Looking back on the Year

It’s just turned eight in the evening. I went to evening prayers (my favourite of the three as the chants are more tuneful,) and then there was dinner. Instead of rice tonight it was vermicelli, served with a peppery chickpea curry. Dessert was the standard banana. (banana at breakfast, banana at lunch, banana at dinner.) It’s now eight o’clock and I am at my desk, listening to the muezzin calling the Muslims to prayer from the minaret of the nearby mosque. If I go to Mass in the chapel, tomorrow morning, I shall hear the chanting from the Hindu temple as I walk through the compound, between the banana plantation and the milking parlour; then the Bollywood anthems from the loudspeaker of either the lottery ticket seller or the mobile general store.

I’ve been here a week now, and I am still coping with the lack of hot water in my bathroom, the hard bed of a kapok palliasse on a board base, and I’ve not grown tired of curry three times a day (though it’s pity bananas are the only fruit in season right now!)

After lunch today, the tailor came with his swatches of fabrics to see if anyone wanted him to run a shirt or a dress for them. I opted for the former, and chose an off-white/cream coarse cotton which will be made (if I understood the conversation) India style, almost knee length with a stand-up collar and inset pockets on both sides. The regular price for normal sized guests is £3.50, but I expect to pay a bit more given the amount of cloth he will need for a shirt my size. He’ll deliver it tomorrow, and I’ll probably be tempted to order a couple more.

I am finding the early evening silent meditation in the chapel offers a splendid opportunity to work out the structure of my book. Even living at home alone in Lincoln, I often find it is difficult to avoid distractions – especially if there are biscuits in the cupboard to go with a fresh pot of coffee. Sitting in the dim and silent chapel in the glow of the evening I can ponder ideas and see a new way of introducing – or refuting – a fresh argument in the debate. It is an uphill struggle, especially when you already know that the answer to the question that I am pondering is 42. 

Ford Prefect discovered that in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

I have been chatting to an Indian student,Christhu,  who has been studying for the last six years since leaving secondary education, and now he has a BA in English Literature, a BA in Philosophy and a BA in Theology. He was accepted for the priesthood (R.C.) and was due to take up a place at an American seminary, but his visa application was turned down. His bishop has now put him forward for a seminary in Belgium, and once again, he is awaiting his visa. I have promised that we shall remember him at Lincoln School of Theology. We plan to keep in touch; he has a really sharp brain.

His bishop is very forward-thinking, and wants his new ordinands to have a cosmopolitan outlook, which is part of the reason this student was sent to Shantivalam to gain a wider perspective. I cannot imagine any of the Lincoln Evangelical churches embracing such a broad outlook, nor would I have expected it from the Catholic Church in India, but there are some radicals around, obviously!

I have not heard of any celebrations here at the ashram for New Year’s Eve, so please have a dram for me…. And more importantly, save a dram for me for when I return to Lincoln.

Wishing you all the very best for 2015!

The Rhythm of Life

Saccidananda Ashram (The Ashram of the Holy Trinity) describes itself as a community of spiritual seekers. In charge is a monastic community belonging to the Camaldolese Congregation, dedicated to contemplative life in the Benedictine tradition.

There are just a few basic rules; guests are requested to:

1.   Observe the periods of silence as shown on the daily timetable.

2.  Remain faithful to the original intention underlying their visit to the ashram.

3. Assist in preserving the spiritual atmosphere of the ashram.

3. Assist in the daily running of the ashram by helping with domestic tasks.

It is a warm and welcoming atmosphere, with a vibrant energy that is fired by the mix of backgrounds, nationalities and beliefs. There are currently a dozen or so guests, including Hindus, Roman Catholics, Buddhists and Protestants. They come from India, Luxembourg, France, Austria, Italy, Ireland, Germany, America, Australia, South Africa and UK. That list is almost certainly incomplete, and it changes daily, but it gives you a taste of the flavour of the place.

One corner of the chapel,
showing a strong Hindu influence

There is no compulsion to attend any of the gatherings, starting with early morning meditation and chanting, and with 3 formal prayer sessions, morning, noon and night. 

Most afternoons the Master gives a talk and leads a discussion. 

You can read more about the history and organisation of the ashram at their website:

http://saccidanandaashram.com/

The liturgy of the services is fascinating, a mixture of English, Tamil, Sanskrit, and other Indian languages with an occasional Gregorian chant in Latin. I can recognise large parts of the Mass liturgy that have been lifted from the Syrian Orthodox tradition, and other sections that are identical to the 09.30 at Lincoln Cathedral every Sunday morning. 

