Let There be Paint

Well, So long Goa! Fish and I left you, so long, keep on rocking the world that is only moderately free. The two of us have got on a plane for drier climes, into the desert, into a place called Jaipur, into Rajasthan. Ah, Rajasthan, where camels pull rickshaws and carts full of vegetables, computers, and business suits, all destined for the same market; where goats, cows, dogs and vultures all compete for the same city scraps; where huge, ancient forts loom on cliff sides and overlook bustling cities; and where one of the craziest of all the Indian festivals is celebrated in full force, one in which Fish and I have arrived just in time to take part in. I'm speaking, of course, of the Holi festival. A festival of colours and mayhem, where normal cultural barriers are shed and people celebrate together in full force. It starts early, around 9 o'clock in the morning. People start with going to temples, praying, then throwing a huge array of colours at everything and everyone. Afterwards they take to the streets. It doesn't take long before you are absolutely covered in paint from head to toe. Pink, Green, Orange, Red or Green, all extremely vibrant and all used as ammunition against everyone else. It's madness, it's India.

Luckily, I had a white shirt and a pair of white pants (thanks Adam) just for the occasion. Around 10 o'clock Fish and I strode outside, unsure of what to expect. It was eerily quiet. Not many people were on the streets, and at first it seemed like just another day. We walked by a group of teenagers, who were clean, we eyed each other suspiciously. Then a man drove by in a scooter with pink hair and a green face, and purple down his shirt. Farther down the road, a man selling cigarettes and chocolate bars was covered in orange. People were standing around smoking, faces as sombre and plain as any other day, they were just bright pink. As we were walking, two guys named Sonu and Dave drove up on their rickshaw and offered us a lift. We said sure! Take us to the action! We arrived at a temple, but unfortunately we were just a bit late, people were streaming out absolutely smattered in a  vast array of colours, laughing and singing. Damn, I thought, we're still completely white. None to worry. It being Holi, we would get ours. Sonu had to visit his family and asked if we'd like to join, yeah, that sounds fun. We were brought to his uncle's place, but not before buying a bag of orange powder and a bag of green. When we got out of the rickshaw a large crowd of children awaited us, smiling devilishly. There was a slight pause, like the moment before gunslingers yell 'Draw!' ... oOoOoooo Wah wah wah ... Wham! they pelted Fish and I with powder of all colours. We retaliated, and the little buggers scattered down the alley. I stopped, and so did they, giggling while slowly coming forward. I attacked again, and they quickly scattered once again. We must of done this 3 or 4 times before I felt a gush of water on my head; someone behind and a huge pail of pink paint and doused me from behind. The watching crowd roared with laughter, 'we got him!'. I laughed and the kids quickly took this opportunity to chuck another barrage of paint in our direction. As Fish was laughing at me, he quickly was taken by surprise, pink paint covering him from head to toe.

Okay, back into the rickshaw we go! Over to another friends place. This time we went inside. We were offered some tasty food, whiskey, and, of course, lots of paint. And while we were certainly the main target amongst the people there, we had our fair share of chances to return the favor. What you do is get two handfuls of paint and approach someone, when they see you coming, smiling with a glitter in your eye, they will smile back and let you smear the paint on their cheeks, maybe some on their head too, it's considered auspicious, and the more paint the luckily you are! Fish and I were very lucky. Afterwards, we headed to the roof for a 'shower'. This 'shower' was in fact more giant pails of pink paint that would be ceremoniously dumped on both Fish and myself. Again we said our farewells and moved on to the next place, which was another friends house, this time two of them came along with us. There were now 6 of us in that small rickshaw, all covered in a wide variety of colours. I felt seriously like I was in a clown car that was late for the circus.

Now, Holi is not all fun and games, there is an unpleasant side, which isn't indicative of India but of humanity in general. When lots of people start drinking early in the day, some of those people get violent. We were all in the rickshaw when we past a group of around 12 people, all splashed in different colours, literally beating the shit out of each other. It was clear this was not some kind of 'friendly tussle', they were really going at it. We drove by, they didn't notice us, and the last I saw of them a man had fallen and no less than 6 of the stomped him, he lay flat and motionless. There was nothing I could do and Sonu the driver clearly was not interested in doing anything. We moved on, a period of silence followed. But when the picture of six people driving down the street in a rickshaw, completely covered in paint but with silent and sombre faces appeared in my mind, the ridiculousness of it caused me to laugh out loud. They looked at me and laughed, it was okay. On to the next stop.

