Munchies

After a long day of tripping balls and picking olives, we walked into the house just past sunset and Elektra was pulling out a dish from the oven. It smelled like warm heaven. Aubergine, baby potatoes, peppers, cheese, beans, tomatoes, I could differentiate each and every smell given the heightened state of my senses. She’d also put a few actual chilli peppers cos I made a special request for spicy food. I finished a long warm bath and came out to dig in. And my first bite had a big chilli pepper.

I cried both in joy and pain. I wanted it so bad, I needed it like never before, but this was fire. The flames coming out my mouth, I wondered if anyone else could see, or if it was just my imagination. My rockstar boss Strato handed me some cream cheese and said, here, this will help. So I took a big bite. And yes, it did magically help. So I took another bite of chilli.

More fire.

I continued taking alternate bites of chilli and cream cheese and I was enjoying this almost like a fetish. Yeah, I think that qualifies as a fetish.

After gobbling down half my dinner, I casually pulled the fridge door open. And I saw a bottle of strawberry extract, which I promptly spread over a cookie and sent down my throat. Very nice indeed, but it wasn’t what I wanted to finish the night with, for my mouth.

So I ate some more of the baked goodies and then took another big hit of chilli and cheese. My god this was addictive.

Again I cry. This time I run to the freezer to shove my head in. And I notice a big tub of ice cream, and stick my tongue to the container to cool it down. My fingers pry open the lid, and inside this big tub there’s four segregated flavours of ice cream. I translate the writing on the lid – cacao, caramel, banana, and vanilla.

My mind’s already made up about which flavours to try – but I try them all anyway.

That’s when Elektra says ‘nobody here eats ice cream, you can eat it all’.

clockwise from bottom left – banana, caramel, vanilla, cacaaoooo

I can tell nobody eats ice cream there cos it looks untouched. Nobody eats meat, sugar, or consumes milk in the house. Damned hippies.

Strange as it seems, my life has been devoid of ice cream since Pondicherry 10 months ago, where I teach yoga and eat ice cream at the greatest ice cream store by the promenade. The greatest ice cream in the world, i might add.

 

In fact, my system has forgotten all about ice cream too, and dairy and meat, given the fact that the last month was spent on a deserted island – where there’s no roads and no electricity and no butcher and no shops. And no people, fuck yeah.

So the ice cream, it sets off alarm bells to my taste buds.

I confirm, ‘I can finish it all? Are you sure?’

‘Yes. If you can.’

‘Oh, I can. I can’, i hear my mouth respond before my brain could.

I’ve gone through one spoon each of all the flavours, testing, testing, and now I’m certain I’ll stick to cacao and caramel, anything more is greed.

The tub is 5 KG. The 15 year old math wizard in me jumps out and numbers pop.

5 kg for 4 flavours makes it 1.25 kg per flavour that gives me 2.5 kg of the 2 selected flavours to be completed in less than 24 hours cos my work in the olive groves is finished and my ticket back to the mainland is the next evening. So maybe 500 grams over 5 meals in 24 hours. Which means i eat only ice cream next 5 meals.

And now that my body knows ice cream is within arm’s reach, its screaming to me – little voices from every corner of my stomach and heart and kidney going ‘ICE CREAM ICE CREAM YAYYY ICE CREAM’ little strands of DNA doing the happy dance ‘ICE CREAM YAYY’ african drums playing in the background ‘YAYYY’.

So I make myself a big bowl for dessert right after I lap the final bits of my dinner. Ice cream topped with hazelnuts and almonds. I do a ritual dance before i dig in.

I go through that like a rollercoaster and the circle of spliff comes to me.

‘Thank you God for the good life’, I whisper my gratitude to the universe.

I waltz to the kitchen with the empty bowl and fill it again, almost like a robot. No thinking, only doing. This time there’s crunchy paksimadi, two big spoons of tahini poured over, and a handful of dry fruit. All this on top of four big scoops of my ice cream.

The beautiful parents of Elektra look at me like ‘are you ok?’, definitely they think my sudden 100x jump in appetite this evening is strange.

