Freaky Friday

Episode 3

Friday, May 20, 2016

Classes ensued and our course was underway. During our Thursday morning philosophy lecture, Krishna-ji announced that Friday morning kriya time would look slightly different. Each morning, before our 7am asana and pranayama class, we gather in the courtyard for herbal tea and jala neti. In the West, we know this nasal cleansing practice as “neti pot”. You can purchase neti pots and their accompanying salt packets in any drugstore, and the practice is becoming more mainstream as a relief for sinus issues and allergies. I was familiar with the practice from last year’s course, but I hadn’t continued it after I returned home. With my dedication to pranayama, I really should purchase a jala neti apparatus during this visit. So far in the 300-hour course, my favorite time of day is pranayama and chanting, immediately after washing my nasal passages.

Krishna continued his lecture, elucidating the different types of shatkriyas, which are divided into six different categories of cleansing practices, according to the text Hatha Yoga Pradipika: neti (nasal), dhauti (digestive tract), nauli (abdominal region), trataka (eyes), kapalabhati (breath), and basti (colon). Keen to build my yogic philosophy knowledge by experimentation, I kept an open mind. Krishna said we would perform our usual jala neti on “Kriya Friday”, but would add sutra neti and vaman dhauti. As Krishna explained these practices, I began to realize why the 300-hour course isn’t as well populated as the 200-hour course. Sutra neti involves gently sliding a thin catheter into each nostril, one nostril at a time, grasping the catheter with two fingers as it hangs at the back of the throat, and pulling it out through the mouth. Sounds feasible, I thought. Vaman dhauti requires drinking six glasses of salt water in rapid succession, rubbing the tongue with three fingers, and vomiting the salt water until bile appears. Hmmm, I thought, unpleasant, but I can use all the cleansing I can get. I certainly don’t enjoy vomiting, but at least it wouldn’t be after a night of eating and drinking. Krishna shared a story about a former student from Australia. “She was so good at vaman, very dedicated. Later, I found out she was big drinker of liquor and vomited quite a lot.” I hoped I wouldn’t be too good at vaman.

We were instructed to eat lightly during Thursday night dinner and get a good night’s rest. As predicted, I had a difficult time sleeping in anticipation of Kriya Friday. I woke up, showered, performed jala neti, and waited in the courtyard for Krishna’s instructions. He demonstrated sutra neti and instructed us to take a catheter from the salt water jug. I found a spot on the grass and slowly inserted the rubber device into my right nostril. As soon as it tickled the back of my throat, I pulled it out. Krishna observed this struggle and came over to help me. He inserted the catheter with the same gentle force but the tickling and scratching in the back of my throat was much more intense. He was holding it, so I couldn’t yank it out. Krishna had stressed to us during lecture that any foreign object is automatically rejected by the body. He elaborated, “It’s not the body. It’s this fellow,” as he patted his head. Okay, I thought, I’m not in any danger. Try to breathe. Krishna repeated my same thoughts aloud, as my fight or flight mechanism kicked in. It reminded me of SCUBA diving, panicking for air when you can’t remember the course of action. Krishna instructed to stick two fingers in the back of my throat to grasp the catheter, but I was gagging too much. Eventually, he relinquished his authority. I tried it again, but using my mind over body still wasn’t working. I decided it would be a work in progress, with five more Kriya Fridays to master the practice.

Now it was time for vaman dhauti. Krishna demonstrated once again, and we began shooting salt water like it was someone’s 21^st birthday. Actually, I began sipping my salt water, but decided faster was more palatable. I found an area on the perimeter of the garden, placed my hands on my knees, and started spitting, always a precursor to vomiting. Suddenly, the trajectories of my colleagues’ vomit caught my peripheral vision and I could only think one thing: Worst. Frat. Party. Ever. I knew my spiritual growth would suffer for equating this ancient practice with a modern, foolish one, but it was the only assimilatory schema I could conjure up.

I hunched back over and started rubbing three fingers on my tongue. I vomited a little, then stopped to spit. Krishna caught me. “Why you stopping??? Keep going! Move fingers!” With Krishna hovering over me, I had no choice but to continue the practice. I got most of the salt water out and felt quite refreshed afterwards and only slightly traumatized.