Then, there are Hindu chants woven into the service, and – when you read the translation of these in the booklet – the words could just as easily have come from Matins in a country parish church somewhere in England. It all adds to the powerful, overwhelming sense of universality that is the core message here.

The ashram has a working farm and employs around thirty local people in the running of it and in generally maintaining the property. They run a care home for local elderly women, and support the education of a number of local children with school fees and uniforms. There is a constant flow of guests, like myself, and the steady pattern of arrivals and departures is a gentle reminder of the transient nature of life as newly-made friends depart on their onward journey, and new faces arrive daily. Things are in a constant state of flux, and yet the context of the ashram itself is permanent, and only alters slowly, through the seasons, and with new building developments and more infra-structure, thanks to a recent legacy.

Newly planted rose beds in another part of the monastery

My room is in a quadrangle of twenty, around a garden of evergreen bushes and banana trees. As I write this, I am completely alone, apart from the peacock that has come visiting, and is strutting around the garden and keeping a wary eye on me. Yesterday, the gardeners planted out two new rose beds. 

The pace of and simplicity of life is a wonderful break from the consumerist culture of life in England. Mind you, right now, I could murder a drop of good malt; just a simple Glenlivet would do.

View of the chapel entrance

Ashram of the Holy Trinity

I slept briefly but well, and woke to the clamour of a bustling Indian city. I breakfasted, bade my farewells and had the hotel organise my onward transportation.

Morning coffee

 It was a half-hour taxi ride to Shantivalam, and I arrived at ten, to find some of my fellow guests grouped around a circular shelter, in the middle of the property, enjoying the morning coffee ritual. 

The tea and coffee sessions were one of the many innovations introduced into the daily order by the renowned British theologian Father Bede Griffiths, during his time as the Master here. Michael, an English guest staying here for three months, introduced himself. He has retired from teaching (in both England and India,) and has been coming to the ashram for the past 25 years. His current role at the ashram is as Assistant Guest Master, an appropriate and helpful function newly introduced for the busy winter season, to guide new visitors through the confusing world of monastic life. My eyes were struggling to stay open, after the previous day’s lengthy journey, as Michael escorted me around, pointing out the library, the chapel, the new lodgings being built with funds from a recent legacy, the  meeting hall, the milking parlour and the village cricket pitch. 

The setting and environment

The monks husband a herd of cows and the methane gas is extracted from the cattle ordure in the milking parlour, and fires the gas burners in the kitchen as well as water-heating, then the manure fertilises the vegetable gardens.

He took me to my room, which was exactly what I had anticipated: a bed with a mosquito net, a writing table and chair, a small cupboard and an adjacent bathroom. I sorted out a few things, then lay down and slept the rest of the morning.

Later that afternoon, the present Master, Brother Martin, gave a talk in which he constantly drew parallels between religions. This opened up into a lively debate, and it was good to see how open-minded all the fellow-guests are, whatever religious path they choose to follow. The introductory leaflet sums the philosophy up perfectly:

• The ashram seeks to be a place of meeting for Hindus and Christians and people of all religions or none, who are genuinely seeking God………we seek to respond to the need for a spiritual centre, where such people can come and find an atmosphere of calm quiet, for study and meditation.

(It’s not actually designed as a haven for a blogger, but I have to take a break from the theology from time to time.)

After Brother Martin’s talk, most of us went to the yoga hall to rehearse carols and other items for the Christmas Eve entertainment. By bedtime, I was already feeling I’d been here a week. Nothing was particularly foreign to me; I could handle the chanting and the long periods of silence, and I don’t have a problem with sitting on a low stool and eating with the fingers of my right hand. A vegetarian diet doesn't bother me and I relish the idea of curry three times a day.

I have a good-sized table in my room and I brought enough extension cables and adapters to power-up all my gadgets. It’s a pity I’m only here for about three weeks; it’s exactly the environment I wanted.

"Whisky in the Jar
Part of the Entertainment

On Christmas Eve, in late afternoon, we had an international celebration of Christmas, with carols in six languages, the Christmas story in English and Tamil and – for no immediately apparent reason, an Irish jig performed by a group comprising one monk, and guests from Ireland, Italy, France, England, Luxembourg and Germany. It was interesting to note that by far the most accomplished participant was the monk. I have uploaded the video to Facebook.

