Travel Diaries: Sayulita

There is so much trust involved when you travel.

"What’s your favorite taco on the menu?" you ask, you risk, you hope for the culinary discovery of a lifetime.  Or "is this drink going to be drugged? Or give me explosive diarrhea or worse?" you think, you pray, you take a leap of faith. You have to forget all of the horror stories you’ve ever read for a moment and follow your gut.  No one wants a bad review. They aren’t going to serve you something here with tap water. It’s not worth the risk of you completely destroying their bathroom. They have seen enough of that.

My gut leads me to my happy place - wandering the side streets of Sayulita. Rows and rows of eye-popping vendors. Each more beautiful and colorful and interesting than the next. I am realizing how lost I am in my own thoughts as I take it all in when suddenly I see a women sitting in the shade of her tent stitching a colorful thread into fabric.

"These are yours!" I exclaim.

"Of course," she replies.

But you see when I went on a wild and incredible journey in 2015 tracing embroidery and textiles all around Mexico I learned that these styles - this style - the sometimes monochromatic and sometimes colorful embroidery on cotton fabric isn't from here.  It is Otomi.  South of here near Veracruz and Puebla. When you want to find the source of a particular color or design or technique, you have to find where this piece was actually made (because it was usually brought here, wherever you are), and then you have to go to the town, and you have to go door knocking to find the maker.  Sometimes it is a factory but more often than not the garment or style or technique can be traced to someone’s grandmother on this particular block in this particular town and that other one is from someone else’s aunt down the street.

It is always like this.  There is a complete shock and awe that comes with the novelty of seeing something for the first time. And then you realize that this particular item that caught your eye is absolutely everywhere.  This is when it gets interesting.  You learn where they are from.  You learn how to see the details that tell you if it was made by hand or machine. You begin to gain a small understanding of what is a complete rip-off and what is an incredible price. And then there is that moment years later when you find something new. An innovation. The person in front of you is adding pom poms from one places to the tapestry from another.  Are these pom poms Huichol?  (That's this area...)  Or are they from Chiapas? (Very south of Mexico bordering Guatemala and Belize...)

My mind is absolutely blown. These pieces in front of me were not shipped in or factory made.  They are being created and edited and adapted and embellished right now, right here.  She is expecting me to bargain and I can’t at all because I'm too busy explaining that "no, seriously this IS special!" I'm trying to explain it in my broken Spanish and the way she looks at me with the thread and needle still in her hand, I know she knows it too.

I wander to the beach where I sink into a lounge chair. I describe what feelings I want from my drink - refreshing, fresh, not really sweet, non-alcoholic - and I don’t know what is delivered but it is hitting the spot. It tastes like bubbly water with lemon, strawberries ice and a little sugar. Maybe it’s simply Mexican Sprite with strawberries. It’s good. U2 is playing in the background over children laughing and the waves and vendors calling out their wares.  It’s a Monday and the beach is packed with locals. Can life be like this?

The track changes to Hotel California. This is only Day 2.

The track is a reminder that Day 7 is coming soon.  And also what lies beyond that if you stayed.

I didn’t wear my signature red lip today. A choice I made as I tied my bikini and headed out the door. A choice the receptionist noticed as well and I’m pretty sure she thought I should go back upstairs and put it on. I know because she told me. My mirror musings confirmed.

But I’m here to eat. And while absolutely nothing will take off this lipstick (except peanut butter) I’m not sure what kind of culinary adventure I’m getting into and the last thing I want to think about is that spot in the middle of your lips that forms when you’ve had oil pass your lips. Naked lips are fine. Red lips are good too. But that halfway lip looks like your swimsuit came untied.

Walking back from the beach at the edge of the market sits two taco stands. The kind of street food establishments where I am forced to go deep inside and trust my gut. That and the checklist of adventurous eater wisdom I’ve picked up over the years.

1. Are there locals present?

Yes, at the second one.

2. Is it in the shade?

Yes, both are in the shade.

3. What does my gut tell me?

The one with the locals.

I ask the owner to tell me her favorite item on the menu. A huge smile creeps across her face. She reminds me of my godmother. Quiet authority that you know you will follow.