Another family friend, this time he was sick and so not entirely in the mood for celebration. We sat in his front yard and drank beer, and though as to instill some sense of merriment, the man we have visited pulled out two large speakers and a tape deck, and blared hindi music into the air. A few of us (well, me) got up and danced for a few minutes, but we just couldn't feel it. We sat back down and said nothing as raucous hindi music cascaded over us. Yet another surreal moment in India. Ten minutes after taking the music system out he it brought back in and covered it with a blanket, clearly what was intended to happen had happened, and we went inside and watched cricket, while children peered at us from the doorway.

We left, and around 2 o'clock the festivities had more or less stopped. People had cleaned up yet had a faint tinge of pink to them, and the cows and dogs that wandered the streets were still dotted with various colours. All in all it was a incredible surreal, joyous day, filled with lots of laughs. I should mention I don't have any photos of the event, which is regrettable, but I simply didn't want the camera to get ruined with the paint and water I knew would be everywhere. I do have a cool little video I took with my Ipod of Fish and I post-Holi, which when I figure out how to get it from my Ipod to the internet I will be sure to expose to the world.

Intestines still fine.

Mota Matchi Meets Terence the Pirate

 Hello Everyone!

I'm back in Mumbai and my good friend Fish, AKA Mota Matchi (Fat Fish in Hindi) has joined me. I picked him up in wearing my best: a tailored white shirt, cowboy hat, my orange skirt, and a camel leather utility bag (heheh) over my shoulder. At around 4 am Fish finally found the exit of the airport and threw me an awkward smile that asked 'what's with the dress dude?'. I returned the smile with one of my own, one that said 'Yeah man I'm wearing a freakin skirt and it's comfortable, and so am I, so how the fuck are ya doing?'.

We jumped into a cab and entered a sleeping Mumbai. The next morning we walked around, drank some beer, and very nearly got caught up starring in a Mumbai hair commercial (we had our photos taken but, unfortunately, it was canceled at the last second. Ah well, maybe next time). At around 7:30, while standing on a busy street corner we asked ourselves 'what the hell should we do next?'. Enter Terence Alan Bradley, who magically materialized in front of us. He was a small, wiry Indian man with crazy eyes, a long beard, and massive mole on his bulbous nose. At first, he asked us the typical 'gettin to know ya' questions i've come to expect, but then he unleashed his shpiel: A tour of the darkside of Mumbai, a mind blowing experience you won't see on any travelogues or guidebooks. Mr. Terence knows Mumbai better than anyone, every nook and cranny, and he'll show us how sadness and joy can exist within the same smile; how the poorest of us can also be the richest; how cruelty and compassion can live side by side and somehow be amicable neighbours. Okay Mr. Terence, we say, we'll take your tour. We shake hands, and then, Mr. Terence revealed his own darkside, his pirate side : "How bout a drink!" he asked through a devilish grin. Of course we said yes. This ought to be an interesting night.

Like many, Terence's greatest strength is also his greatest weakness. Actually, for him, it's his second greatest weakness. Terence loves to talk. And will never allow a moment of silence to pass through his presence. This is nice when you want to avoid the sometimes inevitable awkward silence. However, through Terence I have found that there is far more awkwardness found with speech than without it. And from now on I belong to the camp that believes there are some things better left unsaid. I digress, on to Terence's single greatest weakness: Alcohol.

Once we found a nice bar to sit in it didn't take long for the patrons to simultaneously love and hate this gremlin of a man. It didn't take long for me to do the same. The cricket world cup is on, and Canada (yeah Canada is in the cricket world cup!) was playing Pakistan, India's bitter rival. Very quickly Terence was Canada's greatest supporter. As the game wore on and Canada's chances grew slim, rum replaced cricket as Terence's main focus. We spoke of many things, of injustice, of women (or chickens, he liked to call them ... more on that later) and when his loudness and appeals to nobility reached a pitch too high for the establishment to handle, we were kindly given our bill. We chased taxis around until one dared to let us in. We were to meet Terence the next day at 9 am, to begin our tour.