I do not want to tell them what I was tripping on the whole day, cos I know they don’t approve of anything apart from mountain-grade charas. Only organic matter is allowed into the system. So I stay mum and flash a big smile with ice cream and nuts and tahini stuck in my teeth,

‘ya ya, im goof’, I bite.

Brain-freezzziiINGGGGGGGAAAH. AAH. NNNNGGGG.

The mountain grade comes back to me and I nourish myself with shiva power or kundalini or manali or mohammadali or whatever you like to call it.

I’m already planning next morning’s breakfast when I pull long deep hits into my belly. Mix of warm fumes and cold cream. God is in the little things.

*sigh*

It’ll be the same bowl, I think for breakfast. With apples, bananas, dates, figs, and whatever else I can get my hands on. Oats. Yes, oats too. Avocado? Yes why not. It’ll feel left out if I don’t.

Maybe ill fry the whole thing in Grade-A Cretan olive oil. Maybe lunch will be the same with some salad on the side.

Oh my God. Demonios.

By now I know a deep subconscious trigger has been set off. Like olives raining all around me. Like vultures circling prey. Like tahini mixed into ice cream. Like watching the sun drop into the sea from a high point.

Tahini Island – Part 1

Lakis was sat in the corner of the ‘kitchen/cafeneio’, baseball hat, unbuttoned checked shirt, torn pants, and on his 7th rollie cigarette since i got there. I imagine the clothes were what he bought in 1960. His palm-size ancient transistor was playing the radio. And interspersed between the traditional greek songs were ‘Highway to Hell’ and ‘No Diggity’. I danced, headbanged, rapped along… whatever the mood took me to, and he was well amused with my Diggity bits and my Brian Johnson impersonation, even though it fucked my throat up.

I was sitting on a huge wooden trunk laid horizontally outside the kitchen like a couch, and E to my right was verrrry slowwwwly rolling a spliff, staring at it in pause-mode from time to time, and finally handed it to me to finish the job. From the time she was flitting around like a bird in the shallow waters earlier, i could tell she’d had a ‘magic cookie’ for breakfast. She had that permanent smile on her face.

View from kitchen trunk/sofa.

When i handed the ready spliff back to her, she said something in Greek to me. I smiled and said E, I’m not Greek. ‘Ohhh pohpoh i forget bijouuuu’. Happens all the time. I was wondering where Nef was. It’d been approximately two hours since i last saw her. Maybe more, but time is a strange concept on the island. Sometimes the hours between morning and evening feel like a few days. We assumed she was passed out under the shade of one of the few dozen cedar or pine trees and left it at that. The sun was calm, the water was magical, and i went in for frequent dips to swim with the fish, some of whom had become friends with me and would swim by my side every time. As of last count, we’re the only four people on this part of the island, and some goats that tried to steal Keke’s tomatoes earlier. Keke, who was with us until morning, headed out to handpoke a tattoo for a friend on another corner of the island. This was our hood. I know the island now like i know the backalleys of Bandra or Tarapoto or Sikkim or Rio. My only fear was walking naked into sharp cedar branches, so my handbag always protected les bijoux de famille.

Keke and Lakis in the kitchen, earlier.

Its broad daylight, clear skies, gorgeous sun throwing rings around the sky, around 11am i assume, and we sight a boat on the far horizon headed this way. E and i believe its our friends from four beaches away coming to us with apples, dry fruits, olives, tahini, olive oil, honey, and other supplies that i cant mention here cos my mum might read it. Right now i’d love some dry fruits, and i pass the spliff to Lakis. He’s maybe 75, and has been a permanent resident on this specific beach for over 3 decades. The rest come, stay a few days/weeks/months, and move on. Some don’t come to this beach cos the descent of the canyon is a pretty steep one.

$$$$$ spent on trekking research every year and here we are, doing 200ft drops in lungis and pink shades, unwillingly flashing hikers in decathlon gear being the only fear.

The boat appears closer, the spliff goes another couple rounds, and a new one is being manufactured. We can now see a dozen heads on it, and a dozen naked bodies jump out and wade towards shore. Definitely this is way more than our friends. Who the fuck is bringing a party to this tranquility? On second glance, this bunch is older too. Well. That’s relative now since Lakis is with us. But surely, this isn’t our friends. Our friends have dreadlocks and tattoos. This is a bunch of pale ‘tourists’. Bald, mostly.

