Om Beach Part II: Jimi Mojo and Melting Days

The Mojo of Jimi Hendrix

Dingy and forgotten, the corner room was uninhabitable. The ceiling fan moved just enough to show that it was working, but generated no wind. It mocked me as I tossed and turned, swiveling ever so slowly. Surely this room was never rented out, given its gully condition. It was like trying to sleep in a wood shed. But it was the only room available.

I should've gone back to the hammock.

A week and a half earlier I was in the Himalayan mountains, and I needed time to adjust to South Indian heat at sea level. My skin was furious at me for the massive climate changes. I battled with it sleeplessly like a madman. Rashes and gashes appeared all over, and my morning ocean dip was an acid bath. Saltwater burned into the open wounds left by the night scratching. I stayed submerged until I couldn't bear it anymore, and ran back to rinse in the cool shower.

The next night, a large group of us gathered at Dolphin Café, at the other end of the cove. A merry meal and discussion followed, as we took advantage of the hours between dinner and lights out to socialize. The spectrum of folks further widened. One bizarre guy, looking like a member of Spinal Tap in short shorts, became super chummy with Max. I couldn't be sure if it was his accent or if drugs had fried his brain, but I didn't understand a single thing he was on about. It was like he lived on another planet. But hey, do you.

Dolphin's specialty bhang lassi was added to the mix, and conversations picked up in energy level. Soon there was a movement of guys and gals ready for a late night swim. I went with the flow, eager to get back in the ocean and light up the water.

The beach was obsidian as we felt our way along the shore. It was past lights out, and the night was murky from the clouds shielding the starlight. Since the swim was spontaneous, no one dressed appropriately. They started stripping down to their underwear and ran into the water. I should've gone back to Rasta to drop off my valuables first. But in the heat of the moment, and against my better judgment, I followed suit. 

Fifteen minutes later I emerged, elated from the water, to find my iPhone was stolen.

It was foolishness meets bad luck. Of the dozen or so people I was with, I was the only one robbed; nothing else went missing. If the night had been any clearer, we would've seen the movements along the beach, but that didn't happen. Max was shocked that such a thing could happen in such a shanti place, and assured me that I'd find it in the morning.

"At least you have your health, mate!" 

Too true. But my phone was never found. 

It was also the last time I saw the light in the water. As the moon progressed through its cycle and became more visible in the sky, it produced too much light for the bioluminescence to show. 

A few days later, some people left Rasta to continue on their travels. This included Sparrow and Max, who were going south for Sparrow's birthday and Holi. Max painted "Stay Wholesome" in purple on the wall of his room before leaving.  

I quickly requested a room change, and in a turn of luck was given Room 13: The Jimi Hendrix Room.

The Jimi Hendrix Room was so-called because its door was a vividly painted homage to the late guitar god. Just looking at the door evoked a sense of comfort and vitality. Inside, the furnishing was the same as the previous room: bed, ceiling fan, mosquito net. But here, the ceiling fan operated at normal speeds, the mosquito net bore no holes, and the walls were painted a tranquil turquoise for extra zen. I happily moved my bags in and, to clear the air and claim the space as my own, I burned a Nag Champa incense from Nepal.  

I'm no feng shui expert but without a doubt, after moving into the Hendrix Room, my luck changed infinitely for the better. It's as if I adopted the mojo of Jimi himself, carefree virtuoso. I ended up playing more guitar than I had in ten years, until my fingers cracked and the calluses hardened. It all clicked into place and my mindset adjusted perfectly, finally able to enjoy paradise.

I even reasoned that maybe it was for the best that my phone was stolen. If sold it could feed a local family for months. Maybe it was a sign to truly cut ties with the outside world and absorb myself here. As much as I depended on the phone, the problem was only as big as I made it out to be.

It was time to let go and really begin my life on Om Beach.

