s to the living room or to India. Then there are all the others.

The ones we choose; the ones we’re born into; the ones we birth; the ones we marry into; the ones we grow into because of circumstances; the ones who are part of the landscape of our lives.

There are even relationships we’re semi-unaware of until they’re brought to our attention.

There are close relationships and casual relationships. There are close relationships that become casual sometimes and casual relationships that become close at others.

There are relationships that take us by surprise and relationships like old slippers – comfy and constant.

But there’s one reality of important relationships that my husband has pointed out to me many times – they have a past, a present and a future. If one of those elements is missing, the relationship is a like the one with that second grade teacher you had in elementary school. She may have been one of the most significant people in your life when your were seven but she’s only a fond memory today.

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a relentless technological freak. I love the newest, the most creative, the most surprising new concept, gadget or app. I’m that person that buys the out-of-the-box FaceBook solution for neck tension and was one of the first to contract out administrative projects to freelancers online fifteen years ago. I never give up communicating with people in the Mayalayam spoken and written on my translation app in spite of dozens of puzzled expressions. I trust Uber and Waze and UpWork.

I prefer email and WhatsApp to phone calls or personal business meetings. If you WhatsApp me, chances are you’ll get an immediate reply sixteen or seventeen hours out of twenty-four, even from the tropical jungle of Kerala.

And yet.

I’ve learned to embrace another reality about relationships.

The important ones cannot, ultimately, be sustained with technology. They can be maintained temporarily in a loving electronic space when watered sufficiently – pardon the mixed metaphor – but they will eventually rise from the lower berth to the 3rd tier berth of relationships and become your second grade teacher.

It’s true of best friends, of sisters, of kids, and probably most of all of grandkids, who have the disadvantage of being too young to have solidified any relationship enough to withstand the loss of perpetual physical proximity.

I love to travel. Someday I may not be able, physically, to climb into a train berth or even get on a plane to travel to another exotic location, but I’m guessing I’ll become an armchair traveler. Meanwhile, I look forward to the next four months in India, a week in Greece with my daughter and granddaughter in July, and am already planning to rent a little place for three months in Guatemala next winter.

But I won’t be fiddling with that ‘round the world’ Star Alliance again in anticipation of a year of travel. I have a feeling that I won’t even be looking at six months again. I’m so happy that we grabbed the opportunity to take this incredible journey. I’m seriously enjoying every single day.

While I tend to feel ageless, I am aging. But that’s not the thing. It’s not fun to do many things I used to have fun doing but I’ve barely noticed that I’ve stopped doing them. I’ve moved on to things I may have once thought slow or unexciting and get a huge kick out them now.

The thing is that all the people I love are aging. Yep, even Alex, our youngest grandchild. And certainly our family-like-friends who have almost seventy years on her.

I want to be IN those important relationships. I don’t want a single one of them to become my second grade teacher and I don’t want to be theirs.

I’m so grateful that I’ve birthed, married into, grown into, chosen, and been brought by circumstances into relationships with multi-faceted, quirky, wonderful people whom I love and, wonder of wonders, love me back.

One of the best things about my life is that I’m fortunate enough to live in time that I can nourish both my love of travel and my love of relationship, if I can only remember to balance them and adjust to the times. After all, I could’ve been born under a bridge in Mumbai.

Happy Monday to all from 20 kilometers from the middle of nowhere.

Of Beaches, Lakes and Rivers

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The word ‘traveling’ has nine letters and just as many aspects to the activity the word describes. There’s the actual mode of transportation involved which can fill hours, days, or even weeks,

seeing the sights, experimenting with new food, learning about new cultures, seeking spirituality, discovering history, embracing nature, deepening your understanding of yourself, your travel partner, and your relationships with both, opening your heart, your mind…YOUR EYES.

As the husband of my cooking teacher, who spent years on the sea as the captain of a commercial vessel, told me, “Life is like a book. Those who don’t travel are always reading the same page.”

At the risk of offending all too many of you, I have to admit to agreeing with that statement to some extent, but will rein in my judgey side a bit and add that there’s plenty to learn from our everyday lives in our very own homes, too. We just have to do it. Harder than it sounds.

But that’s another story.

I could write an entire blog – or three – on each aspect of traveling, and might do just that, but this one is about an epiphany I’ve had as I’ve moved from my western, Israeli, specifically ideology-driven, life, to crowded Diwali Mumbai, the vast sandy beaches of Goa, the serene backwaters near Alleppey and now to the hill station, tropical green mountain area near Munnar.