‘Ahh, this is the nude resort boat from the next island’, Lakis exclaims. They do this once a week, he says. And he doesn’t mind it too much cos the boat captain always brings him chilled beer and food from the resort’s kitchen. Sure enough, the captain comes by and hands him the beers and grilled chicken. Lakis offers some to us but E’s on a different reality, i take a liiitttle bit in a glass cos mixing spliffs and beers have been my undoing on many occasions.

‘IS THAT A JOINT?!??’ a very excited voice. Yes, would you like to try…

‘Yes please. I’m from the Netherlands but my wife doesn’t let me smoke.’

‘Ah, you are now recalling your youth now you naughty boy,’ says the German lady. And she suddenly breaks into a karaoke rendition of a Manu Chao song about marijuana.

The dutchman takes two hits, shivers, and his body goes into auto-pilot and sits down on the sand. He’s got a really wide grin on his face, surely he hasn’t smoked in a long time. They’re all in their 60s. Im guessing ‘naturists tourism’ is popular in this part of the mediterranean. There’s a big round of introductions and pleasantries – French, Dutch, South African, Belgian, German, Austrian, English, Australian, and of course there’s Russian. They look wide-eyed at me like i’m from another planet. In time, the obvious questions arise and the expected surprises subside.

‘Nice that Nef is not here, else she would have laughed a bit much’, E says while I watch the joint now go to many more hands. Her eyes look amazing, I wish I had taken some of that magic cookie for breakfast too, maybe tomorrow. ‘But where is she?’

The tourists are amusing themselves with the fact an Indian and Greek are handing them spliffs which wasn’t part of what their retreat itinerary promised. Now they’re all getting giggly and swaying and totally getting into the party mood.

‘OH I know one GREEK SONG!’, ze german exclaims. I notice she has 4 front teeth missing. Heroin, i’m guessing. But a hot bod for her age.

And she breaks into song, staccato, harmony, the whole range with 100% emotion, and finally after she finishes, she asks E if she knows what it meant cos she doesn’t.

‘It says you will find your man one day, don’t give up… sorry i’m just translating the song’.

* awkward silence *

…

…..

‘Aw, but you can always have me’, the silence is broken by the Aussie dude.

‘Ow about me!’, I hear a french accent.

The german seductress flashes looks between the two, looks at me, and goes ‘but 3 is always better than 2..’

‘Lakis, can i have some more beer please’, i walk to Lakis and immediately realize my mistake cos she’s now checking out my arse. I instinctively wrap the lungi around. She starts another song, this time accompanied by the Austrian and the Belgian and everyone’s in great spirit again. Yay.

I sip my beer and wonder if the song is about my arse. I don’t know the german word for arse so i cant be sure. I go for a quick dip and say hello to my fish friends.

‘heyyyy fishy fishy fishy heyyyyy’

One the way back i pick up some shells to play with and i walk into them explaining to E that once a year they come to the island to adorn themselves with the clay, which some claim is super magical. I don’t think E understood or even heard a word, but she kept nodding. I already noticed half the bunch pasting the clay on one another. Weirdos.

E struts off for another swim, the boat bunch clay themselves and roll around the muddy area, and smoke and dance and sing some more, the choruses getting louder and louder. They gather around and take a selfie, maybe 15. Then come over to shake my hand, and take a few more hits, and run back to the boat and they’re off. Still singing.

Tsk. Not my poison.

‘I thought that boat was my friend bringing mouse poison for me’, Lakis says disappointed, sipping the beer and reaching out for the last few drags.

‘You have mice here??’

‘Lots,’ he arches his thick white eyebrows.

‘Maybe tomorrow i bring you a cat eh.’

Nef walks out from under a tree, in a turban, scratching her head, ‘what was all that noise…’

‘Tourists. Nice nap?’

Cold Water

I got to Shillong a day before my birthday and crashed with Levin and Ruel of the Bassment crew. Levin’s moved on from the band now, yes, but this was 2015 October. So when Levin’s around, the party never ends. He’d kept the alcohol ready, and despite the fact it was something I didn’t partake in anymore, it was a birthday celebration and i couldn’t be impolite, could I? Rest of the night involved disturbing the neighbours a lot, who’d all come for the festival so they joined in rather than complaining to front-desk.