9 am came quickly and Terence was there bright, early, and only slightly drunk. This man has traveled the world, he has met many people from all walks of life, he himself has walked many paths and through the next 2 days only a few of those paths were revealed to us. We began the day at a massive market in the heart of the city. He wanted to scare us off eating meat, as this market shows how the meat is handled before being shipped off to the many restaurants around the town. From holes-in-the-walls to five-star dining. The meat room was a large dank room buzzing with flies, crows cawing and swooping all around. The walls seemed stained black, hooks swung slowly from the ceiling, and a pile of skulls sat in a pile, crows picking off what was left to eat. It smelt of rotten blood and death. What Terence didn't know is that I've seen the darkest markets of China, and held no illusions, and Fish is greatest carnivore I know. So when he asked us if we would continue to eat meat after what we saw we looked at each other, shrugged, and said 'Yeah'. He seemed disappointed.

From there we were taken to the largest clothes-washing machine in the world: Thousands of large cement water basins sitting in the middle of a large slum. Even more thousands of women could be seen cleaning all kinds of clothes, and it is said that nearly every hotel sends its clothes there to washed. When I got my clothes back from the wash, they were very clean, very well folded, pressed, and wrapped and tied in a neat newspaper package. From there we caught a train to northern Mumbai to the 'Mosque on the water'. In high tide the mosque is inaccessible, but in the low tide a thin trail leads to a large, beautifully intricate white building. The trail is lined with beggars of all sorts. Small, dirty, naked children scampered alongside us, mumbling 'Please handsome friend please'. Old woman sat staring vacantly at the ground, their black dresses signifying them as widows. A circle of men lay sideways on the ground, their crippled or non-existent arms raised in the air while they chanted 'Kana ... Kana ... Kana ... Kana ... Kana'. It was chilling. My pocketful of change disappeared before I got to the halfway point of the trail. The Mosque itself was grand, it was the tomb of an old Muslim who went off on a pilgrimage to Mecca but drowned along the way. His body floated all the way back to his home, to the coast of Mumbai.

From there we went into the largest slum in Asia, the Dharavi slum. It felt strange. I didn't really like the idea of ogling at people's poverty; of taking pictures to send back home of the suffering millions of people call everyday life. But it didn't turn out like that. Children came and shook our hands, large smiles on their faces. Men would do the same, smiles with outstretched hands. After each handshake they would touch their chests and then show me their palm. It was a beautiful way of greeting. We were invited to a woman's home who had the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. I very nearly fell in love with her. Her children were working hard at studying the Koran, when they looked up at Fish and I with amazed expressions, she quickly returned them to their studies. We left them and entered a slum bar, to try the local liquor, which was some sort of fermented lime concoction. It actually didn't taste half bad. Once again, the men at the bar silently approached us, only to shake our hand to greet us. After a few shots of distilled lime we left the crowded, incredibly narrow lanes of Dharavi behind. But the place has left an indelible mark on me. I am grateful to have visited it and to have seen the pride of the men and women who live there; the ingenuity of people who seek to meet only the most basic of needs.

We moved on. It should be said that Terence, well, all of us, had been drinking all day. And by 5 o'clock he had his familiar swagger about him. He would speak loudly and constantly to the taxi's we took. But whenever I thought he might of crossed the line somehow, the driver bellowed out a deep laugh. There was something bizarrely likable about this man. He wanted to rob a dog because he believed he was hiding millions, then chased a rooster down the road for no apparent reason at all. On the train he appealed to everyone about the daily injustices found everywhere and people either completely ignored him or listened and agreed.

There is more to Mr. Terence then I can put here. At first, I had planned to tell you his story but, I think it's better he do that. He's certainly far better at it than I. We spent the next day with him as well, along with his dear friend Ramon. The four of us found an instant rapport, and we shared many great laughs and fond moments.We very nearly convinced the two of them to come with us down to Goa. But alas, it was not too be. I'll attempt to organize a reunion with Terence on my way home, it should be easy because I got him on facebook ;). The day after Fish (furthermore referred to as Mota Matchi) and I caught a train to Goa. Where I met my doppleganger and found a reason to visit Denmark.

Intestines still fine.

