Lost in Trains'nation

Written on January 4th

Finally got onto the train. The entire spectrum of emotions ran through me as I realised I had first gotten onto the wrong train in Varkala. Fear. anxiety, anger, regret, what-the-hell-am-I-doing-in-India-on-my-own, and finally I succumbed to something, and as the seconds ticked by and the train thundered on I understood that it didn't matter actually, the fact that I was lost. It was fine.

Because there is nothing I can't do

It wouldn't have mattered if I would have ended up in the completely wrong city, because in this moment of panic, I awoke to the realisation of my own strength. I realised that through this journey I have gathered enough "meat on my bones", enough experience to trust my own ability to survive. I can only recall having cried once or twice in India, or actually, maybe only once. I nearly but not quite, came to tears in Mumbai airport when I'd just arrived and waited for Carolin to show up for 4 hours. The only time I really cried was in Varkala when all the girls I liked so much got drunk and stoned and I could only slump down in despair, questioning youth, India and the mainstream experiences that the Ashram-hopping young people have.

I might have cried when I was sick as well, mostly because I have so damn bored with myself.

Year 2010

Written on January 1st

What a funny new year. This one will be remembered. I had a lovely supper with Karen, Jennie and Steve, the 3 britts. We had some fruit juice at the Bohemian Masala later on and enjoyed an okay Katakali performance. The music was brilliant and the dancing beautiful albeit slightly awkward at times. Then we went to the beach to watch the fireworks. I got sand everywhere. The fireworks were beautiful but some of them went a bit wrong and dropped down among the crowd of the people on the beach, causing everyone including our small party, to scatter and run in flailing panic.

We watched the fullmoon and sang Bluemoon and Hallelujah in its silver gleam, beholding the eclipse that blotted a corner of the moon on this new years day. New Year in India.

I take my time to shower in the morning. I enjoy the cool water and rarely wish for a hot, long shower anymore, although this morning the fan in the celiling kept me coolled off and I shiver as I let the cold water soak me. I leave the bathroom promptly, warm satisfaction following the brutally refreshing shower. A reasonably small cockroach has found its way into my toiletree bag, and I frown in half-concealed disgust. I don't really mind roaches and weevils. But it is a bit gross. On the way to the cliff I walk through the pretend-fog, smoke actually coming from the Indians burning their trash and "recycling" on piles on the ground and on the streets. The air is thick with different fumes from the piles and as walk through the village, making my slow way to the tourist bit with cafés and shops, I feel the smoke prickling in my nose, clogging my throat.

Soon I will leave Varkala, the lovely beach, the wonderful restaurants and the horrible tourists. The latter I shant miss.

"It's lucky the Indians have us tourists and all these shops and things to sell, at least they have something to do then and can earn money." Anonymous girl that spent a month in an Ashram doing yoga before coming to Varkala to drink beer and do shopping.

Fuck you and your fucking yoga. Pardon my french. But some people really are dim. Others are lovely, like the few couple of wonderful acquaintances I've made during my time here. Maybe I have learnt some of the most important lessons regarding India here, or rather, been given insight into what most people consider to be India. Varkala portrays very little of India though. In some corners and hidden nooks you can sense the Nag champa, you can smell the sambal, you see the flutter of a sari. But most of it is European, and you forget amongst the lattes and sun-screen, that you're actually on the other side of the world, in a country struck by poverty, where millions of people live on less than a dollar a day, in houses that don't even deserve being referred to as houses, where people die on the streets, cut off their limbs and body-parts to be able to beg for more money and sell their children to survive. This beautiful country called India.

I hold this truth in my heart as I watch the flurry of tourists on the cliff. This beautiful country called India is beautiful because of its diversity and it's infinite love of everyone and everything.

Tomorrow is time for railroad, bananas through the window, chai all day in papercups and greasy samosas on napkins. Tomorrow I will be sweaty and the toilet will be disgusting and the people will wag their head at me and I'll return the wag. And everything is real and wonderful.