"Los camarrones."

A plate arrives with two tacos filled with gently breaded and fried shrimp, lettuce, tomatoes. It’s served on a plastic plate wrapped in a plastic bag. Easy and quick cleanup I assume without the hazard of sick-making tap water when cleaning.

The spread looks fresh and delicious. There’s a bowl with pickled onions in front of me. (My favorite.) There are two squeeze bottles - one with a white sauce the other with pale orange. I add a little of each and take my first bite. I never want to leave.

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Sharath, Saraswati, & Manju : New Encinitas Shala

Sharath Rangaswamy, Saraswati Rangaswamy, and Manju Jois are teaching at and celebrating the opening of their new Ashtanga yoga shala in Encinitas, California August 20th - September 5th 2010.

Link to flier: http://cli.gs/nrd5zE

Link to sign up:
http://kpjayi.org/encinitas.html

Leech foot and other fun stuff

A Leech Was Here


Coffee Beans! (They harvest them in January)




The 20-Minute Jeep Ride--Hold onto your hats!

What I did on my Indian vacation

We took a rickshaw (the four of us -- three is already tight) to the bus station. When we were almost there, the driver turned off the rickshaw and was alternating between giving it pushes and letting it roll. Once the downhill slant stopped, he turned to us with a smile and gestured "no breaks". Nice.

We walked the rest of the way--just a half block through dozens of huge buses. Our Indian friend from Chennai came with us and seemed to know more of what to do than us, or had less patience for our antics. She darted between buses asking drivers and conductors hanging out of doors "Madikeri? Madikeri?" We slowly, from one bus to the next, were led to a bus on platform 6 that was rolling out of the station. "Madikeri? Madikeri?" He asked us. "Madikeri, Madikeri!" We replied. The bus looked stuffed. They told us to get on. We told them to wait because Leena had darted back into the madness for an ATM. She reappeared just when the conductor lost patience and we teetered onto the bus, down the aisle, and into four empty seats in the back.

The thing that people always tell you and the thing I forgot was so great in elementary school is that when you sit in the back, every bump that the front of the bus feels gets multiplied by 10. We bumped our way through Mysore and south toward Madikeri.

The scenery changes quite a bit, it turns very green and lush with tall trees. Coorg is an area that is famous for spices and coffee. Madikeri is one small town in the area. Our driver from the home stay was to pick us up there.

About three hours later we arrived--battered and weary. It was chilly and we wore long sleeves and it was raining but we brought umbrellas. The driver pulled in right away and we stuffed ourselves inside. "Hungry?" He asked. We all thought that a nice home cooked meal with tons of coffee was waiting for us. Confused, we relayed our Indian takeout order. This took a while. Finally, we were on our way to the home stay. Leena chatted in the front seat with the driver. Apparently, he was the brother of the lady who owned the homestay or something and that maybe tomorrow after work he would possibly take us on a tour of the plantation. Huh? I looked out the window at the crappy little houses on the side of the road and thought about how funny (not) it would be if one of these was our home stay.

We rolled up in front of a less than piece of shit, but for sure not, a 1020 rs per double room without food home stay. We all thought this was dude's house that we were going to eat at before heading to the home stay. But when we stepped inside, a lady started showing us the rooms and the sparse furnishings. "Do you want hot water?" They asked. Obviously. We were stunned. 1020 rs for two people with food not included and an unstocked kitchen and no one to cook for us and no electricity and no transportation included and no tours and not located in a scenic mountain/plantation and most of all no coffee. Not even a coffee maker. Not even a tea pot. Nothing. You have got to be kidding me. Oh and it was possibly going to rain all night so we could imagine ourselves sitting angrily in this crappy house with no food or electricity. No way.

"No way I'm paying that for this guys sorry." But where would we go? What would we do? I pulled out Lonely Planet and told someone to get out their cellphone and we started to make some calls. We found a place--Honey Valley--which sounded promising.