The Heavens are Empty

A few weeks ago I was on the ridge of a small mountain. I was there with an Australian snowboard champion and two musicians, all of whom I love very much. The group comprised of three men and a woman. The men wore ankle-long skirts, and she wore pants. We found a big rock along the ridge and, sitting atop it, looked out at the early morning sun piercing through the jungle mists. As we sat there, we spoke of dreams, of journeys, of the past and the future. It seems that at the moment, our earth exists in Kaliyuga, or the age of Kali. Now, Kali is a demon that corrupts the mind and soul of nobility and love, and as time passes we slowly descend into vice and hatred. Apparently we've been living in Kaliyuga for quite some time, 5000 years or so, and looking along the lines of history it seems the Demon Kali has been doing his job. But, while there is a lot of suffering during Kaliyuga, it does have its benefits. Since the natural world is in so much strife, all the Gods have come down in various forms to help out. There are more Gods now on Earth than there ever has been. So much so that all the heavens are empty, as the Gods hope to help usher in the next age. With luck, you might meet one.

An interesting thought, and one to consider while I sat cross legged in a Hindu temple in a small village outside of Vellore, Tamil Nadu. I sat in that temple spellbound by a man wearing simple brown robes on a small stage. On the stage was a beautiful shrine, meticulously decorated in bright flowers and flowing robes. Behind me a trio of musicians razzed out a mind melting soundtrack that was as equally jarring as soothing. The man sat next to the shrine, pouring milk on to a small statue of the Goddess Narayani. He then poured water, then honey, then more water, on and on. Occasionally he would grab a flame, and rotate the flame clockwise around the statue. At these times, the music reached a fever pitch, and the devotees in attendance raised there hands to the sky. The earnest, intense belief shown by the people there really moved me, it stirred awake old wounds and collected resentments. I've got to admit. I don't think I've ever seen such firm belief shown so purely. It was truly beautiful.

The meticulousness of the man's movements; his slow, easy flowing actions, and the purity in his eyes, stirred emotions within me that were difficult to assess. There were a lot of them, churning inside; conflicting thoughts and feelings wrestled with each other, vying for my attention. I have to admit, I wanted to leave. I wanted to get up and go and just leave the entire place. I'd walk back to Vellore if I had to. In fact, at one point the feeling was so strong that I did just that. I left. I put my shows on, and walked, with nothing but 50 rupees in my pocket. I got pretty far, about 30 minutes outside of the village, before the ridiculousness of my actions forced me to turn back, back to my friends and the Sri Puram Golden Temple.

The Sri Puram Golden Temple has been built, along with a free school, a free hospital, a big recycling plant, an orphanage and many other things, by a man named Amma Narayani. He is, apparently, a living incarnation of the Goddess Narayani. Many people are convinced of his divinity, and come from far to watch him perform his daily prayers.

The day the four of us climbed that mountain started at 430 am. We awoke to witness the waking of the statue of Narayani. To do that we needed fruit, lots of it, along with milk, honey, and a brown water that smelled of chocolate. We needed to cut the fruit up into small pieces, and we began our day that way, with our shirts off (a requirement to enter the temple) cutting up fruit for a living statue. Then we watched, while a man endlessly chimed a bell and the monks mumbled prayers while pouring pitcher after pitcher of water milk honey.

I've left that place behind, to return to Mumbai and reunite with my friend Fish. But the place still stirs inside me, like a job left half done. And the day will come when I return to that place, to watch a God throw flowers on a cow, and feel the warmth of a holy flame. While a horn and a drum and a bell dance in my ears and through my toes.

Intestines still fine

Holy Hugs and Great Golden Golf Balls

In the month I've been here, India has continually provided me with places, people, and circumstances that cause me to stop and think: "I can't believe this is happening". Being constantly confronted with the surreal leads me to question reality, or at least my version of it. And while I think it's a good thing, if you are constantly rocking the boat eventually that boat is gonna tip. For now, my mental boat is doing just fine, so I will take this opportunity to relate to you the two latest occurrences of the Indian surreal. 

Leaving from where we left off, Mal, Adam and I left Hampi and found ourselves in the small city of Mysore. It has, apparently, a flourishing yoga community, along with Ayurvedic healing classes and meditation retreats. While the 3 of us did take a meditation class (At the end of which my head seemed larger than my body, it was neat) we weren't really sure why we were in Mysore, what brought us here or what we were supposed to do.