Needless to say the band didn’t make it to soundcheck the next morning, day 1 of the inaugural NH7 Weekender, Shillong, which was not exactly in Shillong but about half an hour away in a gorgeous meadow among the hills. Still my favourite festival venue apart from Arkana in Peru and Musilac in France. On the bill were The Wailers of the Marley fame. This was going to be a memorable birthday weekend, even if day 2 was going to be a metal overdose. I rode with the band to the venue around 3 pm.

The long walk from the ticket counter to the main stages was interrupted by a curly haired dude I recognized had come all the way from Pune. This turned out to be a famous saxophone player whose first words to me were ‘man I wish I had some lsd and I’d just run through these fields’. Guess who had lsd in his pockets? The birthday boy of course.

4:30 pm, we’d taken some by the reggae/ska stage and then a bit more. We caught Bassment, Ska Vengers, and a rap-metal band whose name i still can’t spell but were really good. I told sax-boy to catch up later, for the after party, and then I walked around the fields to get a glimpse of the other acts, and shared hugs with the huge bunch that’d come down from Bombay and Pune and Bangalore, some i’d not met in a decade when we were in a band together.

It starts pouring and Meghalaya – Shillong especially – is famous for the beautiful light rains through the year.

People make a frantic dash to get cover from the rain, mostly to food stalls and bars and the roof over stages. I found an intersection from where I could hear the music coming from three out of the 4 stages. And one of them, still setting up, is where my heart was set. So I trudged slowly towards it, while others ran helter-skelter. When you’re on lsd, the rain can be magic.

This was about two hours after I’d taken it, so those who have, would know that’s around when the first big wave hits. Sudden and euphoric, the ‘letting go’ point. And when every sensation is heightened, even the smallest rain droplets feel like you’re standing under a slow-motion hot waterfall. You’re in love. Getting drenched is then near-orgasmic. Like the world around you is a gigantic warm moist enclosure.

Then his voice. I had never heard the band before, but one minute in, i’m a fan for life.

My God, that voice.. cold cold water, again.

Shivers and goosebumps. Crawling up my spine like warm static electric hits, starting up my toes and fingers, all the way to my neck, till they collide in the little power-box in my brains, the explosion. I could swear then, those drops of water landing on me and bursting on my skin had embraces in them. And while everyone ran as close to the stage to stay dry, I stayed in the sweet spot, where the sound is always perfect, under the falling rain. Like those animes and movies, I was in a sonic boom, hair blowing, clothes drenched, if I’d taken my feet off the ground I’d have floated into the cosmos in a rainbow bubble, with only Nicholson tunes playing in the bubble and all around. Gorgeous beings swayed and danced in my vision ahead, then around me. I felt a wobbly knee almost give up on me. If I’d hit the ground, I’d have tears running down. And I did, but in the rain nobody notices.

Nicholson has since been my go-to at every festival. I hope they play every festival everywhere in the world. The one time i missed them was because i went backstage to shake Brandon Boyd’s (Incubus) hand. And i sometimes regret not being at the Nicholson stage despite being a 2-decade Incubus fan.

That day in Shillong was life-changing in more ways than one.

Update: That rap metal band i can never spell is Borkung Hrangkhawl. See what i mean?

Birds

At Auroville, about 3 times a week I’d visit the center of the community – the beautiful golden dome called Matri Mandir. More than the dome, it was the meditation chambers around the dome, or petals as they call it, that i wanted to isolate myself in. They’re a marvel of art and tech. Unfortunately you won’t know anything about it until you actually visit it. I’m glad they keep it that way. I spent anything between 45 minutes to 2 hours in there every few days, and it was always the best start to my days.

My last day there, while I was walking out, I saw this guy talking to my friend Jonas i wanted to say goodbye to. I couldn’t help but ask this new guy his name – Yoann. His warmth i could feel from a few yards out. I told him i was heading for brunch to one of my favourite joints ‘Bread & Chocolate’, and he said he had some work, but he would drop in after.