The second Kriya Friday was easier, but I still couldn’t grasp the catheter in my throat. Baby steps. I performed vaman dhauti much more easily, though I still feel as though I ingested more salt water than I should have. I plan to practice sutra neti in my room this week, in front of the mirror. During our evening meditation class, we are rewarded on Kriya Fridays with a trataka practice, a candlelight meditation in which we must keep our eyes open until tears form. Though tough, I found this practice relaxing. Again, I’m taking baby steps and improving each week.

It’s important for me to identify with the ancient yogis in this fashion. As Krishna repeats in his lectures, it’s important to accumulate experiences in order to teach concepts and practices. If you haven’t experienced it, it’s much more difficult to explain it to someone else. Here’s to new experiences!

Finding Ravi While Searching for Vishal

Episode 2

Friday, May 13, 2016

The ashram had pre-booked my taxi for me, but emailed a phone number in my confirmation message in case the driver didn’t show up. Last year, everything happened so smoothly that my expectations were already held high for Vishal, my appointed driver. I exited the airport to a swarm of taxi drivers, some of whom were holding placards with names scrawled in their best attempt at the Latin alphabet. I didn’t see Vishal, so I waited there on the curb with my bags. “Taxi, Madam? Taxi?” suggested several drivers. I gave a dismissive NO, but wondered if it was too harsh, on the occasion that Vishal didn’t appear and I needed to enlist their help. We had landed early, but hired drivers are always punctual, usually. I wondered if Vishal was okay, or if he’d gotten caught up in the claustrophobia of taxis vying for a prime spot in the pick up zone. My flight arrival time was 5:07 PM, which came and went. 

My next unfortunate mission was to ask someone to call Vishal for me. There are advantages and disadvantages to not purchasing an international calling plan for your mobile phone. When I’m in wifi range, I can use Facebook and Viber to communicate with family and friends. In Australia, I bought a cheap phone and loaded it with credit for use within Australia. Considering I would be at the ashram for the majority of this trip, I decided to suspend my phone service during the trip. So, I had to approach a Hindi-speaking Indian who could communicate with Vishal for me. If I need help in a foreign land, I usually ask a woman or a couple. The women I saw were busy pushing their luggage to their rides and I didn’t see any couples. The minutes were ticking by. I couldn’t ask the same, persistent swarm of taxi drivers in front of me. It’s well known that taxi drivers will tell you that your ride isn’t coming and you should go with them. I saw a young woman with her mother. They sat down on the bench behind me. “Excuse me,” I enquired, “Do you have a phone? Would you be able to make a phone call for me? In Hindi?” She smiled and asked for the phone number. “Vishal,” I clarified, “His name is Vishal and he’s supposed to pick up Anne.” My new friend dialed the number and said a few words to the receiver. She hung up and turned to me. “He will call back. He’s not coming.” I fetched the alternate phone number before she had to leave. She called the ashram, spoke a few words, and turned to me. “They will call back.” As we waited for the return calls, my new friend and I chatted. “Do you practice yoga?” I asked her. She performed the Indian head waggle and my question was ambivalently answered. Still, I invited her to the ashram. Her phone rang and after some words back and forth, she reported, “The driver had a flat and someone else will come soon.” Less than five minutes later, one of the taxi drivers who had been scoping out the potential customer scene approached us. They exchanged words and my kind friend confirmed by talking to someone on the other end of the driver’s phone line that he was the correct driver and he would take me to the ashram. I thanked her profusely and she told me her name, but unfortunately I couldn’t understand what she said.

The eager driver commenced our journey to the ashram. As I was still a bit skeptical of his intentions, I chose the back seat and tried to get comfortable in the non-AC car. The sun was low in the sky, but the heat was still penetrating. “Ma’am! First time to Rishikesh?” “Oh no,” I replied. “I was here one year ago.” “Ma’am! You like elephants? Here is elephant sheet in the road. Right here!” My friendly driver regarded a mound of feces in the middle of the road. “Ma’am! Look! It is my house right there!” I somewhat wished he would invite me to meet the numerous family members he said he lived with, but I was expending all my energy just to engage in this conversation. “Ma’am! I am Ravi!” I shared my name, but in response to his puzzled attempt to pronounce it, I instructed, “Indians call me ‘Ah-nee’.” “Ahhhh, Ah-nee!” Ravi seemed relieved to be excused from attempting the English short “a” vowel, which doesn’t occur in the Hindi language.

