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