I get into the vibrancy of the city-even Diwali Mumbai with all the millions- the constant movement, lights, traffic, endless options and continual visceral stimulation. There seems to be no limit to the number of shops I enjoy entering. I’m happy walking for hours down busy streets, wandering through museums – both conventional and quirky – waiting in winding snake lines of multitudes of people to see the most touristy of sights or hop on the boat, tuk-tuk, or train at the end of the crowd. I have no problem with getting lost for a while or not understanding or being able to make myself understood. It all works out in the end.

I’m attracted to drama, and there’s plenty of that to be observed in the city. Participation voluntary. For the most part.

Over the past eight weeks we’ve gradually made the transition inland. From waves crashing onto the rock barrier thirty meters from our balcony and dolphins playing twenty meters beyond that, to the gurgling stream just outside our backyard tropical mountain surroundings. We were somewhat prepared by the serenity of Kerala’s backwaters, running alongside the noisy towns of Alleppey, Ernakulum and Fort Kochi, as well as the steadily deteriorating road between Kochi and Pallivasal near Munnar but nothing can really prepare you for the quiet here.

Being isolated in nature is something that has to be experienced.

We made a conscious decision to settle into our new environment and let it settle into us. No martial arts performance yet. No trip into the town of Munnar. No tea plantation or spice garden tour. Just nature and quiet and us.

It took 24-hours for the monkey chatter to subside.

My yoga practice has been evolving…getting better and better.

I experienced a meditation so deep two days ago that it scared me a bit. The pang of fear brought me to the surface so fast I thought I’d get whiplash. Fear of what? Who knows.

Yesterday’s yoga, just before dusk, was the best yet. Fluid. Soothing and refreshing simultaneously.

At one point I felt I wanted to continue forever.

And then it was just the right moment to finish.

There’s such an awareness of productivity – accomplishing things – in the city.

There’s more an awareness of being out here.

Is there a productiveness in being? Can there be?

Since getting more involved in Eastern Philosophy, yoga and meditation, I find that there’s far less drama in my relationship with the people I love. I’ve integrated the concept of non-grasping without really making an effort to do so. It’s just happened with all the reading, thinking and practice of the past two decades. I worried that it was too much. That I’d become too detached from the lives and challenges of the people I love.

He asked me to close my eyes and try to take myself back to the time when there was more drama and intensity in my relationships. It took a minute of my precious 15 minutes with him but I was able to do it.

Then he asked me to return to a more recent time, with less drama in my relationships and, after a minute or two, asked what I felt in those moments as opposed to the previous ones.

I didn’t have to answer out loud. I opened my eyes to the answering smile on his face.

I love the city. I love the satisfaction of completing many, many tasks during the day. Love noise and crowds and shops and movement.

My body and soul are nourished by nature, by being, by deep silence.

Shabbat Shalom – Peace to us all.

The Quality of Sleep

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Some people get into bed at night, fall asleep immediately, and wake up in the morning refreshed.

My husband is one of those lucky people.

We have good friends who go to sleep relatively early and sleep until 10 a.m. if their schedules permit.

I’m not one of those people.

I’ve always been a night person. I’m happy and productive until well after midnight. Two a.m. is the witching hour for me – that hour that marks the border between being able to function well the next day and resigning myself to a zombie day. I’ve trained myself to get into bed by midnight in order to rise at 7 and join my partner for the breakfast he pampers me with, once I smell the wafting scent of coffee.

I no longer fight my inability to fall asleep quickly. Over the years I’ve accepted that resting with my eyes closed during those minutes or hours that I wake up in darkness, dawn far away, can replenish my body, instead of bringing the frustration and monkey mind of trying to bully my way into sleep.

Every now and then – sometimes even once a week – I have nights with virtually no sleep. Those nights are still difficult. I have a bag of tricks that includes breathing techniques and imagery, yoga nidra and other relaxation strategies, but there are nights that nothing brings sleep or rest. I might end up taking half a sleeping pill – that always works – or deciding that the next day will be a lost day. Either is okay; neither is good.

India is a busy, hectic place. Even in villages, the noise level is beyond…well, beyond anything experienced in the western world. There always seems to be something happening: a festival, a rally, a parade, a celebration, a call to worship. In Mumbai, Delhi and other big-beyond-imagination cities, the traffic never ceases. I mean, never.

In the beach towns in which we’ve chosen to begin our six-month adventure, there’s a different rhythm.