This lovely girl Lea, who wanted me to teach a yoga lesson to her batch of yoga students from Paris had promised me lunch at B&C before i left Auro. So i get there with Jonas, who i love but he never stops talking. After he’s gone, Lea and i catch up on her India trip. In walks Yoann. He goes to the counter to place his lunch order and sits, politely, at a different table cos Lea is still talking to me. I’ve got this really strong urge to just hug the guy and I don’t even know why. So I ask Lea if it’s ok i invite my new friend to our table, and she’s totally fine with it.

They start chatting, and me, as always – playing the role of listener/observer/whatever while i shove my majestic banana-date-walnut smoothie down my throat, and then order another one. It’s during the course of their conversation that i get to know more about Yoann. He looked Spanish, he knew great French, but he was from Israel.

‘Don’t see too many Israelis hanging out alone.’

‘Me, i’m just traveling with my girlfriend and 2 guitars. In fact till i met my girlfriend, I’ve always traveled alone.’ Totally my kinda guy.

We talked about music, we connected too much over funk. About his time in Australia and the Philippines, where he gave me directions to the most amazing people living on a remote island fishing and farming and playing ukulele. And of course, we spoke about war.

Born in Paris, he spent 20 years there till he felt a strong urge to go to his homeland. And as is routine there, soon as he got to Israel, he was enrolled in the army.

I noticed the tattoo on his arm.

I have yet to see a more balanced-in-the-head Israeli. If you heard him talk about the war, it was like he spoke about ice cream flavours. Calm, composed, and his contagious straight-from-the-heart smile never left his face.

‘I have friends who are Arab. When i meet them, there is no hostility or danger, i don’t even feel a little bit threatened. We smoke together, we eat together. I know I’m safe with them. Except on the battlefield. Then there’s no identity except for politician or corporation you’re representing. Nobody realizes it’s the same corporations delivering guns to both sides.’

You can’t expect them to have a bus full of school children shot up, and not react. We’re humans, that kind of ugliness has repercussions’, still smiling.

‘So why did you enroll?’, i enquired.

‘I was naive. I thought it was my purpose. I know better now, much better. No regrets though, none at all cos i made some amazing friends in the army.’

‘What’s the song on your tattoo?’

His smile got twice as beautiful, ‘knockin on heaven’s door’.

My heart sank a bit. I was conflicted between what a clichéd song it was and whether it was the Dylan version he liked or the GnR version. Either way, i did not really like that song too much.

Even if it was the first song I ever learnt on the guitar.

‘What’s the birds for?’

‘Oh these are for my two friends. Same team during war. Such good guys, hearts of gold. I remember this bonfire we had once, a few of us around the fire, and these two sang the most amazing version of the knocking on heaven’s door. And we promised that night right next to the fire that after the war, we’d take a looong holiday, go to India, and smoke a BIIIG FAAAT CHILLUM with the babas, the three of us.’

Just for a second, and only for a second, his smile disappeared, when he said ‘they both died two days later.’

It came right back with ‘so i came to India, and i smoked a massive chillum, and i know they know i kept that promise!’

And i hugged him.

Over the course of the next 24 hours, we were literally inseparable. He bought his guitars and came over to where i lived. I cooked while Maya & Jay from the same guesthouse brought a ukulele and then it never stopped.

Some connections lay perspective to the little issues and worries in our heads that we turn into gigantic blackholes.

Connections are important. Perspective is importanter.

Auroville’d

Last night’s red earth ‘dance floor’ in the midst of this little forest in Auroville was packed by happy sweaty kids in the 15-80 age group, kicking up a dust storm. Glorious sight. They don’t know Johnny B, but DJ Bijou is a pretty sick DJ i tell ya.

It was hot, but nobody wanted the music to stop. ONE MORE! They kept screaming at midnight. Then again a few minutes later. Then they convinced the 70 yr old owner of the place to let me play 10 more minutes. Never thought I’d go beyond Pune/Bangalore deadlines here. What was familiar was a query I’ve barely heard recently but keeps reminding me of 1:15 am in Bombay ‘Where’s the afterparty??? Where are you playing now? Can you bring your music to my party instead?’