There was calm around the compound through the early evening, in anticipation of Midnight Mass, and when the bell tolled, the chapel was crowded with many local residents in the congregation. The novices from the nearby women’s community created a nativity scene in the garden and decorated the chapel with sand patterns at the entrance and intricate arrangements of flower blossoms, echoing the blending of cultures.

The service had sections in Sanskrit, English and Tamil, but was mostly recognisable from the liturgies that I know. At the end of the service everyone stood around chatting and exchanging greetings, before retiring to the refectory for tea and cake. It was a symbolic Christmas that was epitomised by its gentleness. 

The guests are all so gentle, friendly and open to all beliefs and creeds, they are a truly lovely group of people.

Patterns in the sand at the entrance to the chapel

A/C or non A/C? That is the question!

Whether ‘tis nobler in the human mind to suffer the drips and itches of outrageous sweating, or to take arms against outrageous prices . . . or simply to sit in the air-conditioned carriage in the anticipation that lackadaisical ticket inspectors will not struggle through the crowds to check the tickets on a train that has come down through the night, and now has only the short 1-hour journey from Varkala to Trivandrum remaining.

I paid my bill at Asinmomo, and said goodbye to the rippling surf and golden sand. The rickshaw drivers know that they can charge what they like for tourists, and I coughed up my £2, instead of the going rate for locals – 80p, for something over 3 miles to the railway station. I bought a ticket and settled on a concrete bench on the platform to wait for the express train for Trivandrum. 

I tried to ascertain where the “2^nd Class Sitting” carriages were, but when the train pulled in – and my back-pack weighed heavy on my shoulders, I just climbed in. . . with the honourable intention of walking through from the A/C (air-conditioned) 2-tier sleeper coach. But the sleeper coach was almost empty, and the temptation was just too great, so I dumped my pack and relaxed in the comfort of cool, calm and quiet.

The train trundled on. I was excited about this part of my trip. I would have 4 hours in Trivandrum, and wanted to sort out a reservation for the forthcoming, penultimate leg of my trip in January. After a lengthy queue in the station yard after arrival, I purchase a fixed price rickshaw voucher, which ensured that I would pay a fair price for my journey to find the travel agent who had issued my bus ticket to Trichy. As I had suspected, it turned out to be a 1-man office in a back street, but at least it was the rickshaw driver who had to drag up and down the street to find the place, while I sat in relative comfort.

It was a wise move, which enabled me to discover that the bus would not leave from the Central Bus Station, as I had been told, but would depart from somewhere in the commercial area. Worth learning! I sorted out my ticket and reservation from Madurai back towards Mattindia on January 17^th, and then the young man sent me off in another rickshaw for lunch in a different part of town. He assured me there were lots of good and inexpensive restaurants in that area, and wrote the location in Malayalam for the driver.

Lunch was excellent: a classic “thali” in a family vegetarian restaurant. Clean, tasty and comfortable, but too dark and bustling to sit and enjoy my Kindle book, so I then set off to find the office from which the bus would leave. The rickshaw dropped me in a street of travel agents, and after asking around, I managed to find the one belonging to the actual bus operator. It was a one-man office with a perfunctory but adequate sitting area for customers. I settled down and chatted to the travel clerk. “So when will the bus for Trichy arrive here,” I asked, “Oh no,” she smiled, “the bus does not leave from here, and it is not a direct service. You will need to change onto the Trichy bus after two hours. Don’t worry; the driver will look after you. The bus leaves from the College of Music, and it will be there around four o'clock.”

An hour or so later you would have found me sitting on the concrete surround of a political monument on a traffic island in front of the College of Music, totally engrossed in my book. Had I not glanced behind me, at around ten past four, I might never have seen the gleaming air-conditioned sleeper bus that would be my next mode of transport. I clambered aboard, to the amazing sight of rows of seats and tiers of bunks, and a dozen or so hot and lively young men, chatting and joking.

2-tier bunks on one side and
seats with bunks above on the other

They might have been a sports team, and they looked as if they’d not had time to shower when they hurried to catch the bus. I was soon to regret the sealed environment of the air-conditioned vehicle, as the system sucked in the aroma of jock-strap changing room, and recycled and chilled the air before pumping it back into the body of the bus. No – it wasn’t rank and totally offensive; it just lingered, tainted, and added an unwelcome fragrance to the atmosphere.