The answer came to us in the form of giant posters spread all over the city that bore a woman's smiling, motherly face with rays of light shooting out behind her. We asked a driver what the deal was with this woman, I mean her face was plastered everywhere. It turns out she is the one they call The Hugging Amma. She is a spiritual leader that has devoted herself to the art of the hug, and her quest is to hug all 6.7 billion people on earth. The Hugging Amma has traveled all over the world hugging people. Immediately, we agreed that it was necessary to get a hug from this woman. We were taken to an outdoor hall where around a two thousand people sat or stood, facing the stage, watching Hugging Amma and her merry band sing songs about how the Divine Mother is coming, that she is laughing, and that she smells sweeter than ambrosia, but she's more easily accessible than ambrosia, which apparently is difficult to access (all this I gleaned from helpful teleprompters with subtitles).

After a number of songs in which she shot laughs into a microphone that echoed them out into the great sonic, all while threw her hands in the air, the music came to a climax; people started to get the feeling that hugs were on their way. In an elaborate system designed to streamline the reception of hundreds of hugs, we queued up. I felt like I was a bolt in a hug assembly line. As I stood there, watching the the thousands of people line up for a hug from a fat holy Indian woman, the pure ridiculousness of the entire situation occurred to me.  The organization! the effort! the pomp! the ceremony! all for a hug! it was absurd! I loved it. As I approached Hugging Amma, a friendly young man cleaned my face with a tissue, and another led me to the Mama, he made sure my hands stayed to my sides, and with his hand on the back of my head, guided me into Big Mama's breast. She hugged me, and whispered 'my precious, my precious, my precious' in my ear.  While doing this she handed me a scrunched up newspaper, containing an orange candy and a small bag of red powder. I have the red powder and am unsure of what to do with it. I'll keep it I guess, and have it as a reminder of the time I lined up for an hour in order to get a holy hug from the happiest fat woman in India.

The second story begins with an ending. Mal left us. He didn't have a lot of time left in India and still wanted to head north to see the Taj Mahal. Adam and I had our sights set further south, so we parted ways with a hug and a 'see ya later'. Thanks Mal for the laughs, the great conversations, and the friendship.

From Mysore we were off to a placed called Pondicherry. A little ways north of Pondi is the small town of Auroville. Auroville is a very intriguing project masterminded by a man named Sri Aurobindo, and his partner, a woman named 'The Mother'. They wanted to create an utopian society removed from any political, religious, or racial barriers. In a way, they've succeeded. It truly is an amazing place and I suggest anyone to go there. They've created a lot of social programs and tranformed a desolate landscape into a lush forest with farms and parks. They have lots of things to do and see there, yoga, qi gong, musical classes and much more available. It is a cool place.

They also have a massive Golden Golf Ball.

Well, it's not actually a massive Golden Golf Ball. But it looks like one. It's actually called the 'Matrimandir' and it is, as they put it, the soul of Auroville. We heard it is quite amazing inside, and we really wanted to get in, so we went off searching to find out how. Along the way we met yet another Brit. This in the form a lovely girl named Dominique. The 3 of us became fast friends and together we sought entrance in to the orb, which involved alot of waiting, red tape, and formality. Eventually, we were allowed in, but would have to wait 2 days.

We arrived at dawn, Auroville's Giant Golden Ball glistened in the morning sun. About fifty feet from the Matrimandir (the Golden Golf Ball) our guide stopped us and laid the ground rules: no talking, no shoes, no pictures, and think good thoughts. The fifty or so people that comprised our group approached the Golf Ball like we were the last humans on Earth, and in the massive ball we would rocket to a different part of the universe and return humanity to its former glory. And, naturally, we would need new socks (once inside we were asked to put on a pair of socks that were neatly stacked beside obsidian benches). Inside was lit in a dim copper light, waterfalls were placed on all four compass points. There were two spiral ramps that led to the centre room. The room of concentration. We were led up the ramp in complete silence. It occurred to me that this could be what heaven is like, I think; a constant line of people, walking up a pristine white spiral ramp up, up into the heavens, waiting to be judged while wearing their pairs of new socks.

The Room of Concentration had white walls, and twelve white pillars that surrounded a perfectly smooth, perfectly clear round glass orb. Sunlight was funneled from the top of the Mandir down onto the very top of the orb. We were given cushions, and we sat and stared--concentrated--on this glass orb. I don't know how long we were there.


Intestines still fine.

