Om Beach Part V: Igloo Chanting, Indian Smackdown

Burning Feet

After her farewell bonfire (my first), Hazel didn't leave Om Beach. In fact, she kept trying to leave for days after, but the forces that be wouldn't let her leave…the time was not yet ripe. Originally from Scotland, she might've been the most free spirit of all of them. She made friends easily, because she was open, charming and true to herself. She followed her heart to the fullest, but not even she knew what her heart desired next. It seemed Hazel did everything on a whim, unwilling or incapable of sticking to any plans beyond the day, least of all her own. Just go with the flow.

Hazel was full of quirky, esoteric knowledge that she loved to share. Among other things, she taught me about elemental breathing exercises, aerial yoga (performed in a hammock) and the mantras associated with chakras.

Two days after I met her, we went for a trip to nearby Half Moon Beach and Paradise Beach. A short hike away, these were common destinations for the people of Om Beach looking for an excursion. There were two ways to walk from Om to Half Moon: the faster inland route through the forest, and the longer scenic route, hugging the rock outcroppings jutting out between the [bays]. It was a gloriously sunny day, and we decided to take the scenic route.

Hazel ran ahead impulsively, while I followed with Jason and Paul. The latter was himself a curiously interesting guy from Seattle, who organized and led spiritual retreats. He was here on a spiritual retreat himself of sorts, and was full of good stories, especially regarding ayuhuasca. In fact, his ex-girlfriend ended up becoming an ayuhuasca shaman. Both he and Jason opted to embark on the hike without shoes, and I did the same, thinking it would be a pleasant nature walk.

I've been exposed to the barefoot phenomenon before India, but not fully. Children in Bangladesh often wore no shoes, through poverty or habit, but the adults were all properly soled. It was in Varanasi where thousands of Indian pilgrims walked with no shoes through Old City alleys and sandstone embankment alike, utter disregard for hygiene or discomfort. I thought it might be an Indian thing, but then so many of the Australians I met were equally comfortable walking around barefoot, whether on sun-scorched sand or uneven rocky terrain. One girl happily confided in me that her job allowed her to work barefoot, and it had already been five weeks since she touched a pair of shoes!

Walking on the beach barefoot was easy, except when the sun scorched at noon. By now it was mid-afternoon, so I set off on the hike without worry. What I didn't take into account was that the rocks on the hillside were sharp, and baked in the sun all day. I couldn't put any weight on my feet as I walked, it was like walking on coal. I ended up tap dancing all the way through, struggling to catch up to the my fellow trekkers. They didn't seem bothered at all, having clearly spent a lot more time barefoot and outdoors. I didn't have the calluses built up, and but tried to hide the pain under a calm demeanor. 

It was at this moment that I felt a long way from Hong Kong, where colorful sneakers and fancy leather shoes were the norm. People rarely left their houses in flip flops, let alone walk around barefoot. 

We rounded the hill, and the other guys thankfully stopped for a quick break. I followed their gaze and spied a school of dolphins in the water, playfully leaping through the waves. As far as the eye could see was the wide expanse of the Indian Ocean, making it seem like the dolphins owned these parts. There were no boats in the water and no human dwellings in sight, and it was like we'd fully returned to nature.

A little too close to nature, as the raw earth burned my feet.

Photo by Jason Burrows

Waves and Eternal Sound

My feet were almost numb by the time we made it to Half Moon, and it was a welcome relief. Meeting up with Hazel and some other friends, we frolicked in the waters for a time and enjoyed the warm afternoon. I climbed up onto a tall, black rock formation at the edge of the beach to watch the waves. The tide here came in differently from Om. Whether due to the contours of the shore or some other unknown reason, the waves avoided a specific patch of sand, washing over all the land around it in a horseshoe shape until the last moment. After watching this way for awhile, I climbed down to sit on that patch of sand and meditate. The sun was bright, the waves were nourishing, and the wind tickled my face as I channeled the energies around me.

Half Moon Beach was much smaller than Om and there was only one place for lodging, The Dolphin View. Hazel had stayed a few weeks there, and wanted to say her goodbyes to the staff there before the season ended. The word 'stay' was used rather loosely, because she didn't actually pay for a room. Instead, the staff let her string up her hammock in a clove of trees, and in this way she enjoyed the surroundings for free. She carried several hammocks with her wherever she went, allowing her to teach aerial yoga and sleep anywhere.

Hazel wanted to show us the place where she used to teach yoga. It was an [unusual] hollow structure at the back of Dolphin View, with an odd round shape and made of a brown clay type material that resembled paper mâché. The walls and roof of the structure were smooth and sculpted to end in wide holes that served as windows and wind tunnels. If anything, it resembled a summertime igloo. The inside was open space, no furniture. The five of us stood inside the igloo for a few minutes, looking around and exploring the space, feeling the wind come in and peering through the windows.

