This has, in fairness, become our ethos as every day throws in something unexpected. Our favourite read so far is "Shantaram", and one of Roberts', alias Linbaba's, best advice is that in order to win in India you must first surrender. We now surrender all the time and we are all the richer for it. The following four stories, happening over five days, is of our recent surrenders, and of conversations lost in translation and beautiful people.
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At just before eight in the morning the bus, complete with LED disco lights and louder than average Hindi songs, dropped us off in Kalpetta in the hilly Wayanad area of Kerala. Slightly bewildered we sank onto the roadside contemplating what to do; at first appearances this wasn't the lush mountain retreat we had expected. Having just come from our secluded Goan beach colony, travelling overnight with that annoyingly familiar feeling of the uncomfortably churning stomach (shouldn't have braved the vanilla ice-cream), we were running out of energy and lacking in pro-action. We took a stab at a random suggestion from the increasingly less reliable guide book and jumped in an auto.
Behind a scruffy old sign announcing the location of the "Kannur Ayurvedic Centre and Hospital", we were warmly welcomed by a serene and immaculate courtyard house and our apprehensions about staying in a hospital faded. The room was a bargain, the staff exceptionally kind and the range of massage treatments promising; we both signed up for the afternoon.
Ayurveda is an ancient form of holistic medicine that combines herbal cleansing treatments, yoga and meditation to address physical ailments. A massage is really more of a work out so I had asked for a more relaxing session instead whilst Ruth wanted to try out the meditative oil treatment where a bowl of warm herbal oil is slowly dripping onto your forehead and into your hair. As I entered the treatment room, similar in design to a sterile Victorian hospital, it quickly became clear that our requests had been lost in translation.
When instructed, I surrendered, I stripped and put on the paper-thong, I positioned myself on the hard plastic bed and allowed the two men to get to work. An hour later whilst sat in the steam-box, a sort of medieval looking torture chamber, with my head sticking out, I felt remarkably like an oiled-up Christmas turkey being steam-cooked, only thing they had missed out during the treatment was a sprig of rosemary. Having wiped the oil off me, thinking that was the end of it, I was again instructed to lie down and before I knew it, spiced warm oil was dripping on my head. I dozed off meditatively. I had been kneaded, bent and broken, steamed and cleansed, and I felt amazing. The churning stomach had disappeared and the sore back lingering since Nepal was gone.
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Thinking we had to be only ones seeking out this random Ayurvedic Hospital, I opened the balcony door to be greeted by two of the warmest smiles we have received to date. Our neighbours, Antso and Marie, from southern France, were like childhood friends we hadn't seen in years. Together with David, our new friend from Edinburgh, we toured the hilly and cool tea, coffee, pepper, cinnamon, coconut and fruit plantations, we went on wild elephant and tiger safari (again the stripy cats remain elusive), we visited an ancient Jain temple and caves with pre-historic art work, our open-top jeep guide took us to see rumbling waterfalls and crazy rock formations and then served us a delicious Keralan lunch, David shared what was to become expert advice for further south and made us miss home, and when we left them only two days later with tears of goodbye, and laughters about desperate fights with lids to tin boxes containing our dinner, it was with a promise to ensure our paths cross again.
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Fort Cochin is one of these places where you immediately feel you could live; like El Borne in Barcelona or the old Medina in Marrakesh. It smells of salt and freshly caught fish. The narrow lanes and brightly coloured houses are reminiscent of Lisbon. Small cafes, galleries and bookshops attract laid back and cool young creative Indians. A refreshing breeze runs through the lanes from the nearby Keralan backwaters. Hip restaurants serve up fusion food, and the pace is relaxed, it's chilled out.
Whilst enjoying yet another of the many tastefully designed cafes, this one with large timber plank flooring, exposed timber trusses, shuttered bay windows with seats below, yellow washed plaster walls elegantly decorated with the work of a talented photographer, and 1950's furniture, we were approached by a man with an air of excitement and anxiety, and with an offer too tempting to miss. He was scouting foreigners for Bollywood.
It was urgent he said, we would get paid he said, and a good lunch also, but we had to come now! The car was waiting. Before I'd had time to finish my fresh lime soda, we arrived on set, Ruth was off to get changed - she looked too Indian! - and we received our instructions as hip and busy young people around us fine-tuned the details.
And Action!! We were starring in a romantic comedy, walking carelessly down the street just behind the star attraction, the beautiful woman whom the man on his motorbike drove up to in style whilst we bought flowers from a local stall. An argument broke out and he drove off into the distance with his priced bride. And Cut!!
We returned to our cafe and finished the lime soda. "Seven Good Nights" will be screening in December 2014, check it out.
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No man in India, except the Saddhus and the Sikhs, wear their hair long, but then they never cut it. Women never cut their hair either and often you see the most amazing thick plaits reaching down their waists. There is always an entrepreneur for everything here, in fact, if there is a demand then the supply will far outbalance any normal situation around the world which is why prices are often so low in this over-populated country. But I was concerned about my hair; it was getting too long, puffing out like Mickey Mouse ears around the sides, and I doubted there actually was a hair-dresser who would be able to cut it the way I prefer, considering the lack of demand for this skill.
I hedged my bets on Cochin, as an Indian hipster community I was more likely to find one here than where we were planning to go later. I found one, he actually had long hair, or rather more of an 80's mullet style, and he seemed my best option. I showed him a photo from Delhi saying "I want it to look like this, bhai (brother), from 3 months ago", to emphasise I measured with my thumb and index finger, "about an inch off please". He smiled and wiggled his head like all South Indians do. This is the most brilliant body language invented, it often means "Yes", although it sometimes is reserved for a "Maybe", or "I don't know". When paired with a smile though, it always means "Yes"! My hair dresser would do a fine job.
The first hair fell, it was about 3 inches long, and before I could stop him my new hair style was either going to be short, or I could stop him mid-way accepting that bizarre, Goan, hippie-look, where you leave one side of your head long and the other short. His head-wiggle had clearly meant "Yes, one inch long, I understand". I accepted that my hair was going to have be shorter than it has been in about seven years.