Blessed by the Gods

Hello once again,

Continuing from my previous post, our trio of merry travelers left the sandy beaches and blue waves in search of the ancient city of Vijayanagara. We found it, next to the small town of Hampi. It sat amidst an alien, otherworldy landscape. This landscape, where the town and ruins reside, looks like Mars once it's been terraformed. Giant piles of massive, rusty red boulders are scattered about as far as the eye can see. And the plains between these piles are rife with dark green vegetation; banana plantations, rice farms, coconut, and mango trees in abundance. Atop many of the giant rock piles are temples, some still active, where devotees sing into loudspeakers, the ancient music bounces across the rocks, over town and farms, from dawn till dusk.

The town of Hampi exists primarily to feed and house the travellers and pilgrims that arrive to explore the ancient ruins. It's small, comprising of a main road and a network of small alleyways that are easy to lose yourself in. At one end of the main road is a large pyramidal structure. We likened it to Vishnu's lingam (if you don't know what that is, you're not old enough to know). It's an entrance to a temple where a blessed elephant named Lakshmi lives, she is the embodiment of the Goddess Lakshmi, who represents beauty and abundance.

We were lucky to arrive in Hampi on the night of a full moon. At night, Lakshmi, along with a  moveable shrine, a band, and a crowd of worshipers, parade up and down the main road. If you give Lakshmi some rupees, she'll bless you with her trunk. This, I felt, must be done. I ran in front of the great beautiful beast, who was adorned with a garland of flowers and India's finest makeup, with a 50 ruppee note trembling in my hand, I stood there. She stopped and looked at me, she appeared as to be smiling. After she deftly plucked the bill from my hand, leaving a trail of elephant snot, she brought her holy trunk down on my head and over my face. How's that for beautiful abundance?

The next day, it was time to visit another one of Hindu's many Gods. This time it was Hanuman, the great monkey God. Apparently, he was born atop one of the massive hills of rock just a few kilometres outside of Hampi. You could see the whitewashed temple from the town, so we rented some bicycles and made our way to it. We got to the bottom of the mountain, 610 steps (we counted) a number of old beggar women, and a smattering of monkey's stood between us and Hanuman. We brought with us several bunches of bananas as offering, and several rupee coins to give to the beggars that awaited us. After a harrowing 30 minutes of climbing stairs under the hot Indian sun (oh how we suffered!), we got to the top. There, we found a great many monkeys, some were white, with black, round faces and long tails. Others had a more ape-like face, were smaller and had a reddish skin. We gave bananas to them all. Inside, we knelt before Hanuman and were given sugar and a trail of red powder smeared on our foreheads by the Sadhu inside. He looked young but walked with a large wooden stick, his legs very thin. He had a small round tray that burned with an oil wick, and sang he a song while moving his flame over us, and Hanuman. We left the depths of the temple feeling slightly simian. The view from the temple was astounding, Hanuman chose well.

From there, we explored a variety of different temples. One that stood out for me was called the underground temple. It was called this because around half of it was, well, underground. It was also ankle-deep in water. At first I was hesitant, this is India after all, and after all this is a 1000 year old temple. But an old woman was there as well, she had a large smile and laughed when she saw us peer nervously at the wet temple ground. She calmly walked into the water and after wading a few steps in, beckoned us to follow. I shrugged and went in, the farther we got the darker it became. Bats lived on the ceiling and swooped in and out of the corridors. On the pillars were carvings of all the manifestations of Shiva. As well as some Ganesh's sprinkled in with a dab of Rama. At the deepest part of the temple was Shiva's lingam (there's that word again) it had flowers draped over it and was surrounded in coins. I felt it was in my best interest to throw the pride of good ol' Shiva a few rupees. And with a wink, and a tip of my hat, I was out of there. Bats still hanging from the temple ceiling.

I was going to tell you about the holiest hug in India but this message had gone long enough so i'll leave that to another day. I'm in Pondicherry now. It's more French than most places in India and I'm still coming to terms with that.

Otherwise,

Intestines doing fine. 

The Beach

Ohh the sound! It's the best soundtrack to just about anything. Sleeping, eating, conversing, playing, reading the wooosh of the ocean just fits so perfectly; a perfect sonic frame that accentuates any action or thought.

That sound has been massaging my ears for days, but now, I've left it. Before it's memory gets too fuzzy around the edges, and the crash of the waves smooths my recollection to a dull gleam, an ode to the ocean: to the sand, to the waves, to the smooth black rocks, and to the people that live as its neighbour.