Homage to the King
Photo credit: Diego Caega

Rasta Courtyard

Jason—Max's childhood friend and travel companion—decided to stay. He wasn't ready to leave Om Beach yet. (An attitude that would become all too common). The opposite of Max in many ways, Jason had a clean cut, boyish look (imagine Heath Ledger with a buzzed head). He was more simple, with a chilled out, accommodating personality and the self-assuredness of a natural athlete. I could see why he matched up well with Max's wild, virulent energy, Watson to Max's Sherlock. 

With Max out of the equation, Jason (along with everything else) became less chaotic. When Jason wore his longyi and I made fun of him, he protested but never wore it again. At heart, Jason had a diehard surfer boy attitude, happily declaring that his favorite way to die would be to drown under a massive wave. 

Another mainstay in our group was a fellow named Olof. He looked like a stereotypical Swedish golden boy, pale and blond. He'd been working on his tan for a month already, and was truly offended when I told him he looked quite fair. The stereotypes ended with appearance, however. Olof was outspoken, loud and fun-loving. He was completely at home here, and when I met him he was doing his best impression of a Russian accent. The thespian leaning made him an anomaly among Swedes, which Olof described as shy and boring. 

Back in Stockholm he was a busy man, balancing studies, political commitments and a part-time job as a journalist and photographer. Due to the heavy load, he was used to being a nervous wreck, constantly biting his nails and drinking six cups of coffee a day. In order to completely unwind, he took a 7-week holiday to come to India, spending most of it on Om Beach. He stopped biting his nails.

It was beautiful to watch the blossoming relationship between Diego and Gili. They had gotten to know each other here at Rasta Café, a few weeks earlier. The spark had ignited, but they both had to leave the country to renew their Indian visas; she went to Thailand, he went to Nepal (where he and I met). They kept in touch in order to rendezvous back here on Om Beach. Diego hadn't known exactly what to expect, but once he returned to Rasta Café, they fell in love and quick. 

It was a romance of the sun, padded by the soft sand beneath their feet. They would spend their hours sharing the two-person hammock strung across their doorway, swaying while Gili played on her ukelele. Not a care in the world except their young love. They even hand-washed their clothes together, and showed me how to do the same, helping me save more money.

Love Hammock
Photo credit: Diego Caega

Gili was vegetarian, Diego even more so. He had experimented with various diets and had seen how amazing his body felt eating only fruit for a week, and had sworn off meat since. In India it was easy to be a vegetarian, because there were so many options available.

A core group of people emerged that would form a family for me on Om Beach, including Diego, Gili, Hadar, Jason and Olof. The courtyard at Rasta Café was our living room, and the family atmosphere was enhanced by the puppies that lived there. We spent endless hours watching them play-fighting and getting into mischief. They provided comic relief, living in their own little world.  But they most certainly had fleas.

The larger female puppy, let's call her Patches, was the violent one. She would always attack the naughtier, tan male puppy, Skinny. (Everyone had different names for the puppies, and none of them really stuck.) We observed that Skinny was egging Patches on, setting her off on purpose, confident of his faster reactions. Sometimes she would hold him down and bite. 

It was hard to know where to draw the line: how far to let them go before breaking them up? How vicious did the bark have to be, how deep the bite? Do you interfere at all or do you let them work it out? The girls each had a favorite puppy, and their maternal instincts kicked in if things got out of hand. 

The staff were nowhere near as patient, quick to lay a hand (or stick) on the dogs. The difference between the Westerners and the Indians here was that the latter believed the dogs were a lower life form, and treated them with impunity. It was nothing for the Indians to hit the dogs with a stick, or even the cows on the beach if they misbehaved.

It was an observation about India that kept recurring: in a sticky situation, a swift and forceful strike is often the solution. If words fail, lash out.

The dogs for their part knew enough to be afraid of the Indians, because physical punishment would be meted out at the slightest provocation. The father of the puppies walked around with a large festering wound, most probably due to being struck. The puppies knew that the Westerners offered them different treatment, and tended to stay around the foreigners.  One night while I left the door open to sleep, I heard some rustling noises, and turned on the light to find Skinny had stolen into my room and burrowed himself in my bag.