For two weeks in Morjim Beach, in Northern Goa, we joined the few people there half an hour before sunset to wait for the big event of the day. Gradually, Russian tourists and Indian residents made their way from their places of refuge from the heat to the kilometers-long, clean, sandy beach for nature’s daily phenomenon. The burst of orange that invariably accompanied the sinking of the sun into The Arabian Sea never failed to mesmerize. The wispy cloud formations lit by the hues of light thrown off with the sun’s seemingly-reluctant relinquishment of energy differed each day, but never failed to enchant.

We could both feel our inner pace slowing daily; our minds becoming less cluttered.

Each beach has its own ambience. Its  own sound. Its own flora and fauna. Each place we stay has its own staff, each with his or her own unique personality, and its own daily sights.

It takes a couple of days, and an open mind and heart, to adapt to new surroundings. To see that the curt, expressionless hotel manager makes it his personal mission to insure your enjoyment and welfare. To realize that anything lacking in your room can easily be obtained by graciously asking for it, and anything that can’t be obtained in this manner isn’t a necessity. To learn the possibilities nearby, how to navigate your way to and from them, and how to balance doing with being.

Thumboly Beach is not Morjim Beach.

Below our second-floor balcony is a sandy yard with a hammock, some tree stump seats, and a raised cement platform where I do my daily yoga and meditation. Beyond the wood-slat fence, with its greenery, is a walkway of sand and spotty grass where solitary villagers or small groups of school children can be observed passing by from time to time.

The apparel is of unending wonder and fascination.

Many men wear baggy shorts made of a large cloth tied in a mysterious way which provides modesty in spite of the tie in front that they open frequently to readjust, and a looseness essential in the humid heat of Kerala by the sea. Others wear a long skirt wrapped around their lower bodies.

Women wear colorful saris or leggings with a tunic on top. They even go into the water dressed this way – but only to their knees. Their modesty is a constant, although their midriff is bare in their saris and partially exposed. Shorts and bathing suits are nowhere to be seen. If on the beach in Tel Aviv women show the maximum amount of skin possible, here women show the least.

Beyond the path is a wall of rocks and boulders set up as a barrier between the village structures and the sea. The waves constantly break onto the rock barrier; sometimes in a gentle lullaby; sometimes with louder music; sometimes crashing with an impressive exhibition of spray. My afternoon yoga is usually accompanied by that drama.

Beyond the waves, the calm, flat Arabian Sea is dotted with fishing boats. Some are barely big enough for one person and his fishing nets; some for three; in darkness, some are big enough for fifteen. Early in the morning we can stand on the beach and watch the fishermen pluck the fish caught in their nets. The catch is never large – 20 kilo on a good day – and the fish are never big. It’s incomprehensible how they make a living from this work. We don’t have a grasp of their reality, though, so it may make perfect sense in their world.

Breakfast arrives on our balcony table at 7-ish every morning and dinner at 8-ish every evening. The creator and carrier of our vegetarian meals is a young man, Veejay, whose wife and five-year-old daughter live a 3-day train ride from here, near the border of Bhutan. The language he shares with the owner of the hotel (for lack of a better word) is Hindi, though his native language is Nepalese and the owner’s is Mayalayam.

Veejay is a vegetarian but accustomed to very simple food. He makes a huge effort to provide a variety of vegetarian meals for us and succeeds admirably. Even when the food is not exactly what we might choose, his intention is so pure that we’re happy to eat with gusto.

His work is endless. He lives onsite and is available 24/7 to provide refreshments, call a tuk-tuk or try to rouse the WiFi. If we were ever lackadaisical about Shabbat, watching people here work every day, all day, has reminded us to be grateful for the wise decision made thousands of year ago in Judaism to set aside 25 hours for rest and spiritual nourishment. The concept, the necessity for such a time and the benefit it brings, was unheard of back then and is still unheard of in India, other than among the Christians.

Our host, Anthony, is a very special person. Born and raised in this small fishing village, his father was a fisherman and, growing up, Anthony loved nothing more than going out on the boat with him. A bright and curious mind has made him an eclectic adult with a well-respected past as a career officer in the anti-terrorist section of the Indian army. He retired as a colonel after 24 years, most of which was spent in Kashmir, the region of continual conflict and terrorism.

Our long conversations include history, not exclusively Indian history, philosophy, science, religion (he’s a Christian with some Hindu undertones), sociology, politics, and ethics. He’s well-versed in current events and spent time in Israel on pilgrimage. He had words of praise for Israeli organization, cleanliness and ingenuity, and said that when he crossed the border into the chaos of Egypt he felt at home.

