Om Beach Part IV: Marley Medley Mayhem

Bon Music

My first bonfire was held in honor of a girl named Hazel, who was to leave Om Beach the following day. 

Olof bought the night's firewood supply from one of the guesthouses. There was nothing survivalist or scientific about the way we lit the fires. The wood came with some complimentary gasoline, which we doused the firewood in before lighting it up in a roaring blaze. Despite how many nature lovers and environmentalists were around, nobody uttered a word of complaint.

Sand and strings
Photo credit: Olof Ehrs

At the bonfire is where Olof really shined. He had a clear voice with no limit in pitch, and played his guitar so unforgivingly, it was a surprise the strings never broke. A natural performer, he had long ago stopped being self-conscious about singing in front of strangers. This was where he truly came alive; at his best it seemed like he assumed an alter ego. His golden hair danced like the the flames as his head jerked swayed to the music. He did his own renditions of songs, making them his own with a passion and presence that captivated audiences.

That night he ran through an incredible repertoire, including numbers from his favorite Bon Iver and some Swedish folk tunes. But of all the songs Olof performed, two became instant favorites of mine: "Talking About The Revolution" by Tracy Chapman and "The Kids" by MGMT. I had never heard the originals before; as far as I was concerned, the way Olof played them was the way they should be played. The effect might've been subliminal, that these two topics would be on my mind throughout my entire trip. From the first moment I heard them I was hooked, and couldn't get enough. I told him to play those two songs every day. Weeks later when I regained access to the Internet and listened to the originals, they paled in comparison to Olof's soulful versions. I still can't find any other covers that come close.    

Listening to this great live music, I was so amped up I felt the urgent need to keep a rhythm on my lap. In my head, I heard drumming patterns alongside the guitars and voices, sounding even better. So the next day when the opportunity presented itself, I bought a small, leather-bound dholak hand-drum. I've never really been a drummer before, and essentially had no idea what I was doing. Having no classical training on how to play a dholak, I couldn't coax the same sounds out of the drum as the man who sold it to me. But I got a lot of practice quickly, and got comfortable with it my own way. 

From then on, I was the resident beach drummer. 

It brought me untold joy to bang on that drum, and it allowed me to jam along with all the talented musicians on the beach without hogging the limelight. I played and sang a few songs myself on guitar, but I much preferred to play along with Olof, Gili or any of the other amazing guitarist singers that stepped up. There were many of them, but only one of me. I became convincing enough at it that one of the Indian residents asked me to play at an informal Shiva celebration on the other end of the beach.

Jason was also inspired by the bonfire music, deciding that he would learn guitar. He bought his own acoustic, and after four days of tireless practice he could play his first songs. Not bad at all.

And so the bonfire became a nightly phenomenon. 

"The guitars have to match the shorts, bro!"
Photo credit: Olof Ehrs

More Fire

Olof proclaimed himself fire marshall, and took pride in the role. He had a whole system of how to construct and maintain a fire on the beach. First, he dug a pit in the sand, a fair way beyond the shoreline to anticipate the tide coming in. Around this pit he placed pieces of firewood in a ring, which served a twofold purpose. They marked the borders of the fire to prevent people from getting too close, while being warmed up and dried by the flames.

The combination of light and music brought people to the fire every time, from all over the beach. They appeared out of the darkness, tentatively at first, asking to sit by our fire. But before long we all became friends, and everybody sang along to the songs that they knew. Those who were more musical would harmonize with the main melody, adding more layers to the vibe. From time to time we would sing "Welcome To Gokarna," the unofficial local anthem. And when the energy level was particularly high, a dancing procession would start, going round and round the fire, sometimes over it.

Cows would routinely come to disturb the merriment, also attracted by the light and warmth. There was always one person (usually a girl) who was most afraid of the cows. The cows instinctively knew to go after them, like they could smell the fear. They also went after cigarette packs and mixing bowls, knowing the ways of the beach. As we learned from the Indians, often the only way to get rid of a cow was to forcefully strike it, with a stick usually, to run it off. Even then, the cows seemingly knew when you were bluffing about getting physical, because it would come straight towards you, headfirst into confrontation.

Sometimes, I would take a break from playing music and just lie back on my hands, marveling at the panorama of stars overhead. Other than the Milky Way across the night sky of South Africa, I had never seen this many stars before. Of the many constellations I  recognized only Orion, which had watched over all my travels to date. The stargazing would hypnotize me, until sparks leaped out from the fire into my line of vision, reminding me where I was.