Naptime
Photo credit: Jason Burrows

Infinite Day 
Om Beach was named by an Englishman during the colonial period, because from a bird's eye view it bears a striking resemblance to the Om symbol. Along the beach, the other cafés and guesthouses bore names that resonate in Sanskrit religions: Nirvana, Ganesh, Moksha, Om Shree Ganesh, Namaste. Names hold power, and it's no coincidence that the energy of these transcendent mantras are reflected on the sunny shores.

People came to Om Beach to forget who they used to be. It wasn't important who you were out in the real world. When you were there, all of that was a far away dream. This moment, this was real, and this was what you focused on. 

I could finally and fully unwind, finding release from fear and worry. No more stress even from traveling. No need to be on constant alert for thieves and danger, suspicious of people's motives. The spirit of this beach was maximum chill. It wasn't a commercial tourist hotspot with greedy vendors, flashy signs and begging children. 

The people working at the cafés were as relaxed as the guests. At first I felt I was bothering them if I needed help with something, like it was messing with their vibe to make them do work. Then I befriended Padmakar, the manager, and it was all good. We hung out, and I just served myself a lot. 

The typical routine was to wake up naturally and take a dip in the ocean, before returning for breakfast and chai. Sometimes this wasn't quite enough to start the day, and quality hammock time was needed.

Hanging Bliss
Photo credit: Jason Burrows

I was used to wearing the same clothes over and over again, but on the beach all I really needed were my board shorts. Other people who were more prepared for beach life brought two pairs of swimming trunks.

Max's oft-heard phrase of "do you" seemed to apply to everyone at all times on Om Beach. Everyone was marching by the beat of their own drum, and did whatever excited them the most at that moment. Some people chose to do nothing; indeed, that's what a beach holiday is all about. But when that beach holiday becomes life, there is a lot of infinite potential stored in that nothing. The space nurtures creativity and inspiration, brought on by a conversation or a whisper in the wind, pulled from the ether. 

The beach was literally a canvas to paint whatever picture you wanted. Once while bored in the Rasta courtyard, Jason started drawing in the sand with a stick. What started as a series of spirals slowly morphed into something elaborate as he continued to form the sand, led on by his imagination. Twenty silent minutes later, he had turned the entire courtyard into a giant zen garden. 

The sun set perfectly over the ocean each day. During this golden hour, I liked sitting cross-legged in the shallowest waters, where the waves just reached. I stared out across the ocean, took in the expanse and remembered how small I was, in space and time. The warm waves washed into my lap, as I closed my eyes to meditate.

In the evenings, we all met up for dinner at one of the cafés. During this time, we would play the addictive card game of Cabo. The seemingly innocent game brought out people's manipulative sides, and kept us enthralled for hours. By the end of that first week, we knew which café served the best thali, which had the best chai, which served the best milkshakes. The price of everything was so cheap that money was no worry.

The days melted together like a surrealist painting, and I lost track of time. At one point I didn't know the date, the day of the week, even what month it was. It just wasn't important. The only marker of time's passing was the moon, going through its phases.

This was the view every single day
Photo credit: Diego Caega

Olof, Hadar and Jason in Chill Central
Photo credit: Jason Burrows

Om Beach Part I: Manskirts, Chaos Particles and Glowing Water

Photo credit: Samuel Salandini

Paradise Found

The aptly named Om Beach was one of the most peaceful places I've ever been. The vibrations there were so clean and radiant, they helped to detox a lifetime's worth of stress and depression. It made you forget about every worry and fear you ever had; none of that mattered on these shores. You were alive, and you were here. That was already the best cause for celebration. Every moment contained pure bliss. Nobody judged you, and you could be whoever you wanted, be who you really are. The more you stayed, the more you understood yourself.

It was a breeding ground for limitless potential and creativity, for expression of life in every beautiful way we had to express it. Whatever you wanted to do, you could do here. People picked up new skills from scratch, and elevated the artistry of their souls to lofty heights. The music sounded better, the water more refreshing, the fires warmer and the dancing more liberated.