He has three businesses and has to travel much more than he’d like as a result, but is never happier than when he’s close enough to the sea to hear the waves lapping the shore. He keeps working in spite of yearning for the sea, to maintain employment for his 90 employees. He believes that a person has no self-respect without employment, and finds personal fulfillment providing opportunity for his neighbors. His plan is to work until his 60th birthday – he’s 49 today – and then sell off his businesses to remain within earshot of the waves until the end of his life.

When my husband expressed his fascination with the fishing boats, Anthony called a fisherman friend and hopped – happy as a child – into a small, 3-person fishing boat with his friend and my partner for an hour at sea. I watched as they returned to shore, Anthony paddling, his bare upper body glistening, a big smile on his face. Did I mention that he’s quite beautiful?

But about the sleeping thing.

There’s virtually no internet here. Just enough to entice you into attempts to be online.

I had several logistic necessities to be accomplished online and couldn’t complete any of them, even in the wee hours when the WiFi is at its strongest. I spent one night in a futile attempt, giving up only at 3 a.m. to toss and turn, sleep elusive, my mind dashing from train tickets unreserved and cell phone data packages unrenewed. Breathing didn’t help. Nothing helped. I gave up into the reality of a sleepless night and may (or may not) have dozed off for a short while here and there.

The next day we were able to renew the cell phone data and take care of a few other errands in town. With that off my mind, falling asleep came easily but waking up several times a night came just as easily. Each time, I heard the gentle music of the waves 30 meters from our bed, and drifted back into a peaceful sleep.

Each night since has been the same.

In the morning, I open my eyes only after my ears have opened to the sound of the waves. I feel rocked awake in nature’s arms just as I’m rocked to sleep in the dark of night to the same music.

This morning I awoke to that primordial sound of comfort and a minute later found myself contemplating, with reluctance, our departure from Thumboly Beach four days from now. I gave myself a mental shake to return to the present moment – wherein I’m still in Thumboly Beach and still accompanied by The Arabian Sea.

Our next stop is The Pimenta Cooking School. A cooking course I’ve been looking forward to for months.

My guess is that the sound of The Arabian Sea will be part of me until the end of my conscious life.

In the midst of my cooking course, surrounded by Indian cooking utensils, spices, vegetables and the incredible array of non-wheat flours, I’ll probably have a moment here and there of regret that I’ll be moving on from that kitchen experience at some point down the road.

The bittersweet flavor of traveling. And of life.

Change is a wonderful thing. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a change junky.

I love my life at home. I love my family, friends and students, my house, studio, and community, and, yet, I get itchy after a while. It might take 6 months or a year, and planning my next trip may keep the itch at bay for months at a time, but the world and its infinite wonders call me louder and louder until I have to go.

Feeling full of gratitude for each moment in this amazing world of ours.

 

 

Anyone can Detox on Morjim Beach

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I think that after those last few days of stomach butterflies at home leading up to our departure from life as we know it, we chose well with Mumbai as our first stop. The drastic difference of Morjim Beach from those days of checking off the last items on our “to do” list would’ve have been too great a shock to our systems. Mumbai, with its crowds and our 17,000 steps-a-day touring, was a perfect jumping in point.

The five days of incredible Mumbai, with its teeming population of 22 million and the additional Diwali festival crowds, may sound even more hectic than organizing our life to exist without us, but the contrast between colorful India, spicy Indian food, traditionally clothed people passing us on the street and our own reality in Israel made it perfect.

Five days was enough.

We chose Morjim Beach in Northern Goa for two reasons: for the promise of turtles coming ashore to lay their eggs (which hasn’t happened yet) and the claim of serenity and lack of crowds.

Expectations are problematic for travelers. We choose because we can’t stand at the intersection without choosing right, left or straight, but if we expect our lodging to be exactly as pictured/described or expect the town/beach/tourist site to be exactly what we were looking for, without leaving our mind and heart open to accepting a different reality, we’re often setting ourselves up for a bad time.

The relatively few tourists on beautiful, sandy Morjim Beach are Russian (true to what’s reported by google), and Indians. We’ve yet to meet a tourist from an English-speaking country or an Israeli. The beach is almost deserted most of the day. People frolic in The Arabian Sea from early morning until around 10, before the extreme heat arrives, and wander back down to the beach about an hour before sunset to watch the big event.

There are pubs here and there for nightlife but pulsing music is very localized and can’t be heard from our hotel.

Our first week in Morjim Beach was spent at Baywalk Goa where two exceedingly nice, polite, helpful men eased us into beach life. Breakfast was delicious. Service was immediate. Our room was spacious and had a front and back balcony. The older of the two men even showed me his yoga routine, which included an interesting pose that was new to me. The only drawback was that it was not directly on the beach (about 100 meters away) and about a kilometer down the beach from the restaurants.