There's something about sharing a fire with people that makes it easy to open up and make friendly. Performing is fun, but sometimes you want to just chill. One night I was doing exactly this, and started playing the Wing Chun game with Diego. By this time he had gotten really good at it, and I was surprised by the fluidity of our motions. Attack and block, parry and counterattack. We drew attention from others around the fire, who were eager to learn this new game. I next taught it to an American friend named Paul, who was a quick study. While we played, one onlooker was especially entranced. Finally he could contain himself no longer, and asked if he could try. Judging by the accent he sounded Russian. I said sure, and he sat cross-legged from me, a little nervous but excited. 

We started slow, as I let him get used to the range of hand motions and the distancing between us. As he showed more confidence in what he was doing, we picked up speed and continued, until he was so tired he had to stop. He was sweating but exhilarated, and thanked me profusely for showing him this awesome game. 

It was afterwards that someone told me he had been on acid the whole time. I can only imagine what was going on in his mind.

Olof and Gili were spellbinding performers in their own right, and when they played, people listened. But there was only one king of campfire music, and his name was Franche, from France. (Easy enough to remember.) His head was cropped short to the scalp, except for a handful of dreadlocks that sprouted from the upper back of his head, which he wore in a bun. He hadn't shaved in weeks, and had a throaty, raspy voice, the kind of voice that sounds like the product of a lifetime of smoking. He and Olof got along like peas in a pod, the latter happily playing second fiddle when Franche was at the fire.

It seemed like Franche knew every song in the book. He enjoyed himself immensely in the music, even though technically he perhaps wasn't as musical as Olof. But he made you feel good. When Franche played, his energy was contagious, making you want to jump up and join in with what he was singing, dance and go nuts. His forte was medleys, and could perform 20 songs off the same four-chord progression, as well as an amazing Bob Marley medley. I christened him Franche Marley.

The last bonfire before he left, Franche decided to spice things up with some time lassi. Riding a wave of inspiration, he decided to get naked and run into the water. He ran back, dancing, and plopped down in the sand next to a clearly uncomfortable group of ladies, as his girlfriend Lena (and the rest of us) laughed on. 

At this particular moment, a cow came circling by the fire. Franche got up, slowly stalking the cow, and then sprung onto its back, trying to ride the cow bareback and naked. The cow, freaking out, ran a few steps before taking a sharp turn, throwing Franche off. As we all laughed until we cried, Franche got up, dusted himself off, and continued chasing the cow, trying to ride him. A few dogs came out and joined the menagerie, circling Franche and the cow while barking frantically. It was a scene of pure comedy.

Beached bovine
Photo credit: Olof Ehrs

Not A Race

When meeting other travelers, often the second thing I ask (after their name) is where they're from. The extra detail helps me to remember them better, given how poor I am with names. Over time I suspended all stereotypes about nationality and race. Travelers are a unique breed, wherever they come from, not at all representative of their countrymen. The more they travel, the less they fit into a box. Some look perfectly ordinary, others more obviously outlandish. But no matter their appearance, they wouldn't exactly be 'normal' in their home country. 

I myself claim two home countries in Hong Kong and Canada, having moved around a lot as a kid. I learned to be a chameleon of sorts, and to blend in I relate to people on whatever level I can. It helps to remove prejudice. If I refer to someone solely based on their country, it's probably because I forgot their name.

People and places attract. It's as if the energy signature calls a certain type of person to come. Or people gravitate to a place for certain reasons, and a singular aspect of their personality is brought out in them. Whichever the case, the freaks from all over the world came to India, and loved the beaches around Gokharna. They disliked the commercial beaches of Goa, with the "loud, drunk Russian tourists." These freaks might feel alienated and estranged in modern society, despite integrating well. Many came here to find themselves, in the comfort of other freaks.

As the only ethnically Chinese person on the beach, I was a minority of one. Everyone else was Caucasian or Indian. There was a Concert of Europe going on, with very country represented. In isolated insecure moments, I felt like an outsider again. But I came back to the realization that people are just people, and everyone was here shrugging off labels anyway, so judgment be damned. I belonged here because I was also a freak. Besides, it was amusing when people would meet me for the first time, confused at my "perfect English." A Canadian girl named Amanda so happened to be reading a book called "The Geography of Thought: How Asians and Westerners Think Differently…and Why." She was fascinated that I was caught between East and West, curious about where my thinking stood between the two. Somewhere between the two, depending on the issue.

The Indians dressed like Europeans—fitted button ups, T-shirts and jeans. The Europeans dressed like Indians—beaded jewelry, loose flowing clothes and vibrant fabrics. And longyis. I got into character when I became enamored with Alibaba pants, baggy all the way down to the groin and tapered at the ankle, Aladdin-style. Once I put on a pair of those, India felt a lot more like home. I also picked up my own beach mat, a massive blue cloth with an intricate pattern of golden elephants. From then on, I too could lay out and claim any space as my own.