Thoughts were more conscious, stimulating conversations of divine exchange. We gravitated to one another as atoms do: seemingly random, though grounded in some universal law of attraction. Each personality added a different fold to the fabric of the group energy, connecting with the vibrations of the beach itself to produce the highest form of the Universe at that moment. People became completely at ease with themselves, making it easy to connect with others. Strangers were friends in waiting, and friends were made for life.

It was a place that left an imprint on your heart, the memories staying alive like tattoos on the energy of your soul. You never wanted to leave, however hard you tried. When you did leave, it remained a part of you for the rest of your life.

It was heaven. A hidden bohemian haven where freaks and misfits gathered, to forget their past, to find solace, and to let their spirits run free.

My phone was stolen there, when I least suspected it, cutting me off from the outside world and leaving me no way to take pictures. So I took them all in my mind.

Ever since I left Om Beach, I return to it like a favorite dream. Time and again, to a magical place.

Last Stretch

The auto rickshaw driver was sleeping at the station, and Diego woke him up to give him instructions. The auto rickshaw went a short distance through a small town, and then off road on a bumpy ride through the brush. Finally it stopped, and it was pitch dark as we left the vehicle. The final stretch would be made on foot along the beach. Our footprints sunk with fatigue in the sand, the weight of my bags making each step more difficult. It had taken three days to get here, this last leg of a neverending journey.

In the new moon the darkness engulfed us, and we could see nothing of our surroundings. Rhythmic lapping of the waves marked the shoreline to our right as we trudged on. Dogs on the beach emerged from the blackness, barking and looming uncomfortably close, their eyes glinting back the flashlight we shined on them. I had no energy to defend an attack, or even to feel much fear. Complete exhaustion forced me to concentrate only on following Diego's footprints. One step at a time. I looked up to behold a night sky lit up with stars, and stopped in my tracks, thinking how nice it would be to admire them at any moment but the present.

Finally, we made it.

The manager was snoring across two tables, so we opened the gate and let ourselves in quietly, slipping past him into the restaurant. Beyond the dining area was a long covered courtyard in the sand, surrounded by huts and rooms. Hung between beams that supported the thatched roof lay our reward at the end of the road. Two empty, inviting hammocks. I dropped my bags, slumped into the nearest one, gave thanks and passed out, swaying.
  

I was asleep for maybe an hour before the sun came up. A cute, tan-colored puppy stole into the hammock as well, making himself right at home with me.

Photo credit: Diego Caega

Nothing But Longyis

As the morning light crept over the sky, the stirrings of activity began on the beach. I became dimly aware of footsteps in the courtyard sand, and my semi-consciousness registered a man, wearing only what seemed like a mini-skirt, walking by my hammock. Ignoring him, I turned over and slipped back into oblivion.

When I next awoke, Rasta Café was slowly coming to life. About a dozen rooms opened into the courtyard, and colorful murals were painted everywhere: on the walls and doors of the huts, on the walls of the café itself. The skinny tan puppy that shared my hammock ran rampant with another puppy in the sand, tumbling and play fighting. Other guests were waking up and starting their day.

As I went to sort out my room, I saw two more white men who wore nothing but longyis.

Myanmar was where I first encountered the longyi: a long, loose tube skirt traditionally worn by men and women. It was common to see a men untie and retie their longyis in public, as routine as adjusting one's shirt. The garments had also been prevalent in Bangladesh and other parts of India.

But the male longyis I had seen were long and thick, tied at the waist and reaching all the way to the ankles. The material was usually a solid and sullen color like maroon or brown. The longyis here were more like shortyis, as the bright-colored material barely reached past the knees. They might as well have been wearing towels around their groins. Then again, compared to the bare naked bodies of the Varanasi babas, this was much easier to accept. I did my best to reserve judgment.