One way and another, this part of the journey was not pleasant. Those first two hours of the route are on minor roads, and the bus bumped and jolted along, allowing me to re-taste each of the seven little ramekins of different vegetable curries that had been served with rice on my thali. I was not sad to say goodbye to the luxury bus and glad that my non-A/C connection would let me open a window and catch the smells of spices and cooking and the perfumes of the dressmakers’ shops and beauty salons, as I journeyed on through towns and villages all decked out with thousands of Christmas fairy lights and giant, star-shaped paper lamps and lanterns.

And so I dozed as the bus glided on smooth highways, off into the night. We were scheduled to arrive in Trichy at midnight. The courier promised to wake me when we arrived and assured me they would drop me at a suitable stop for my hotel. I absorbed the atmosphere (in every sense) of each town and village we drove through.

I should by now know better than to make finite plans in India. It was 2.45 when the bus hit the outskirts of Trichy and the courier bundled me into a rickshaw. You can imagine the insecurity of being driven around deserted suburbs of a strange town at three in the morning, wondering if you will ever see anything resembling a fairly modern hotel, or wondering whether you are being taken down a side-street to be beaten up and robbed. I never understood why the bus dropped me where it did, since the website had assured me the hotel was virtually adjacent to the bus station, but eventually, and much to my relief, the rickshaw driver swung into a fairly impressive forecourt. I had decided that if I was to arrive in the night, I had better find the sort of place that will have a 24-hour desk for late arrivals. I staggered into the lobby with its inevitable row of half a dozen moquette sofas and a night manager fast asleep and not wanting to wake up.

The price was wrong, and the manager knew nothing about the hotel’s email exchange with me, but never mind! The room was clean enough, and I was very soon dead to the world, and only a taxi ride from the monastery-ashram of the Holy Trinity.

A shack by the beach

Looking north from the end of the lane

My room at Asinmomo

I planned a week in Edava, 5km north of Varkala. without any specific agenda. I wasn’t interested in mixing with the international back-packer crowd, and I certainly didn’t want to mingle in with the middle-class European families looking for a different Christmas climate. 

I just wanted a cheap, clean room, WiFi and some simple food. Asinmomo “homestay” was just what I was looking for. 

Tropical workspace

The “homestay” idea is all over India. 

People have an annex they rent out to guests, or a spare bedroom. At Asinmomo, the family lives in accommodation on the flat roof, while the ground floor comprises four bedrooms, each with a simple, en-suite bathroom. 

The kitchen is a separate building a few yards away, there’s a wide “sit-out” verandah and, with the addition of broadband access and WiFi, the whole creates a simple, money-generating operation.

St Augustine of Hippo

I have hardly moved from the verandah for the past 5 days. I have resurrected the writing I did over a year ago, and started to make some sense of it. 

I know there’s lots of good stuff in there, but it still lacks structure and I have discovered that some of what I thought were my new and revolutionary ideas, were voiced by St Augustine  in the 4^th century. 

I wonder if Augustine had the same sense of deflation if he discovered some earlier writer had written something rather similar, centuries earlier.

When I haven’t been researching and writing, I have been extremely lazy. 

I have taken breaks to play some infernal version of Solitaire on the laptop, I have looked up train and bus timetables and I have booked accommodation for my final few days in January. 

I designed a Christmas card and emailed it to friends and family, and I have enjoyed the unfamiliar luxury of an afternoon nap.

Mattindia gave me a physical detox; Edava has given me a mental detox. I should be just about right to start at the monastery / ashram on Monday.

A mild evening, looking out to sea

Letting the train take the strain

I shall return to Mattindia at the end of my stay, but I am now off for a week at the coast. I wasn’t bothered about lying on a beach; I just wanted peace and quiet to write and rest. It’s a 3-hour train journey to Varkala and I had no idea what to expect. With a 6am start, I needed to be up at 4.30 to take the auto-rickshaw to the station, 5km away, and so it was that I stood at the roadside in the humid night air, hoping the rickshaw driver had not over-slept.

20-0dd coaches and standing-room only

He hadn't, and he greeted me cheerfully. He had taken my much-loved Clarks sandals to be re-soled, and will have them for me when I return to Mattindia next month. The total cost for the cobbler's work and his job in driving around would be £4.92 - so I agreed happily. I was not the first passenger to arrive at the station, and I chatted to a school teacher who was waiting for the same train and continuing further, to a course in Trivandrum. Over the next half-hour more passengers arrived, in an alarming flow, until there were at least a hundred and more on the platform of this remote station in the middle of nowhere.