I gratefully declined all offers to play any afterparty, and went home exhausted to my bed for a full 9 hours of sleep. I’d started the day at 7 am to teach yoga, and ended at 1:30 am as a DJ in a pirate costume. Subconsciously, maybe that was my tribute to the piratebay. Last week I was at Solitude Farms, harvesting tomatoes, papaya, eggplant, basil, radish, bananas and a hundred other kitchen ingredients between 8 am and noon, but fucking hell it’s hot, I cant do that anymore.

I have no idea how time just flew this last month, but 6 gigs, one rescued puppy, yoga lessons, and a few steak visits to Pondicherry later, I think it’s time to head to the hills a little west. If its not cold enough, maybe ill head North.

Before I got here, the memories I had of Auroville are visions of a dry and arid desert terrain, scorched red earth, and plants fighting for water and survival. I was still in school when my dad dragged my ass to the Aurobindo Ashram in Pondicherry and then for a day visit to Auroville, and it’s a far cry from those days now. Now there are forests, gardens, treehouses, huts, eateries, swimming pools, pizza, and snakes too. So far, they’ve kept their distance from me, and the one I found in my shoe, popped out before I slipped my foot in.

For those living under a rug, Auroville’s an international city. More like a village for me, given the 10 pm deadline, but it’s just what I needed. There’s more than 50 nationalities living here, and the population is around 2500 aurovilleans, and a few thousand other visitors, guests and newcomers applying to be Aurovillean. You have to live here for 2 years to be considered an aurovillean, which then comes with privileges like food and shelter, and basic living costs. But that’s way too long term. If you’re coming in for a visit, its possible your weekend plans get extended to a few weeks or months, if you’ve got nothing better to do.

For the budget traveller, there’s permaculture farms you can live in for about 150 a day (Buddha Garden) provided you put in a few hours of work every day on the fields. There are regular backpacker guesthouses like Reve for 300-400 a day. Then there’s the top end place like Afsaneh, at around 3000 a night, you have homes that looks straight out of a new-age home design magazine, and a pool that looks so exquisite, I felt bad to dip my dirty foot into it. And there’s something for every budget in between.

Food joints range from 30 bucks for 2 kerala porotas and chicken curry at Dinesh, to Rs.800 a meal steak-houses. Italian omelette and coffee at Marc’s is addictive, the pizza at Tanto is beautiful. Considering the wide range of nationalities living here, there’s every kind of food available too. Sort of like Goa, but a little more authentic in its hippie-ness. Alcohol is frowned upon, though a visit to Pondicherry will help you bag alcohol at Goa rates. Pondicherry is just about 10 km away, and boasts some of the finest steak joints I’ve ever been to.

There’s gigs every week, Solitude Farms’ Krishna MacKenzie has the title of being the king of gigs in this little town, promising a gig every Thursday night at his farm. Krishna himself is the singer-guitarist of Emergence, having toured US and UK in the last decade. You can volunteer at his farm for a couple of weeks and come out feeling pretty enlightened about growing your own food. Sve-Dame, Well Café, Youth Centre and Yatra are other popular gig venues. Once you get in the know, there’s everything from Salsa nights to Jazz concerts. You can forget about drum n bass and techno though. None of that noisy shit works here. A- there’s no drugs and alcohol, B- there’s not many angry people, C- I already told you about the 10 pm deadline.

In the last month the only downer was an hour of Hibiscus Art Festival during my first week here, when 2 dudes played under the name Midizen, and played the kind of shit techno-indian-fusion that gets those Kasol chillum lovers on their feet, but for the rest it sounds like someone threw us back to 1993, when the flute theme techno remix of Jackie Shroff’s Hero was a hit. That music died in the 90s and should stay dead for everybody’s sake. The rest of that festival was amazing, with crepes, acoustic performances, drum circle, handmade jewellery, and mint juice. I cant believe I said mint juice.

Destiny – last night it was me replacing that bunch of boring DJs, for a set that Auroville won’t be forgetting any time soon. I should come a little closer to the earth now.

 

AAAAAOOOOOMMMMMMMM…

 

Gentleman’s Club

(Post from Jan 28, 2015 – that i just found in my drafts. Somehow escaped my sight, so here it is)

Location: Tarapoto, Amazon Basin, Northern Peru.