Diego's accommodation was sorted, since he would be staying with Gili, the Israeli girl he came to meet.  The other rooms were all taken except one—a decrepit, rarely used room at the far forgotten corner of the courtyard. When I opened the thin door and peered inside, it looked like no one had lived there for months. Something just didn't feel right about the place. It contained a bed, a mosquito net, a ceiling fan and nothing else. Upon closer inspection, the mosquito net possessed no less than twelve holes, which I tried to patch up with judo tape.

It was by no means ideal, but I was desperate. I figured I wouldn't be spending much time in the room anyway, and took it as is. The ceiling fan did nothing for the baking heat, and this place was another 10 degrees hotter than Varanasi. I had barely gotten used to the climate there before the huge trip down here, so my skin was not happy with me.

I overheated and had a mild allergy attack, emerging into the courtyard to chill out. There I met a nice looking Scottish chap named Callum, the first white guy I saw on Om Beach who wasn't wearing a longyi.

After The Army

Diego came out to the courtyard and I finally got to meet his ladyfriend, Gili. She was a beautiful free spirit with twinkling eyes, sandy brown hair and an undercut growing out. Colorful tattoos gave the young goddess her character, Cheshire Cat on her hip and an impossible object on her upper back. She was having a bittersweet moment; while she was happy to see Diego, she had a close friend who would be leaving Om Beach today. Hello and farewell all bundled up together.

That's how life goes...you have to say your goodbyes, in order to say hello again next time. As a traveler, I've had to say goodbye to every person I've ever met. So I could relate to Gili.

We went for breakfast at a nearby café, sitting on floor cushions with an open view of the beach. Against this scenic backdrop, Gili and her departing friend took out their instruments and jammed for the last time. Gili played her guitar with flowergirl flair, and possessed a light charming voice to go with it. She sang with a youthful dreaminess that made me feel like I already knew her through song. I didn't recognize the instrument the other girl played, but the intermingling harmonies and countermelodies were soulful. A moving tune, fit for a teary farewell.

In Varanasi, I had been surrounded by Italians because I was traveling with Diego. Similarly, through Gili it seemed as if everyone we met on the beach was from Israel. Hearing them converse in Hebrew was a delight, more so because the language and culture were unfamiliar to me. Many of the Israelis shared a similar backstory, which was related to me back at the sand courtyard, as we chilled on Gili's massive beach blanket (covered with the iconic visage of Jimi Hendrix).

Military service is mandatory for all Israelis at the age of 18. After high school, the men are expected to join the army for 30 months, and for women 24 months. Army discipline is a given, that much more in light of Israel's geopolitics and the likelihood of live combat. Once the required army service is completed however, a release bonus is paid to each conscript. Instead of pursuing higher education right away, many young Israelis take this money and go traveling for a year or more.

It is perhaps an act of approved rebellion, to rinse themselves of military mental oppression. They were keen to escape a life of warfare, physical tension, propaganda and indoctrination; but beyond that, any and all form of structure and order. Due to the restrictions of the Israeli passport, many Israeli travelers flocked to India and Brazil for their year off. The aim was to live the opposite of conscription, to achieve balance through peace, love, serenity and openness in the most relaxing places.

Om Beach was one of those places.

For Gili and her alluring friend Hadar, this was exactly the case. They had met in the army, and as soon as their time was up they came to India, months ago. Both took extensive yoga courses in northern India and were now certified instructors. They came to Om Beach to do yoga, hula hoop, play music and whatever else the moment dictated, following their heart's whim.

Almost as a residual of my former self, I asked them their political views, but only in passing. They didn't care, not here or now. And to be honest, neither did I.

The impossible triangle of cubes frame a star
Photo credit: Gili Levin

Chaos Mustaches

By now it was approaching midday, and it was too hot to leave the shade. On the other end of the sand courtyard, there was a call to session. Engrossed as I was with the Israelis, I ignored it. But when the second call came, I thought I might as well go over and make some new friends.