Finally out of the winding roads of the national park and into more familiar territory, Ravi abruptly stopped the taxi. “Did the engine die?” I enquired, anxious to lie down and more anxious to eat dinner, which is served at 7:00 PM. “No, no. I’m not sure where…” Before he could finish his statement, I interrupted, “It’s that way,” pointing to a road along the perimeter of Parmarth Niketan Ashram. We had walked that way to the Ganga Aarti ceremony last year, and I was thankful it sparked my memory. Ravi revved the engine and we soon approached the familiar narrow lane that led to Shiva Resort. “You can stop here. I can walk the rest of the way,” I said, instantly regretting the concession to roll my suitcase over the cow shit that monopolizes the lane. “Ma’am! No! We will go here,” Ravi replied, as he expertly navigated the taxi down the lane, taking care not to scrape the mirrors that were within one inch of the five foot rock walls. The local residents stopped to marvel at Ravi’s maneuvering from their vantage point at the end of the lane. A staff member from the ashram met us there and instructed me to pay in the office. I hoped Ravi would earn something from his deft work, so I told the staff member I’d like to give him a tip. I reached into my wallet and handed him a small bill, we said our farewells, and my suitcase began its game of dodging the cow shit mounds, motorbikes, and actual cows. As we approached the gate to the ashram, I wondered if I had tipped Ravi in UAE dirhams instead of Indian rupees, which would account for the surprised look on his face.

As soon as I entered the courtyard and sanctuary of student rooms, I was overwhelmed with a familiar feeling. Instantly, I knew I had made the right decision in returning to India. It felt like home, and the animal smells, sticky air, and random shouts of Hindi solidified my decision. I was greeted by Ankit, the lovely staff member who transported me back and forth to the hospital last year. “Ah-nee, hello. I only see you on Facebook. Now you are here.” “Hi, Ankit! Don’t worry. I brought medicine this time and you won’t have to take me to the hospital,” I reassured him. His trademark smirk appeared across his face, but he didn’t respond. Ankit ushered me to a choice of two rooms on the second floor, carrying my suitcase for me. I went back and forth, but chose the one with a “cooling machine” and mirror in the bathroom, two features last year’s room lacked. I would be in a different building this time and the atmosphere seemed more peaceful and private. I thanked Ankit and unpacked a few things before heading over to dinner.

As I began the short walk outside the gates and over to Krishna Cottage to the dining hall, I saw Deepa, one of my asana teachers from last year. She hugged me and welcomed me back to Rishikesh. Several of the staff members asked, “You here last year?” obviously recognizing me. I was so touched that I was remembered so fondly, considering the number of students who completed the 200-hour course in the past year. Though secretly, they were probably wondering if I would require as much medical attention as I did last year!

After enjoying the first of many meals in the dining hall, I unpacked the rest of my possessions, stacking my clothes neatly within the wooden vanity cupboard that hangs on the wall, and set up my products in the bathroom. Instead of risking a cold shower, as the hot water can be unpredictable, I tested out my new coconut oil wipes, which freshened my exhausted body, and I fell into bed. As I reached for the switch to extinguish the light, I noticed a massive gecko on my ceiling. Instead of screaming or trying to shepherd it outside, I closed my eyes and smiled. Welcome to India.

Many Roads to Rishikesh

Episode 1

May 11-12, 2016

LAX is a fairly uneventful airport, but I’m fortunate to live within an hour of it, increasing the accessibility of international travel. Even with the occasional star sighting, you emerge from security relatively quickly. On the day of my departure for India, security was unusually crowded, preventing me from imbibing my ceremonial champagne split. From the time I arrived to the time I queued at the gate, I didn’t even sit down. Rather than lament the TSA lines via social media, as some travellers are currently doing, I’ll lament the loss of my champagne celebration and move on with my story. I was called to board almost immediately after arriving at my gate, anticipating the new experience of seat 66K.