The ticket office opened and I bought my ticket for the 142 km,(88 miles,) 3-hour journey to Varkala. That set me back 40 rupees (39p) but with no reservation I wasn't guaranteed a seat. Joy, the owner of Mattindia, had told me I wouldn't need a reservation, but then he is about one third my size and with a wig, and without a moustache, he could probably travel for child-fare. 

When the train arrived I rushed to climb aboard but was quickly discouraged: "No, Sir. That is a ladies-only carriage." I charged further down the platform and climbed up to meet a sea of blank faces. There was a seat half-way down and with an extra-big smile, I asked if the place was free. "Reservations," came the reply,"this carriage is for reservations."  And so it was: and so it was for the next four carriages. These seats were reserved for people with pre-booked reservations. Finally, I decided to chance my luck and just sit down and see what happened. The bench-seats are for three passengers, which is fine for normal Indians but not for XXL Brits. Half of me balanced on the aisle seat . . . but it was better than standing.

Indian Railways is one of the world's largest railway networks comprising 115,000 km (71,000 miles) of track and 7,172 stations. Last year it carried more than 23 million passengers daily. I can believe it. The train trundled on, averaging less than 30mph, but it got me to Varkala very cheaply, and there were taxis at the station, vying for trade to take me to my home by the beach.

Arriving at Varkala station

A visit to the Dentist

Here, in the village, Dr Chippy Thrideep opened the Varuna Dental and Orthodontic Centre just three weeks ago. The road outside is dusty and littered with the inevitable plastic wrappers, and sweet papers but the entrance to the clinic is tiled and I stepped into a haven of air-conditioned comfort.

- it looked like this one in the showroom

My visit stemmed from my annoyance at being charged £35 in Lincolnshire for my dentist to re-fix and cement back one of my crowns that had come loose, and which I just avoided swallowing. He had done a good enough job, but it had taken barely 5 minutes. In a previous visit, his dental hygienist had given my teeth a quick 10-minute once-over with the descaler and polishing brush, and the charge had been £40. A month ago I had looked in the bathroom mirror at home, and seen that my addiction to espresso was staining my teeth badly, and I had decided that while I was in India, I would seek out a clinic that would tackle both these issues.

It was with some trepidation that I had decided to call on the local dentist. I have been staying in Vallyathodu, which barely qualifies as a village. There are just a dozen shops, with merchandise hanging outside on hooks; plastic toys, and cheap dresses, umbrellas and shirts. There is a general store that sells all kinds of agricultural equipment from hoes and mattocks to sickles and winnowing trays. There’s a lovely barber who wears a broad grin as you sit in his enormous revolving chair while he snips away. The price of my haircut was 100 rupees (98pence.)  Then there’s the tea-shop, where old men sip their sweet, milky chai and gossip like Greeks in a Kaphenion or Italians at a bar in the piazza. I had not expected to find a dental clinic, but a colleague at Mattindia had heard that it was recommended.

I sat in the waiting room of the Clinic, scanning the pages of the Kerala equivalent of Homes & Gardens. Only the language differentiated this magazine from any of its European equivalents. There were the same gleaming kitchens with high-gloss cupboard doors and intricate mechanisms for shelves that disappeared into the corner storage. There were vast sofas to accommodate and impress your friends and relations, and there was bedroom furniture that would have graced an oligarch’s seraglio.

After a while I met the dentist. “Hello, I’m Chippy, Chippy Thrideep.” In name and nature, I quickly surmised. Chippy was somewhere in her 20s and had a perfect complexion with huge eyes under perfectly trimmed brows. Her smile was what you would expect from a dentist and, and, um, well – let’s just say that I was confident, for once, that I would enjoy my visit to her clinic.

The consulting room was immaculate. Chippy worked with great concentration, removing any and every trace of coffee and red wine from the dental enamel of my smile. She never nagged me to open wider, she apologised any time the water jet of the ultra-sound touched a sensitive spot, and I just lay back for an hour, admiring the spotlights in the shiny white ceiling.

She gave me strict instructions about letting my crown settle down, and avoiding eating on that side of my mouth, and then she wrote out the bill. Cleaning and polishing, 400 rupees: re-fixing crown, 200 rupees – total 600 rupees. That’s about £5.88.

I didn’t haggle. That smile alone was worth a fiver.

