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.