Last year, on my ultra long haul A380 trip to Dubai, I discovered that if you book a seat that appears to be two to a row, there are actually three seats in the row. Typically, the extra seat is used for the flight attendant’s take off and landing seat. The remainder of the flight, the arm rests were up and my seatmate and I enjoyed our ample leg and elbow room. My seatmate was a tall Nigerian man with the gentlest temperament. Since I always book the window seat to create a sleeping nook, I had to wake him a few times to pass by to the restroom. When I booked my ticket in January, my favorite 88K was already reserved. Who else would be mad enough to book the last row of the plane, adjacent to the restrooms? That was always my hope, at least. Miraculously, I now prefer 66K. A wall creates some privacy in the back of the section, whereas 88K is open to the flight attendant prep area. 

When I checked in at LAX, I informed the attendant that I was unable to book Dubai Connect, a complimentary service provided by Emirates if you have a 9+ hour layover in Dubai. Last year, I took full advantage of this perk in which Emirates provides transport to a local hotel, gives you a food voucher, and a night in a hotel room. After a 16 hour flight, there’s nothing better than stretching out flat and showering. “I cannot book it for you here, less than 24 hours prior. You will have to talk to them in Dubai,” the attendant informed me. No problem, I thought. I was familiar with the Dubai Connect counter from one year ago. After clearing customs at DXB, I approached the counter with the friendliest demeanor possible, much of it feigned through my fatigue. “No, I’m sorry,” the attendant informed me. “There are no rooms available, but this discounted fare doesn’t qualify you for Dubai Connect anyway.” I trudged upstairs to departures and paused to message my family before my passport was scanned through immigration again. At least I would have two stamps added to my passport because of the mishap.

I resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t have a space to stretch out, shower, and relax. As I began to explore the airport, I discovered two hotels inside. I trekked to the one closest to my location in Concourse C. I was sweating profusely and desperately needed a shower. The registration attendant said that yes, rooms were available, and yes, they charge by the hour. Perfect, I thought, until I learned the hourly rate. SIXTY USD per hour! It was barely past 9:15 PM and I didn’t have to board until 3:50 AM. I didn’t need to calculate the total to realize, despite my exhaustion, I didn’t want to spend that much on a hotel room. Travel expenses can creep up on you and I’m realizing, even after 20 years of international travel, that concessions must be made. 

I devised a plan to shower, eat, rest, and do whatever possible not to fall asleep, at the risk of my carry-ons being stolen. I trekked back to Concourse B, where my gate would be. I found the showers there and anticipated a long, hot shower to pass the time. The configuration of the shower stall and the constant watch of the restroom attendant dashed my dream. I also realized that I was counting on the hotel room for a towel, shampoo, conditioner, and soap! Improvisation time: my sarong wrap would serve as the towel, I would just rinse my hair, and there was a hand soap dispenser in the shower. Problems solved. I changed into my fresh shirt, panties, and socks, feeling temporarily revived. I wrapped the thin sarong around my shoulders and it was dry in no time. The woman who used the shower after me asked what I used for a towel. I showed her my damp sarong, but she took some paper towels into the stall with her. I would be remiss not to mention one of the greatest travel stories of all time, when my friend Mandie and I travelled together to Amsterdam, but then parted ways. She headed for Oslo and I was laying over for Athens. Improvisation was required once again as we used the sweatsuit she travelled in as towels after our showers. She used the bottoms and I used the top. Problems solved again.

It was only 11 PM by the time my toiletries were all packed up. I found a café where I had a green tea and fruit, then rested in a lounger, but began to fall asleep. At around 1 AM, I took a walk down to Concourse C and back again, browsing in shops to stay awake. I observed how bustling Dubai airport is in the middle of the night! Shoppers, diners, travellers hustling to their gates. This action never ceased the entire time I was there. I recalled landing at LAX late at night after a previous international trip. Everything is closed up, nowhere to eat, nowhere to exchange money. I suppose Dubai is more centrally located as the connection point between Europe and Australia or Europe and Asia. Plus, people in the US quiet down and go to bed. The rest of the world stays up later. I continued walking, stopped at another café for a green tea and a smoothie, charged my phone at a charging station, and finally was ready to board. And, I was wide awake with travellers’ second wind!