Eating on the beach, playing football on the beach. Making sand castles on the beach and making a fire on the beach. Playing music, singing, dancing chanting on the beach! Hiking up hills and looking down on the beach, or getting on a boat and watching the beach get smaller, smaller, smaller. Off the beach there are dolphins, they swim just off the shallows and make our play seem small. Sleeping on the beach, petting dogs, cats and cows on the beach. Yoga on the beach, running and reading, eating fruit, joining hands with ancient hippies, dreads to their waist, all on the beach!

All the while, the wooosh and crashh of the ocean cradles our actions, smooths them out and places a smile on our face.

The 10 hour bus ride, with broken seats, no place for our package, rude, angry drivers (who very nearly forgot someone at a rest stop, had we not yelled and screamed for them to stop) and tires that accentuate each bump, was it's antithesis. I have experienced yin and yang acutely. It's sounds are the steady crash of the waves and the angry rumble of an uncared for bus with moaning passengers and crude drivers.

Sweet Songs of Goa

So far, my experience in Goa could be summed up with 3 M's: Moto's, Music, and a Mutinous Belly. Yeah, I wish I could finish this entry with my customary 'Intestines still fine' but alas it would be a lie. Two days ago I was bedridden, anything that entered my stomach was kicked out faster and ruder than a hippie with an overextended visa. And believe me, there are a lot of those here.

Today, on the other hand, has been fantastic: A 2 hour massage followed by a 2 hour yoga session. Ahhh to feel alive again.

Anyways, that's not what this blog entry is about.

Following an arduous 14 hour bus ride from Mumbai Mal and I arrived in Goa early in the morning. Well, Panaji to be precise. You see, Goa is not a city but a small province with little beachside villages sprinkled throughout. Panaji is its capital and where I started my Goan excursion. It was there I found a tailor and got two custom shirts made; there's nothing like a well fit shirt. In addition, I got rid of the beard, for the first time being shaved by a barber the old fashioned way: straight razor all the way. When that was all sorted it was time to hit the beach, and more importantly meet up with my very good friend Adam, who I will be travelling with for the next little while and will be a fixture on this blog, along with Mal. Together we shall be the 3 Indian muskateers: pictures coming soon.

In Panaji I had some decisions to make. Goa wasn't very big but there was a lot to it and getting around might be a problem should I rely on nothing but taxi's. It would get expensively quickly. There was, however, an alternative, one that I jumped at and have been enjoying ever since: my very own motorbike. Hehe, don't worry mom, I'm driving just as carefully as I did back home. Er, more carefully, yes, far more.

It's liberating, really, to be master of your own transportation. And cruising through the Indian countryside on a motorbike is satisfying on so many levels. Though I've had to remind myself to stay on the left hand side of the road a few times, and dodging cows and elephants at times has been a chore, on a whole it is fantastic.

There is one other thing that I've done that is quite exciting. You see not only is my friend Adam here, a man very much musically inclined, but so is a woman I know from back home named Sparrow. Sparrow is here to record an album. And the day after I arrived she needed to add some backing vocals to some of her tracks. When she asked if I would like to help, I was more than happy to.

A few days ago I showed up at the recording studio with my best singing voice. There, I met an older british man with a long gray hair, a goatee, and joyful, smiling eyes. His name was Chin Maya, or Chinny for short. He was producing Sparrow's album and would accompany me and Adam as the male back up singers. There was, in addition to us, four girls that Sparrow had wrangled up would provide our contrast. We spent the morning in the studio(which was a three-story tower really, with trapdoors and ladders to access each level) singing and laughing. It was good fun! So, I've been a little over a week in a week in India and have made appearances in an Indian TV Show and music album, with injuries and sicknesses interspersed throughout. I think I've done well.

Oh! and I've bought a small, lightweight didgeridoo, it should be an excellent companion in my travels.

Intestines still now fine.