The Agony of the Massage and the Ecstasy of the Oil Bath

The doctor changed my medicine yesterday. It’s not like conventional medicine, where they put you on a drug and leave you there for a month or two; like my four month prescription of antibiotics for Cellulitis, back in Lincoln. The lovely lady doctor here in India decided to change a couple of items since she seemed to be having some success with her diagnosis and treatments. 
My before-meals syrup is a great improvement and verges on palatable. My new post-meal powder now just tastes of ground-up cloves. Then there are the pills: the little brown cylinders that look like rat droppings and the little balls that are as black as liquorice. They lack the sleek coating of factory capsules from Big Pharma, so you have to be adept at swallowing fairly large tablets with swigs of water. I can’t describe how they actually work, but my head is clearer and my back is straighter, and I can think more clearly and more creatively.

I have new medication tonight. I have woken at 1am every night since arriving, and sometimes failed to get back to sleep till past 4.00. Maybe it’s jet-lag, or maybe it’s the climate, and when you combine those with the exhausting massages, it’s not surprising I’ve dozed off most afternoons. I went to talk to doctor about this, and she gave me more syrup and more pills, and I'll see what these do. 

She gave me an inscrutable smile and one of those characteristic wiggling nods that Indians add to any verbal communication, “So you are feeling the massages? I am hearing your noises.” This is hardly surprising, since her consulting room is directly below the massage room, and Arjay and Anand have been competing to see who can generate the most vocal response from me. “Yes,” I replied, “they are very good with their hands, aren’t they?” 

They really are incredibly effective with their skills; I fear that after a couple more sessions they’ll have me out jogging. 

I was nearly in tears this morning when the two of them both simultaneously hit pressure points on different parts of my body. I think this was strategic, so that while I was groaning and squealing at Anand’s manipulation of my instep and ankle, my senses were distracted from Arjay’s work on my shoulder. Sometimes I am holding my breath for what feels like minutes, just to control the pain, and then, when they stop, I am left panting, gasping and wondering why I am putting myself through all this.

The answer is, of course, that I do it because it works. The tiny 52-pence pot of ointment, that doctor gave me for my cellulitis, virtually eliminated the rash in 48 hours. Every day the stairs here seem less steep, and I know my posture has changed significantly. And it’s not all pain.

My latest treatments on the bench are exhausting, but they are followed by a totally sybaritic oil bath. After my massage, I lie on the bench, slowly recovering, while the guys heat up a big, shallow pan of medicated and perfumed palm oil. When it is warm enough, they take jugs and pour the oil over me. The bench is on a slight slope, with a pipe in the lower corner that feeds the oil back into the pan on the gas-ring. As they pour on the oil, they swish it gently over my back, and down my arms and legs. I swear I can feel the aches and pains washing away.

Then I turn over and they continue on my chest and stomach and all over. All I do for half an hour is lie there, occasionally grunting with pleasure and occasionally flinching if the oil is getting a little too warm. Can you imagine the luxurious pampering of lying down and relaxing, while two guys pour jugs of hot oil all over your genitals?

No, neither could I; but I can vouch for the ecstatically pleasurable sensation.

Yoga and the Art of Lying Down

I have stayed at several Ayurveda centres, and they all incorporated sessions of yoga in their programmes. But yoga is not something that comes naturally to me. I am not (and never have been) well-coordinated physically. Despite the fact that I rowed in my school’s First Eight at Henley Royal Regatta, I was hopeless at even the fundamentals of gymnastics. I think it broke my father’s heart, since he captained the school football team and also won a silver cup for the cross-country mile.

Yoga, as I have always imagined it - nigh impossible!

Yes, I have always had very negative feelings about my physicality, and it’s been a hang-up since my father first nick-named me “Jumbo” at the age of about three. It was an image I have tried to shed many times, and I decided that on this visit to Kerala, I would make the effort to join the early-morning yoga class and not let my clumsiness detract from my efforts to get some benefit out of the exercise.

Eagles soared threateningly overhead

And so, on Saturday morning, I made my way to the flat roof of the building at 7am, picked up a sponge yoga mat, and stretched out, enjoying the early morning warmth as I lay on my back and watched the eagles circling overhead. For a moment I wondered if they were vultures eyeing me over, but I think they were just Fish Eagles out for an early-morning soar.

The instructor arrived and the first part was easy. Breathing Through the Nose: I can do that. Then we did Standing Still with Feet Together: I pretty much had that mastered after a couple of attempts. We did Hands in the Air, Hands Out Sideways, and Head Turning to the Right and the Left. In a few minutes, I was full of confidence.