Incidentally, the person that came closest to my skin tone was a Nepali woman with a British accent who joined one of our beach bonfires. Her leg had been hurt in a recent motorcycle accident and her English boyfriend suffered a black eye in the process. It turns out this girl had come to India, pregnant, after running away from her wedding. She'd found out her fiancé had cheated on her during a bachelor trip to Thailand, and she came to India to escape. The 'boyfriend' that we met was in fact a 19-year old she'd met on her travels. The two of them stayed a few days before going on their way. I didn't agree with her smoking while pregnant, but reserving judgment is a constant endeavor.

Photo credit: Olof Ehrs

Om Beach Part III: Bending Bodies and Dream Potions

Artistry

Each person on Om Beach had a unique brand of talent. A special skill that helped them to express their true self, that awakened and kindled their passion. While engaged in this activity they would be consumed, forgetting all else and ignoring what other people thought of them. It was inspiring to recognize this quality in the people around me, and I liked to sit on the beach and watch them, lost in their own zones. A radiance emanated from a people who had thus become one with themselves, difficult to truly describe in words. Like art in motion.

These skills might not be considered important in the world of work and study. But then again, working world skills weren't important or useful here either. The unspoken question to everyone became: "What do you play?" 

Just as important was, "How do you play it?"

In a way we were enthralled with each other. Seeing someone achieve such beauty in form or sound ignited a hidden spark in ourselves. Naturally we wanted to do the same, pushing to achieve some of that perfection. Whether you wanted to copy someone else or find your own pursuits, you went Nike and just did it. Folks were open to learning new things everyday, while being open to teaching what they already knew. To teach is to learn again, so whatever we were good at, we got better at. The environment was nurturing for the most productive leisure.

Gili and Hadar spent months learning Vinyasa yoga, practicing their routine daily to perfect posture. Hadar liked to go alone to the edge of the shoreline and yoga while watching the sunset, silhouetted against the rocks. Diego and I joined in from time to time for group yoga sessions in the courtyard, drawing laughs at our comedic failure to perform some of the poses. But it was okay, we were pushing ourselves to our physical and mental limits, getting better each time.

The ladies also achieved an effortless grace with the hula hoop. Headphones bumping Justin Timberlake, their hips swayed of their own accord, the hula hoop an extension of their bodies. I came to fully appreciate the skill after trying to hula hoop myself, uselessly. The simplest motions involved intricate timing and muscle coordination. But, practice makes perfect, and this just wasn't something I wanted to sink my hours into.

Hadar and the Hula
Photo credit: Tomer Bens

Instead, the guys focused on other pursuits during the day. We practiced various forms of martial arts, Jason joining Diego and I because he had experience with Wing Chun. Much time was given over to 'monkey business', as we worked on handstands, headstands, flips, one-handed pull-ups and the flag, where Diego held onto a pole, positioning his body horizontal to the ground in a feat of bodyweight strength.

  

I learned how to bodysurf with Jason, tuning myself to the rhythm of the ocean and watching the swell for signs of a good wave. Timing and posture was everything, catching the wave at just the right moment when the crest tipped. Each wave was unique, forcing me to block everything out and merge with the water. 

In return, I taught Jason to freestyle, or rather I opened the door for him to try. Kicking a flow is like jazz for me, the ultimate expression of the moment: pulling words, images and rhythms out of thin air to rhyme on beat. I never really know what I'm going to say next, inspiration just fills in the gaps. Jason's confidence allowed him to pick it up quickly, though he did spend a lot of time rapping about food. 

A rite of passage on Om Beach was to make your own mixing bowl from a coconut shell. The process was therapeutic: finding the right coconut shell and slowly sanding it down to achieve the desired finish. No one was more adept at this than Itai, a quiet soul from Israel who had been coming to Om Beach for over a decade. He turned coconut shells into artwork, diligently shaping their forms and sanding them down with 7 different grades of sandpaper. 

Sitting in the sun by himself, he slowly and quietly worked away on the same piece for days. It was already pre-sold, and to me it looked like a finished product, but Itai was aiming for perfection. He even subtly added his signature onto the piece, like a painter. It was a labor of love, one that commanded his full attention. Itai didn't say much, and sometimes I just sat with him, watching him work. 

A crazy Belgian named Korneel took craftsmanship to a whole other level, carving and woodworking piece after piece obsessively. He seemed compulsive and off-kilter, but rightfully proud of his work. He even carved and decorated his own djembe drum, embedding the images of Ganesh and the Om symbol into the rich wood. I later found out this was his first time traveling outside Belgium, and only imagined how India was distorting his worldview. Working with his hands was one of the few things that kept him sane. 

Then there was Abbas, my quirky friend from Lebanon. My face lights up every time I think of him, riding his unicycle up and down the beach, dreadlocks a-swaying and a massive grin on his face.

The Man with the Dream Potion

Max spoke about him in hushed, almost reverent tones. 