A small group had formed around the hammock I'd slept in the night before, including some of the longyi-wearing fellows. A big, clean-shaven guy named Jason lounged in the hammock, and the rest had various blankets and mats to chill on. Within minutes of introduction, I found myself entwined in a discussion that spanned the next several hours. My main interlocutor was a wild-eyed Australian named Max.

Ah, Max...what a strange one indeed. His face featured a prominent, twirled handlebar mustache, and his body was a canvas for philosophical ideas. His ribs on the right side were fully covered by a massive galleon in full sail. From shoulder to shoulder along his collarbone, in eye-catching gothic letters, was the Latin phrase "EX NIHILO OMNIUM FIT"—  "FROM NOTHING, EVERYTHING COMES." On his right calf was an Ouroboros: a perfect circle formed by a snake eating its own tail. And most unusual, he had 'YES' tattooed on one foot, and 'NO' tattooed on the other. The 'NO' was the result of a dare, for which he was punished: all of his ensuing injuries happened on that same side.

As soon as Max and I started talking, the conversation took on a life of its own, going from philosophy and religion to how mycelium mushrooms were going to change the world. From microfinance and ecological solutions to far flung theories, Khalil Gibran to Superfreakonomics, chakra synchronizing to modern theoretical physics, and fractals. Max spoke with a beguiling conviction that lent authority to his claims. In other words, he seemed to know what he was talking about, all while punctuating his speech with interjections of 'do you' and 'shanti shanti'.
  

His appearance, though wild and bedraggled, gave the impression that he'd been around the block a few times. There was certainly a wisdom about him. As it turns out, he looked a lot older than he was. I thought he might've been somewhere in his 30's, maybe even in his 40's. So when he told me he was 22, I was mildly astonished.

Until I heard the rest of his story.

By his own account, Max dropped out of high school and took charge of his education. His knowledge came through an extensive variety of books, movies and documentaries, and he proudly proclaimed himself 'TED-ucated'. A brief stint with fashion school also ended abruptly.

Here was a man who did not subscribe at all to the system, and tasked himself with acquiring knowledge, fully responsible for his own learning. He was constantly seeking new truths and refining the existing truths about his world, through dialectic. His mind was liberated like his loins in the longyi; free from any constraints about what is 'appropriate' and 'proper', from any rules or laws imposed by society.

He carried a notebook with him everywhere he went, and scribbled down his latest revelations or inspirations as they came. There was a quote in his head for every situation, which he would not hesitate to drop in support of his arguments.

There were of course gaps in his knowledge, especially when it came to business. He was quick to admit this, and was still working on the execution part of his outlandish, visionary ideas, to turn them into commercial venture.

Max loved the world and every minute of life, acting with love and respect towards all. He seemed to have a personal, deep connection with each person on Om Beach, as he was fascinated by everyone. When you spoke with him you felt like you were incredibly special, an extraordinary human being who had much to offer. And Max was quick to recognize this because he himself was also an extraordinary human being.

It's not the number of years you've lived, but how you live them, that determine your wisdom. Max was Socrates in the making at 22. Old before his time, like the legends of Lao Tzu.

For him, higher education came in the form of traveling and drugs. The latter topic opened up a huge gap in my own understanding, and wasn't one I could comment on much. I hadn't even heard of many of the drugs Max had taken. Shockingly, Callum—the quiet, clean cut Scottish lad—had done his fair share of experimenting as well. The two discussed the various formulas of laboratory compositions, codenamed with acronyms and numbers, how it made you feel and so forth. Max was particularly articulate, relating it like a combined religious experience and chemistry lesson. I was captivated, in a detached way, by how these two seemingly disparate personalities shared so much common experience through substances.

By the end of the long session I had met the other residents of Rasta Café. That they were here marked them free spirits in one way or another. But besides Max, one person stuck out like a character in a movie.