After that, things started to get more complicated, but the teacher was skilled at coaching students of a wide range of abilities, so that there was benefit for everyone. It was all about stretching and breathing, and it all made sense. I felt better for it, even if I still felt like the dummy in the class. At the end of the hour, I felt loose and more flexible; by Day Two, my toes were getting closer to my fingertips and I was glad I had decided to join the early morning group.

Arjay and Anand

Unfortunately, I had to change my plans on Day Three and give yoga a miss, at least for a day. The problem was that my two masseurs, Arjay and Anand, had been focusing on my lower back, and since the previous evening, I had been totally unable to move around anywhere, without using a walking stick.

Arjay and Anand are the two top therapists at Mattindia, and they really do know how to “hit the spot.”  Let me describe the fundamentals of Ayurvedic massage.

The massage bench is more than 2 metres long and is one solid piece of hardwood, treated and stained by years of massage oil and other medications. 

Traditional Ayurveda massage bench

I start by sitting sideways, with the two therapists standing one in front and one behind me. While Arjay supports my chest, Anand starts to work on my back, alternating between broad, gentle strokes and moments when he presses his thumbs on my spine and seems to be trying to rearrange the vertebrae. He locates pressure points and I gasp, groan and squeal as he pushes hard into my back. Then they switch roles and Anand supports my back while Arjay takes a turn at being the  torturer and starts to work on my chest, reaching up to concentrate on my shoulders and the side of my neck – both of which have been mildly troublesome for several months.

I then lie on my back while more oil is applied and they start on the full length of my body, switching between long, soothing strokes from my chest to my ankles and exquisite pain as one or other of them decides to work on the sole of my foot, or the inside of my thigh.

Finally, I lie down, covered with a thin cotton sheet while the two guys pour streams of hot, medicated water all over me. It is the most heavenly sensation,  and more than compensates for the anguish of the pressure-points.

I limped away from my session today, but although my back aches painfully, I noticed that my posture has changed and I am definitely walking more upright. Maybe I'll make it to yoga tomorrow.

Travelling and Arriving - the Age-old Journey

Up at four, taxi at five

On Thursday morning in Lincoln, my faithful SONY bedside clock-radio crackled me awake shortly after 4am. Roughly 24 hours later, after a short connection in Doha, my flight landed in Cochin. Taxi, train, tube and planes had brought me halfway around the world to the enveloping warmth of a South Indian morning. 

“Warmth” sums up South India for me. The heat is not stifling, nor oppressive; it’s embracing and comforting. If you fight it and try to be busy and efficient it will taunt you into being irritated, but if you relax into it, it responds like a tropical swimming pool and floats you luxuriously. The other “warm” aspect of being in Kerala is the warmth of the people themselves, who exude a desire to be gentle and helpful, whether or not you’ve met them before, and no matter what the circumstances. When locals call their territory God’s Own Country, it describes the people and their interactions, every bit as much as all the other aspects of the scenery, traditions and culture.

I proceeded patiently through the friendly chaos of the baggage reclaim area and then walked out into a sea of expectant faces. These were the anxious eyes of hundreds of relatives, all coming to meet the warriors, coming home from the war . . .

The expats come home on leave

 Except that in this case it’s the IT engineer back from Germany, or the barrister back from chambers in the City of London, the nurse returning from work in a European hospital,  or the hotel chambermaid, back from working in the 5-star environment of the Gulf.

India is a nation of travellers, moving around the world in search of a better life. They take their traditions and their culture with them, but these are not nomads. They blend their way of life with that of their adopted national identity. In barely a single generation, a new dynastic culture is forged. 

Initially, this way of life stays close to their heritage, but gradually, it merges into a new culture, and in time into a new race. I'm English for many generations, but my roots are in Norman farming, a thousand years ago, before my ancestors crossed the Channel with William in 1066. And for that matter, we all date back to Olduvai Gorge in East Africa, the birthplace of Homo Sapiens.

A few years ago, I was channel-hopping one wet afternoon, and stumbled upon the Welsh language channel of the BBC, which was broadcasting the National Eisteddfod from Wales. I stumbled upon the finals of the children’s country dancing competition. As the children pranced seriously to traditional Welsh melodies, one 11-year old competitor caught my eye. He wore his Sikh turban with pride. Such instances give me hope for the future of a truly multi-cultural society in Britain.