"Have you met the man?"

I had no idea what he was talking about, but no, I hadn't met 'the man'. Max told me I had to, that he would like me. Naturally I was curious. Who was this mysterious man, and why was his approval so important? Why did Max speak of him like he was Gandalf?

That night we went to go see him at Dolphin Café where he stayed. It was nothing so formal as booking an appointment. You didn't just go see the man, you fell into conversation with him when he was ready to speak to you. So we went to have dinner there and see what would happen.

As I scanned the crowd, I immediately knew which one was him. He was old and wizened, the lines on his face and the greyness of his beard the marks of wisdom. Grey dreadlocks fell past his shoulders, and numerous necklaces hung down to his bare chest. The grey longyi he wore didn't look at all out of place. He was captivated in conversation with a young lady, and he seemed to be probing the inner recesses of her mind, as if trying to find out who he was really talking to. I didn't get to speak with him that first night, but left with the impression that he was holding court, finding out what made people tick, one at a time.

His name was John. He was from Scotland, and had been coming here for decades, especially after having worked out a stable pension that allowed him to spend his winter months here on Om Beach, every year. He lamented that the place had become too commercial and too well known, compared to the secret gem that it was when he first arrived. He lived in a special room, the door decorated with flowers like a shrine. It had the same mojo (if not more) than the Jimi Hendrix room.

He was a shaman of sorts, having synthesized his own dimethyltryptamine (or DMT), which he selectively offered to those he thought were ready for the experience. I had heard of DMT before, a psychedelic chemical that occurs naturally in the human brain in trace amounts while dreaming, and in large amounts in the moments before death. It was the source of the common near-death experiences: one's life flashing before one's eyes, the light at the end of the tunnel and the feeling of returning home. 

Max and Jason were the first people I've ever met who had personally tried DMT, indeed the first people I ever had a proper conversation with about it. They had engaged John in conversations of depth, and when he was satisfied with the state of their souls, the man provided them with one dose each of DMT. They brought it to a safe place on the beach and, with a friend keeping watch, took it. 

Jason's account was much simpler, less profound. When the DMT kicked in, he became wholly engrossed in his leg, and the feeling of the sand against his leg. During the entire psychoactive experience (which lasted 15-20 minutes), he was fixated on this one thing, ignoring all else. It was intense, but nothing quite like what happened to Max. 

Max had an altogether different episode, and described the trip of a lifetime. He had the intense sensation of having  journeyed to the centre of the universe, while seeing reality as it really was, through the matrix to a level of molecular energy. There was an incredible lucidity in his experience, and in those few moments (of real-time) he reached an epiphany of understanding beyond any knowledge that could be gained, through books or otherwise. He had transcended the limits of normal human experience, and would never be the same again. 

This was not something that I was meant to undertake myself, at least not here. I got along fine with John, who was an interesting character with sharp insight. However it was approaching the end of the season, and he had exhausted his synthesized supply of DMT. 

But it was something that continued to capture my imagination.

Here's a man who's seen some shit
Photo credit: Tess Arnold

Exodus

It was on Om Beach that I celebrated Passover for the first time. Coming from a Catholic upbringing, I was familiar with the story of Passover: how the Israelites were freed from their slavery under the Egyptians when acts of God were performed through Moses. The Egyptian pharaoh stubbornly refused to release the Israelites through ten plagues, the last of which was a curse of death upon every Egyptian firstborn. God's last plague 'passed over' the children of Israel, hence the name of the holiday. 

Given how many Israelis there were on Om Beach, Passover was a big day. There were many preparations needed, and I accompanied Gili and Diego to the fish market in Gokarna to buy fish and wine for the meal. In respecting tradition, Indian paratha was substituted as the required matzah flatbread.

Though Passover is strictly speaking a Jewish holy day, we were invited by our Israeli friends to participate in the Passover dinner. I sat a silent passive observer during the recitation of the Haggadah over the long table, the ceremonies being for the most part in Hebrew. Most of the Israelis at the table were in their 20s, but all observed the solemnity of the rituals, seeming to follow them to the letter. Some even wore ceremonial garments and kippahs during the ceremony. The story of Passover was recounted in Hebrew and then translated into English. One guy bore a striking resemblance to Adam Goldberg, which somewhat detracted from his grave demeanor.

Printouts were offered to us non-Jewish friends, so we could sing along with the Hebrew songs. It was heartwarming to see these young people keep their faith and observe their traditions here, so far from home. Everyone on the table respected those traditions, whatever their own beliefs.

To my mind, the story of Exodus is about freedom, where God fulfilled his promise to lead his chosen people to freedom from oppression and tyranny. In the same way, the Israelis at the table (along with the rest of us) found true freedom here, delivered from mental oppression in our homelands.

And that was definitely something worth celebrating.