The home stay people didn't take the news graciously. Of my friends, one was silent, the other two apologetic. I was like--I'm sorry but you're crazy. I wouldn't have any of it. They were obviously trying to rip us off outrageously and they knew it. These were really rich people trying to pull one on us and I couldn't figure out what the point was and really just didn't have the patience for the whole production. To add insult to injury, the guy walked IN HIS SHOES (which were wet and dirty from the weather) through the house, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom to use the toilet. Grr.

We took a cab out of there to a place called Kakkabe. We listened to Indian hip hop and the driver would stop the car periodically to show us cardamom, coffee, and pepper growing in the fields that framed the winding road. It took us about a half hour to meet the jeep to take us the rest of the ride. We found out why the jeep was necessary as we were thrashed about--bags flying--for 30 minutes.

The home stay was at a lovely little lodge nestled amongst lush vegetation. Our rooms were nothing special and a little pricey for what they were, but we were happy to be in the environment we had envisioned and yes, there was coffee.

We went for hikes, we ate food, we had a fire. It was basically posh camping. Our room was, um, fun. There were leeches in the bathroom. Our bed was damp. There were no mosquito nets or screens. There was no hot water in the shower. We got leeches on our feet from the hike. We drank coffee. We ate food. We read and slept.

We came back the "authentic Indian experience way". One rural bus crowded with locals and screaming school children. We ran after a bus on its way to Mysore. We ran to the front of the bus to stop them from leaving our friend who went to pee behind.

All in all, good fun.

Got back last night about 8pm. Slept. Practice this morning. That's it.

What Saturday Morning Feels Like

With the roommates gone, the animal life has taken over. The mosquitoes in the living room are downright arrogant, the ants in the kitchen are persistent, the spiders in the hallway are multiplying, I'm still waiting for an update from the roaches. And I just got a memo that the fruit flies are declaring war. So we do the only thing we can--we leave. For now at least. These infractions call for drastic measures. Are there exterminators in India?

There was no practice today as Saturdays are usually rest days (except for Saraswati students who rest on Sunday). Tomorrow there are the two led classes (primary and secondary) with Monday off for the moon day. Tuesday it's back to Mysore classes. Complicated.

The master plan for the weekend trip is Coorg (images of coffee, mountains, crisp air, and train rides). We'll leave after tomorrow's practice and return Monday evening. That's assuming that we figure out how to get there and back. Trains? Buses? Automobiles? All to be determined.

Plans for the coast were washed out by the idea of meeting continuous rain and off season closures. That, and the travel time. Hampi was an idea, but again, the whole overnight train business seemed a little excessive. Apparently Coorg's neighbor, Ooty, is too commercial. So Coorg it is (maybe?). Coffee, mountains, toy trains.

India -- Round Two

My original intention (while I was scheming in the middle of some airport somewhere in India) was to publish my sleep deprived ramblings that covered 20 hours (or 2 days) -- same same only different -- but have since thought better of it. Not sure that I'm much more coherent 5 hours since I stopped keeping count, but at least I'm writing.

All that said, we (my two travel companions and I) were greeted on the tarmac with the simultaneous wave of humidity and unreasonable acts of kindness. We smiled the whole way. I dropped the pair off at the Green Hotel and have now planted myself in front of a friend's (with whom I plan to stay for a couple of days) computer . Some sandy-eyed reflection time, Chinese laxative tea, a shower, and a coconut are sure to set me right.

But the point? I've landed. I'm here. It feels like I have never left.

Don't you see I love you? And tips for karandavasana

Picture me shaking a rag doll viciously while screaming "I LOVE YOU!" while its head bobs back and forth and the stitch securing its button eye loosens and the eye is dangling down. And now imagine that the rag doll and I take turns shaking each other but we can't seem to figure out how to both be rag dolls or people at the same time. It goes like this: Hug the doll, love the doll, freak out and shake the doll, hug the doll again.

I wanted to practice, I wanted to swim, instead I'll run around this fantastic city and hopefully remember to remember that it won't be surrounding me tomorrow.