Life after the jungle has been surprising. The rules are as follows. No spices, no citric, no fats, no coffee, no carbs, no meat, no tomatoes, no onions, no drugs, no sex, no weed. For at least 30 days.

When i got out of the retreat, i came straight to Colores, the same place i had spent 10 days the last time i was in Tarapoto. This time around, there were 3 men when i checked back in (with Juan Carlos). So it’s now officially a gentleman’s club. That’s an awesome strategy to keep all horny thoughts away, for a straight guy at least. We occupy hammocks in boxers all day and have farting contests. The one that makes everybody run for fresh air wins. Fernando is the current unbeaten champion. Dora the dog comes in a close second, but she doesn’t win any prizes cos she’s female. At other times, we play poker. I suck at it though.

We watch movies, from my collection of 10 flicks that i carry everywhere, on J-C’s big screen. I’ve even downloaded spanish subtitles so they can all understand, and i can learn spanish too. Sometimes J-C takes the tv into his room to skype. I bet skype sex is better on a 50 inch screen. But i sure hope he’s not cheating on the diet. He’s broken up and patched up with his girl 4 times in the last three weeks.

He, and every other fucker here has a bad habit of putting used matchsticks back in the matchbox, and if i berate them they just laugh and tell me to fuck off. ‘Hahahahah fuck off you indian guy’. So i spend my time reading Palahniuk, watching TV shows (just finished Homeland S04), my fave movies on repeat with Spanish subtitles, listening to amazonian music, playing the guitar, playing with Dora, and removing used matchsticks from matchboxes. Not the most exciting life i’ve led, but definitely the most peaceful and contented. Sex, drugs & rock n roll can take a vacation.

Last week, on 22nd Jan, we opened an Indian veg resto ‘Bambu’ as part of Colores. The place was mostly done up by Miro, the one-man-army from Halifax, Canada who came here to start a new-earth project in the jungle. For cycling down the Nevada desert naked in the early 90s, he deserves his own post on this blog. Our chef is Margie, who lives 10 blocks away. She spent 12 years in India, Poona to be specific, and she makes amazing chole-bhatura. My job was helping Fernando and Gabriel (from the Canary Islands) to paint the logos and signs outside, and playing bollywood music on opening night. Dished out my favourite tunes growing up, from Amitabh Bachchan movies to Aamir Khan flicks, to R D Burman and Kishor and even some Rahman thrown in for eclectic feels and all that. Bollywood night in an Indian veg restaurant in Peru. How we never cease to surprise ourselves…

The next day we were in the papers. There’s a pic of me hiding behind the laptop screen. I’m going to make a youtube playlist for Margie to play every night. Maybe i’ll share it with you.

This week i’m in San Roque de Cumbaza, where the town is gearing up for the carnaval, the biggest festival all over south america. Every nook and corner is going to be a massive party. And i’m headlining act on Sunday night. AND, i’m going to be playing sober. But there’s no other way than to nail it inside out. I’m living at this gorgeous place over the hills called San Roque Centro de Artes, where artists from all over the world come down to do a residency, teach kids, art instalments, etc. It’s run by Daniel, who was with me in Cumbaza for the ceremonies, and his wife. Daniel has literally shown me the light a couple of times in the last month, especially since i’m blind at night . There’s a gorgeous cat here, that Daniel brought with him from Cumbaza, and Arco, the white lab. I’ll be here till Monday. Then another 10 days at Colores, and back on the road post that. Can’t wait to climb some snow-capped mountains, or hit up an oasis, or just go surfing again.

Trouble in Paradise

I reached Ctrl+Alt+Dance at 3 pm. A potential replacement for the annual ruckus in Goa during the last week of December, they promised gates would open at 3 pm. And my amigo/brother DJ Uri was slotted to play the first set, starting at 3 pm sharp. This was the sight at 3:30 pm.

That dog was the only other being at the venue. First i thought i’d got there the wrong day. So i looked 4-5 times at the poster mentioning the day-wise line up. Then i looked at the date on my cellphone. It matched. Then i pinched myself to check if i had taken any mind-altering substances in the last 48 hours. None. Event finally started at 5 pm. By around 10 pm, there were about 17 audience members at the venue and 20 DJs. If I was the festival organiser, I’d take something to put me to sleep for 3 days straight, wake up in the new year, and hope all of it was a terrible nightmare. But this is all real. This is happening. And i hope the next two days have a better turnout for these guys.