We spent the weekend in Anjuna, about 30 kilometers away, where the Chabad House correspondence had prepared us for the possibility of it being non-existent that Shabbat. Not that they said that, but they just sounded flakey. As a result, we chose a more luxurious hotel ($40/nite instead of $30) with a quiet Shabbat around the pool as a possibility. In fact, Chabad House was closed and we loved our Shabbat in the pampered surroundings. There was even a surprise bonus of a wonderful Rajasthani Dance and Music performance on Saturday night. The beautiful dancer invited me to dance with her, which I did, and I had a great time.

On Friday we walked to a coffee shop/restaurant that I’d been following online and getting some India travel tips from for several months. The owners are an Israeli man, Moshe, and his German wife, Anastasia. There’s a big lending library with books in a multitude of languages in the restaurant, a wide variety of “Mediterranean” food options – all vegetarian or vegan – a space for yoga, and a bulletin board filled with notices about yoga classes, meditation groups, tai chi classes and upcoming concerts. A very comfortable, safe hang-out for travelers and people like Moshe and Anastasia who have made Anjuna their home.

I IMd Moshe after we left asking if he’d like to be interviewed for the book I’m writing about people who have stood at that proverbial intersection and chosen a path very different from their background and peers. I mentioned that we would be at our hotel all the next day because we keep Shabbat and suggested we get together on Sunday. Then Shabbat started and I wasn’t online to receive his answer.

Saturday in the early afternoon we were sitting around the pool and Moshe appeared. He had come to be interviewed. We sat and talked (mostly I asked a question here and there and he talked) for over two hours. I don’t know if his story will end up in my book – maybe – but it was interesting and I liked him. He’s been in Anjuna for almost 25 years. He’s approaching 50 years old. He sees himself as a citizen of the world and when asked to visualize his two daughters’ future (they’re now 10 and 12), he imagines they will live somewhere out there in the world – not India – and he’ll relish their happiness. Having had three children spend years each in the U.S., I could tell him that it’s much easier to relish one’s children’s happiness from closer up, but why burst his bubble. And, who knows, maybe he won’t feel that way.

Back to Morjim Beach on Sunday but to a place directly on the beach this time and close to restaurants – Ciiroc. Gershon found the manager taciturn and took an instant dislike to him. We’d checked the place out when we were at Baywalk and it seemed very nice. Little cabins surrounding a pristine pool, with comfy beds, a fridge, and pleasant porch.

Expectations.

Reality came in the form of a small(ish) cockroach prancing across the bed as we watched Blue Bloods on my iPad, an internet connection that was so slow that it was truly useless, and no cups to go along with the hot water kettle. As it turns out, though, one has only to ask and everything appears. The “taciturn” manager provides whatever we ask, including better internet by turning off and on the router whenever we ask.

The cockroach had no friends.

We’d eaten at the restaurant the previous week and already knew that they didn’t have about 3/4 of the items listed on the very extensive menu. When we tried (again) to order fish and were told they didn’t have any, the manager came over with an explanation. The fish in the market hadn’t been good that day so they were only serving it to non-guests. He hoped to have better luck the next day at the market and would make fish available to us then. A little scary for those non-guests, eh?

One important thing to note is that every single dish we ordered (that they actually had) was delicious and more than made up for the 3/4 of things on the menu that were unavailable.

We were the only customers most evenings for dinner and could only wonder at the four or five people in the kitchen. I was invited in to take a look at the kitchen and, while primitive, it was clean and a great space to prepare food.

Today we walked the other way on the divine beach and spent an hour or more investigating a rock jetty with tidal pools and many, many living things. There are four kinds of crabs here – bubbler crabs with their amazing artwork, hermit crabs who teach us an important life lesson – to be satisfied with what we have and not chase what looks a bit better – ghost crabs, and a kind of crab we saw on the rocks that Gershon has not as yet identified. The beach and shallows are populated by thousands of tiny clams that women bring their children to gather to add flavor to their soups. There are fish in the tidal pools and the inevitable birds who feast on crabs and fish.

I participated twice in a yoga and meditation class on the beach giving by a 68 year old yogi who seems to be the real deal. I could probably learn  a lot from him but each class is a basic class because he caters to the Russian tourists who come and go. Too much talking and not enough meditating or yoga for my taste. But a very cool experience.

I have to go now. It’s almost time to see the sunset.