The hard streets of Mumbai

There's a little more to the previous story that I think I should relate to you now. It has to do with the second last sentence(the one involving large amounts of beer). When we returned to Mumbai from the set we were dropped off at the hostel Tom had stayed (the salvation army one remember?); he needed to change, and I waited outside. While waiting I met a young man named Ajit, he wanted to sell me hash but I said no, I don't smoke. Ajit seemed to appreciate this; perhaps he sells it despite his dislike for it. Anyways, we got to talking and it so happened that the place we were standing was the exact location of the 2008 Mumbai terrorist attacks. It turns out Ajit was right in the middle of it when it all went down. He watched and hid as terrorists threw grenades and fought the Indian police. Intense. When Tom and Malik returned, we all (including Ajit) went out for dinner and drinks. Ajit immediately assumed the role as our guide. I liked him. I asked him if he'd like to play cricket tomorrow and he immediately agreed.   

The next day we met Ajit and went to the central park of Mumbai. It's a large square at the heart of the city; the park was massive, and was lined with big palm trees. In the park around 100 games of cricket were being played all around us. Now, i've been taught the rules of cricket before, but each time I was taught them I understood the game a little less. So, when I stood up to play, bat in my hand, wickets behind me, all i knew for sure was which direction to run should I hit the ball. Basically, you bat until you get out. I just kept hitting the ball and running my ass off mindlessly. I did okay but the real story was when our team was in the field. I noticed that a lot of them aren't that great at catching (you don't get a glove in cricket) so I wanted to impress them. There I was, standing in the middle of a field, a hundred cricket games going on all around me, when the ball gets shot into in the air: it was mine. I began running towards it but soon realized it was falling fast, at the last moment I dove, my arms outstretched, and caught the ball.

Adulation from the crowd! Players surround me! congratulations everywhere! Seriously man, it was a good catch; even the opposing team came to shake my hand. My dream of becoming a cricket star was nearing its realization. 

There was just one problem: The 5 layers of skin I had cleaved off from my dive. 

In reality, I was a mess, little cuts and nicks everywhere, and one big one on my lower left leg. It hurt, and I knew I would need to treat it immediately for fear of infection. My cricket career ended, far too prematurely. At least I can say I learned cricket the hard way: on the streets of Mumbai. It's fine now, really, but the scab is a big one and I've got some picture's of it that would unsettle your stomach faster than the slums of Mumbai. 

I'm in Goa right now and have some wicked stories to relate. I will soon, tomorrow probably, to help me catch up. 

Oh! The episode i'm in has aired--February 7th here's a small teaser video in which I am in around the 2 minute mark : http://www.zeetv.com/shows/jhansi-ki-rani/video/jhansi-ki-rani-february-7-episode-video.html

Hope all is well 

Intestines still fine.

The cold hand of Imperialism

There are all sorts of words that could be used to describe yesterday, and I don't know any of them. Therefore, to compensate for my lack of vernacular I will simply make up a word: Surreestrangauemazing. If you look it up in the dictionary, it would read 'The experiences of Alex Meyer on Friday, February 4th, 2010'. Dictionaries are so dry.

I woke up early at 6 am and took a cab to McDonalds. Once there, I met Tom, he was a nice guy. Tom and I got into an SUV driven by a short Indian man while a suave looking cat wearing big shades, an open shirt, and a million dollar haircut sat next to him. From there we headed to the salvation army hostel (yeah, weird eh?) and picked up a british bengali named Mal. At that point, we headed about 2 hours out of Mumbai and 200 years in the past: To ND Studios.

Yes, I'm in a Indian TV show. You can watch it! they pump these out and apparently it's only a few days from filming to broadcasting. The 3 of us donned old Redcoat uniforms and swords, we were there to suppress the uprising in the northern state of Rajasthan. Apparently there was a Queen, Queen Rhani, who resisted British rule, and they had made a TV show retelling the story of her glory and unfortunate demise. I was in a number of scenes, and when i lied and said I was a big Canadian actor, I very nearly got a speaking part. 'Sir! koi I have a tey ley important message! Sri leda'ahay! Yeah, this show has a weird mix of english-hindi. I didn't say it, but I got to clash swords with an angry indian mob of 15 year old extras, eventually getting stabbed in the back by the Queen herself. I make a terrible face and fly to the ground, defeated. For this I was paid 500 rupee only.

It should be on TV soon, ZeeTV, Jhansi Ki Rani is what its called and I think the channel is on shaw tv, maybe. Here's the TV show website : http://www.zeetv.com/shows/jhansi-ki-rani.html

Afterwards the 3 of us made a mess of ourselves with 4 litre jugs of kingfisher beer.

It was a Surreestrangauemazing day.

Intestines still fine.