     

The flight to Delhi was quiet, after the passengers composed themselves once the plane recovered from a sudden drop and lurch during takeoff. Sometimes I question why I travel! We arrived in Delhi about three hours later, and I wondered if I could catch an earlier flight to Dehradun. Then I remembered that I was now in India, the land where things usually go according to plan, but the plan is never your plan.

“How do I get to the domestic terminal? For Spice Jet?” I enquired of an Emirates attendant after I gathered my checked bag in Delhi. “At Pillar 12 outside, you will see a red bus. It will take you to Terminal 1D,” she replied. I stopped by an ATM, then asked the red bus driver at Pillar 12 if he was headed to Terminal 1D. He instructed me toward the line and throng of people waiting for a different red bus at Pillar 9. “Taxi, Madam! Taxi!” attempted the cab drivers as I hurried to the outdoor counter. The attendant printed my ticket just as the next red bus arrived. By the time I made my way to the door, there was barely enough room for my bags, but the people who were already on board motioned for me to join them. I squeezed on, followed by two more people and their bags, who really didn’t fit, just as the doors forced us to sardine even closer within the non-AC red bus. The eager driver didn’t wait to check for limb safety, but lurched forward as we all grabbed rails and wondered how secure the doors were. The red bus travelled away from the international terminal and down the highway that connects to the domestic terminal. An attendant from the front of the bus pushed his way through the standing room only aisle, climbing over the luggage obstacle course. He smoothly collected tickets from each person, but yelled to stop the bus in the middle of the highway. Normal traffic behavior and not puzzling at all to the surrounding drivers, a man hopped off with his luggage. I turned to the nearest rider, “He didn’t have a ticket?!” She smiled and did the Indian head waggle that can mean either yes or no. She and her husband laughed uproariously, and I was never quite sure why the man was ejected from the red bus. Oftentimes, while riding public transport, locals make a special request to be dropped off somewhere along the journey. I’ve never ridden the Delhi Metro, but I suspect the driver stops the train whenever his buddy needs to disembark.

We arrived at Terminal 1D, I checked in, passed security, and found a place to settle for several more hours. The counter attendant said that the only flight to Dehradun was the one I had booked, vanquishing my plan to avoid another lengthy airport wait. Again, India doesn’t really happen according to your expectations or plan. I had about seven hours until my flight, and considering I didn’t sleep at all on the flight from Dubai, I knew it would be a rough wait. Indira Gandhi Domestic Terminal resembles an open warehouse at the top, birds flying in from the outside, and reverberating every sound of shoppers, diners, and people waiting to be called to board. Once your boarding has begun, you descend to the ground floor, where you board a bus and are deposited on the tarmac to ascend the stairs to your plane.

I wasn’t sure if I needed quiet or noise to survive the next few hours, again prohibited from falling asleep in order to protect my bags. I found a computer area with some food kiosks and some soothing piano music. At least it was enclosed and cooler. I tried to follow the notes on the piano, activating my brain to avoid the temptation to sleep. I tried to place the melody, invoking my music history knowledge. That’s nice of them to employ some student or amateur pianists, I observed, as I detected mistakes and strange key changes within the music. The next song was Memory from the musical Cats, one of my favorites! I looked around to see who was performing. I saw a grand piano but no piano player, for it was a grand player piano! A player piano that makes mistakes? Only in India, for sure.

The Spice Jet flight took off without delay, surprisingly, and landed early in Dehradun. I was impressed by the flight attendants’ efficiency, as ingrained and repetitive as their jobs seemed on this short flight. Much fanfare and excitement ensued upon our arrival, as it was the only flight on the tarmac at the moment, and possibly all day long. We exited the plane and walked across the tarmac to the arrivals hall, no skyway involved. I held my breath as the bags were deposited onto the carousel, as I had checked in several hours before my flight, ample opportunity for my bag to end up on a different flight or forgotten. I suppose I should have more faith in the people who handle baggage for a living, their mysterious accountability system a foreign language to me. My faith was restored as I recalled the 13 flights I took around Australia and Southeast Asia almost three years ago, never once having a baggage issue. Amid my reverie, my bag emerged through the rubber flaps, almost smiling at me as we made our way to the next step: finding Vishal, my appointed taxi driver, and taking the short journey to the ashram.