He had many names, but I would come to know him as Sparrow. The moniker was telling: his long, greasy, scraggly hair had a life of its own, and matched with an unkempt Van Dyke beard to make him look like a pirate of the Caribbean. A pirate in a bright green longyi with red and yellow trim. His vibe was more reminiscent of a young Keannu Reeves from the Bill and Ted era: bouncy, full of energy and "duuude". The coolest cat you'd ever meet, and someone who'd seen a thing or two in his time.

Sparrow hailed from West Coast Canada (which we had in common) but he qualified this quickly, describing himself as "a bit of a gypsy." He planted trees during the season in British Columbia, an occupation that earned a considerable amount of money while allowing him to be close to nature, away from cities and modern society.

He had come to India with a longtime girlfriend, but unfortunately broke up with her soon after. Heartbroken but determined to continue on his own, he traveled around until he met Max, where a powerful connection formed. If Max could be considered an atom of chaos, then when he paired up with Sparrow, what resulted was a truly combustive compound. It was like meeting a pair of best friends that formed the backbone of a powerful rock band.

The signs were unmistakably inked into their skin: each had a mirroring colored tattoo of a woman's facial profile, with blushed cheeks and a rose in her dark hair. On Max's calf, the woman was facing the right side. On Sparrow's ribs, she faced the left. What were the chances?

Somehow fate brought these two crazy birds to India, gave them similar mustaches and threw them together. The chemical reaction triggered a torrent of raw, unbridled energy that threatened to swallow those around them in a maelstrom.

All this I was to fully appreciate, in good time. 

Sparrow and Max: edited for PG-ness
Photo credit: Jason Burrows

Chaos x Chaos
Photo credit: Keri-ann Ludlow

Light in The Water

The lights went off, one café at a time. With the new moon hiding, the night was dark but clear. No clouds to disrupt the majestic mosaic of stars above. I stepped out from the café and slowly walked towards the shore, savoring the moment instead of running in like the others. This would be my first time in the Indian Ocean.

The soothing coos of the waves grew louder, gentle layers folding and beckoning. Soon I forgot about everyone else, mesmerized by the twinkling stars overhead, reaching to the horizon and reflected in shimmering water. I waded in until I was waist-deep, and brushed my hands through, just below the water's surface. Sparks of fluorescent green glowed and jumped in the current, before extinguishing. I couldn't believe my eyes, and ran my hand through the water again. This time it was unmistakable: tiny droplets of light came to life in the sea, continuing the motion of my hand and accenting it, before twinkling out like fireflies.

Once more my hand sliced through the water. This time, I pulled my arm out to examine it more closely. The flecks of bluish green light blinked into existence as they ran down my arm with rivulets of water, winking out before they dripped off my elbow. Somehow the plankton in this part of the Indian Ocean lit up at night, when stimulated by kinetic motion. I didn't have the scientific explanation at the time, and it didn't matter. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

It was like being a kid again, playing in the sea with the light swirling around my every movement, following every twitch and flutter. I turned in a circle with my arms out like a spinning top, triggering light waves in a spiral. I created intricate patterns in the waves and watched in wonder as the glowing sparks burst forth in a bioluminescent light show. Before long, I was mimicking the motions of Dragon Ball, sending forth fireballs of light from my hands into the ocean.

I floated on my back and stared at the constellations of the night sky, the infinite points of light seemingly no different from those I created in the water. Paddling a hand here or a foot there in a tortoise stroke, I gently floated on the soft waves and pictured an aura of shimmering light trailing my body as I glided through. There was so much beauty around that I didn't know whether to focus on the sky above the horizon, or the ocean below it.

A commotion to my left broke the lull and awakened me from my reverie. I realized that there were other people in the water. The excitement and noise resulted from someone discovering the effects of peeing into the bioluminescent water.

"It's like a lightsaber!"




The Wall Art Of Rasta Café

Home In A Hut
Photo Credit: Diego Caega

Mesmerizing Mermaid
Photo credit: Samuel Salandini

Sun, Moon and Wind
Photo credit: Diego Caega

Blue Man's Back
Photo credit: Diego Caega

The Great Wave Off Gokarna
Photo credit: Diego Caega