Kirsten's Tips for Karandavasana
1. Be sure to make the lotus as tight as possible
2. Stretch your knees up to the sky first as if someone were pulling you up. This helps you to find the bandhas
3. Steady your breath
4. Simultaneously lean your shoulders forward as you wrap your pelvis around an imaginary monkey bar. Aim your knees for your kidneys.
5. As you move, think of being inside a cylinder. You are compacting yourself and dropping straight down.
6. You have to lean your chin forward more than you think (like in bhujapidasana) to counterbalance perching your knees on your arms.
7. And then you come up and jump back. The end.

My tips for karandavasana?
1. Picture yourself on the main lawn of central park having yoga playtime/picnic with friends.
2. Be calm, relaxed, almost lazy--the grass smells fresh
3. Look forward as much as possible--you can see your thumbs and past that thousands of blades of grass
4. Stay soft yet in control--the grass is cool under your forearms
5. Nick your upper arms and then bounce to the floor butt first. Then laugh and try again.

Full Circle

About one year later I am again sitting with Kate in front of a computer listening to php fetch css go in one ear and out the other with one foot here and the other in India. Bless her patience. My flight to India is almost a day away and I want to give New York a big squeeze. I feel unprepared every time I say goodbye and one part empty one part giddy as I stand on street corners alone.

I'm all packed up and ready to go and worrying about the silly little things instead of the big ones. Maybe they seem easier to fix or maybe those are the things that make something special. I'm stepping cautiously and feel like Bambi learning to stand and the rug gets pulled out from under me and I stand and then a rip current pulls everything away but I'm still there in shallow waters watching my belongings dragged out to sea. A little sadness tugging at the bottom left corner of my heart, a little happiness and excitement pulling up the top.

I was hoping to post a picture of me happily perched in pasasana or karandavasana as a "final project" or something to punctuate my time in New York, but instead we'll all have to settle for the intangible glory of tears and toil and little glimpses of liberation.

As I savor the last few moments with my closest friends (and a few tears) I can smell the masala in the distance and can't hardly wait to shed this skin.

me, myself, and all the stuff I own (apparently)

"Hello?"
"What's up?"
"You called me."
"And I called to say 'what's up!'" I'm not getting out of this one.
"Well--" I'm standing in the doorway of my closet with one hand on the phone and one hand on the shelf, my face is buried in folds of clothing, and suddenly I can't breathe. "I don't think I can do this." Tears are welling up. They are just clothes. What's wrong with me?
"Come on, you're the most non-hoarding person I know!"
"But..." I begin to ramble between swallowed sobs.
She interrupts, "Well, anyway, guess what? The baby is kicking now." And "Did you know a milk shake is just empty calories?" And "Guess what? I'm getting married!" And "Remember that time when--" As my brain travels across the country to rest on my best friend's lap, my hands are throwing things into the toss-out-pile, the maybe-think-about-storing-it pile (because you can't handle the thought of not possessing it at the moment), the recycle-please pile, and sadly-the-garbage-bin.

Two people in one space surrounded by the years in New York, the years in love, the years cohabiting, the many avatars of ourselves and our imaginations. We can't walk without falling.

This is me as executioner. This lives. This dies.

I am supposed to kill artist me.
I am supposed to kill knitter me.
I am supposed to kill sentimental me.
I am supposed to kill living in New York me.
I am supposed to kill yoga teacher me.
I am supposed to kill academic me.
I am supposed to kill chef me.
etc.

Maybe if I only had to bury them it would be easier. But I know inside that I'd sneak some things out of the country. But they look at me with these sad eyes filled with hope and dreams of what could be and it's hard. I'm thinking this as I dust off the cover of the "Guatemala 2005" hanging wall calendar. Can I really live without this?

Purging on a full moon isn't a good idea emotionally as it gets quite intense. Or maybe that's the only day you should really do it.

Today I'm casually thumbing through the paperwork-to-be-sorted pile feeling good about last night's meltdown and subsequent breakthrough when a small piece of paper torn from a notebook falls to the ground.

I wish I knew
I was dying
50 years ago
because I would
have paid more
attention to what
I pushed aside

Past me watching present me and leaving her a note. Future me watching present me tells past me that leaving a note would be a good idea. Future me is past me and writes the note for present me. Present me is future me and past me too.