Photo by Harry Peronius

A strange and unexpected thing happened.

We all came back into the middle of the open space and stood together. Suddenly, one of us started chanting "Ommmmmmmmmmm." The acoustics of the structure were resounding, and the note reverberated from all directions. Without a word, the rest of us joined in the mantra, chanting the Om syllable from the depths of our bellies until we ran out of breath, pausing only to inhale before chanting Om again. Our voices melted into a potent, uplifting chorus and the effect was powerful. I closed my eyes and felt the energy surging around the room, coursing through my body and reaching the core of my being. My awareness heightened and blurred at the same time, and for a moment it felt like the five of us were one, that we had somehow joined together to become more than ourselves.

Time passed as we continued to be consumed by the resonance of the mystical mantra. When we stopped chanting and opened our eyes, we smiling at each other in understanding. The experience was too profound for words, and we walked back to the beach in silence. The vibrations were still inside of me, tingling my skin and through my feet with each step. It was as if I'd come out of a deep trance, unsure of my senses and grasping at some truth I was certain of, just moments earlier.

I really wanted to venture onwards to Paradise Beach. The name of the place was enticing, and it was completely secluded, with no formal accommodation whatsoever. I heard there were hippies living in the woods out there, and was curious to see what they looked like and how they lived. But light was falling fast, and it was too dangerous to scale the rocks between Half Moon and Paradise after dark. So as the sun set, I headed back to Om Beach with a twinge of regret.   

Photo by Harry Peronius

Old Man Ottawa

He often sat alone at Rasta Café, looking out to sea and lost in thought. He would chat with Padmakar and the other staff, but generally kept to himself. His snowy mustache and hair made him look too distinguished to join in the loud beach games.

One evening I engaged him in conversation. His name was Bill and he was from Ottawa, where I was born. A seasoned traveler, he had first come to India in the 1970's, presumably as part of the  counterculture movement. Back then, he told me, there was little to no infrastructure at all. Electricity was nonexistent in most parts, and disease was rampant. Travelers and locals alike would get sick at the drop of a dime, and you had to just make do. He made it sound like traveling in the modern day was a walk in the park. Compared to what he's experienced, it probably is.

Bill was turning 60 and looking forward to retirement. He had no children and would sell the house in Ottawa. The way he saw it, him and his wife had ten more solid years of traveling left in them before health became a major concern. There was no way he was going back to the winters of Canada, and in the end they would probably settle somewhere warm and cheap. Panama sounded nice to him.

Traveling for ten years at age 60. What a thought.

Photo by Jason Burrows

Sand Justice

Indians from other parts of Karnataka state would come to Om Beach on the weekends to enjoy the beach as well. These were mostly students, though I did befriend one gent who was a tech entrepreneur, having made himself a small fortune on a company that provided services to telecoms companies.  

We would all hang out at bonfires or engage in beach sports, but it was most interesting to note the differences in how the Indians enjoyed the beach compared to the Westerners. First of all, they were much more conservative in their dress. None of the women wore bikinis or swimsuits, and usually entered the water fully clothed. Many men also swam with T-shirts on, reluctant to expose themselves to sun and scrutiny. There was a running joke among the Europeans that Indians couldn't swim; indeed they mostly kept to the shallows, splashing about loudly while accomplishing little. I'm no fish myself, so I kept quiet.

While the Indian men were cautious of Caucasian women, they had no qualms about bothering Indian women on the beach. If an Indian girl went into the water, it wasn't unheard of to see a flock of men run in after her, blurring the line between playfulness and harassment. It infuriated the Western women to no end, accustomed as they were to women's rights and modern feminism. 

On one occasion, a pair of Indian girls were minding their business lounging on the beach, drawing unwanted attention from a group of young and eager Indian guys. As we watched the scene unfold, the women rejected their repeated advances. Undeterred, they kept moving in closer and badgering the poor girls, prompting Padmakar to shout a warning from the café. This was also ignored, and in the flash of an eye, Padmakar dashed across the twenty yards or so to the group and launched a fist at one of the guys. The rest of the guys jumped up, but before they could retaliate, the manager of Nirvana Café next door ran out as well, swinging wildly with a stick. The sudden and swift justice was so severe, it  had the boys running boys off in shame.

We applauded Padmakar as he walked back, but he brushed it off as no big deal. Just another incidence of problem solving in India.

Don't mess with the Padmakar
Photo by Jason Burrows

Shiva's amused face in the sand
Photo by Jason Burrows

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.

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