As I left the arrivals terminal, I glimpsed the familiar face and broad smile of Vinu in the crowd. Vinu’s mother is office manager at Mattindia and Vinu – who is studying business and tourism at college in Cochin – works part-time as a private taxi service for Mattindia’s guests. He had driven me around on a couple of occasions earlier this year, and I had swapped copies of my business books on “Negotiations” and “Presentations” for a memory stick of beguiling Kerala music. His courteous friendliness is another kind of Keralan warmth that I find so endearing.

Halfway along the drive back to Mattindia, we stopped for a freshly squeezed fruit juice at a smart café. The dishes on offer included sanitized versions of pizza and Chinese noodles alongside just a couple of Indian classics like Biryani. But no samosas, no stuffed Nan bread, and no dishes from the mouth-watering variety of the Kerala breakfast menu.

This is the downside of multiculturalism. Sometimes, in the race to embrace and adopt new ideas, a culture loses some of its definitive and best-loved elements. In London today, you will find authentic Muslim cuisine on Brick Lane, but you will have to hunt to find the once ubiquitous Cockney delight of Jellied Eels.

Jellied Eels, Pie, Mash and Parsley Liquor - it tastes much better than it looks

Not frightened, just apprehensive.

It can all feel rather foreign

Realistically, I have no reason to be nervous.

I suppose it’s my age, and all that "not as young as I used to be" stuff.

In my ebullient and over-confident youth I would bulldoze my way through life, totally unaware of the damage I might do to the emotions of others – be that my parents, friends or complete strangers.

As a teenager, I was totally self-centred, and totally unaware that I was totally self-centred.

I was just being myself, as I always had been. This probably means that I was a pretty irritating and decidedly un-grown-up child but, fortunately, none of you are old enough to have known me in that era. And if, by some freak of fortune, you did, then you would be very unlikely to be entertaining yourself by reading the blog of the obnoxious and insensitive Bobby Harvey that you knew all those years ago!

The advantage of being that aloof and selfish youth, was that absolutely nothing was impossible. That was why the early 60s were the Golden Age of Voluntary Service Overseas. Years before the Gap Year was invented, hundreds of young Brits went to work for a year in Commonwealth countries, teaching, dispensing in clinics, organising youth activities, or in the case of one of my fellow-volunteers, running a camp on the Rwandan border for 10,000 refugees of the civil war. 

We had few relevant qualifications, negligible related experience, but we carried the potent mix of unbridled enthusiasm and eternal optimism, which erupted later in the social explosion of the Sixties.

Aged 18 in Nairobi, attempting to coach aspiring pugilists

 At one time I was “coaching boxing” despite having never worn boxing gloves, nor even got into any real scraps at school. I was more of a sensitive soul, which is why I was more comfortable later that year, in my task of working with the first African youth drama group in the Nairobi townships.

Later in life, this universal and comfortable fearlessness corrodes with the onset of the Third Age. 

I now notice the reduction in my peripheral vision when I cross the road; I hesitate with a flash of fear at the top of a fast-moving escalator on the London Underground; in fact, any kind of travel has become a challenge to a greater or lesser extent. And yet just about every contemporary friend in Lincoln comes out with the daunting phrase: “You’re very brave, setting off to India!”

I’d like to think there’s nothing particularly brave about getting on public transport. Thanks to the imperial heritage of the English language, my travels are, for the main part, not even in a foreign language. When I tell acquaintances that I've not bothered with injections, they think me foolhardy. 

Ouch! - I just don't trust jabs.

The Boots "Guidance for Travellers" lists South India as a Low Risk Area. However, one  of the private travel clinics is more enterprising and perhaps sees an opportunity. One medical company suggest that I should invest in £450 worth of jabs to cover Diphtheria , Tetanus , Polio , Hepatitis A , Hepatitis B, Typhoid Fever, Rabies , Cholera , Japanese Encephalitis and Tuberculosis.

On balance, and after careful evaluation of my bank balance, I have decided to make careful use of a mosquito net, and leave it at that.

I have no worries about being in India, no concerns about what I shall eat or drink nor fears of thugs, floods or political uprisings. What is far more worrying is whether the East Coast Mainline will have leaves on the line, or whether Network Rail will have signalling failures at Peterborough. 

I shall be worrying about whether I have packed both what is essential and what is useful, and I shall panic about manipulating my luggage on the Underground and getting an acceptably comfortable seat on the Airbus A380.

A380 -  double-decker with 800 seats

It’s a double-decker, with 800 passengers.    

Oh, now I’m panicking.  How does something that big get off the ground?

I shall find out on Thursday.