Elsewhere I passed by Nikhil Chinappa’s WonderWall festival, and it looked the opposite of an Oasis concert. I wonder how Sunburn is doing in Pune. Where will all those rum-guzzling open-top jeep loving Delhiites go?

There’s a deathly silence as I walk past all the anjuna beach shacks. Lights are bright, music is soft. The remaining restaurant staff are glued to the TV, watching some trashy Bollywood movie. Most have been laid off within days of coming here. There’s nobody to serve. I probably passed by some 150 shacks, I saw around 20 people in all, tourists and travellers. Christmas was not merry. Business was not bad, it was terrifying. Most people coming in to work from Nepal, Himachal, Assam… they don’t know how they’ll provide for family next year. Add to that, they have sleepless nights about when they’ll get told to go back home by the shack owners. Most don’t intend on staying open beyond January. Modi’s 50 days is up, their terror is just beginning. Kashmiris outside the little jewellery stores still have a smile on their face while they chirp ‘brother want look inside?’.

No brother, I’m a writer, I’m broker than you are.

Out in Palolem, a tourist with no new notes is thirsty, nobody will take her old 500 notes for a bottle of water. A street urchin hands her a 100 rupee note. She bursts into tears.

A honeymooning couple from the UK come back to their hotel reception, the newlywed bride in tears – cos the beach was deader than a British beach in peak winters.

Parties that used to pack 800-1000 people until last year have around 150 people this year. Mostly fat uncles, that too. DJs be like ‘WTF bro, where are the titties?’. I don’t know, bro.

The uber rich have filled out 20k a night luxury hotels with their platinum cards. The rich are getting richer. A famous furnishing company booked out an entire hotel for labourers. People who generally live on 200 – 300 rupees a day, put up in 25k a night luxury suites. Harsha Bhogle was their host. A R Rahman sang some of his slumdog mill songs for them. 30 ‘lucky winners’ won Suzuki Balenos, 5 won BMW 7 series cars. Of course, everything’s legit, I’m certain.

As of Nov 20th, the death toll thanks to #demonetization was 55. By first week of December, that number was over a 100. Hello Prime Minister, Merry Christmas to you and your band of loyal chimps.

Another company pays 800 employees 3 months’ salary in cash, advance. The state of Kerala have formed a human chain from their southern tip to the north to protest. The stray dogs there are going to be happy for a while.

Foreigners have split, sick of standing in ATM queues for hours every day. The sun outside an ATM is not as pleasant as the sun on the beach. Not even a quarter of shacks in Goa accept cards. Some drunk Aussie get into the ATM and use multiple cards to refill their alcohol budget, while the entire ATM reeks of the 2 bottles of Old Monk he’s already downed. He tells his friends its a great idea. They do the same. Each dude takes 10-15 minutes inside. Goan aunty outside, who just shut her store and needs to get home to cook for the family, is not pleased. Curses start.

A big company dissolved 14 crores worth of black money through their hotel chains. The Ambanis are still offering free unlimited 4G services to their customers, which has now been extended from end December to some time in Feb. Of course, it’s just a coincidence, the timing.

Shack owners are losing patience, staff are losing patience, small hotels and store owners are losing patience, tourists are surely losing patience. Tempers will flare, things will get ugly, hopefully. When the Venezuelan govt announced a similar ban on currency notes, their citizens took to the streets and burned govt property to show their wrath. Us Indians, we took to twitter and got #fightagainstcorruption trending. We’re such a cool nation, aren’t we?

Next time I’m never going to a festival at the ‘gates open’ time.

Oh Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and some #BlackMoney to you too!

Himalayan Ballbuster

It was supposed to be a leisurely ride through the valley. ‘I just want to rent a bike for a few days and ride around’, I told Godwin.

Godwin had plans of his own, running in his head from way before. Godwin and Snehal are the amazing couple running ‘Ride Inn’ at Shanag Valley, 6 km north of Manali. A gorgeous place with probably the best food I’ve eaten while at Manali. Also the  best view, and the cutest dog Luka.

View from Ride Inn

‘Let’s do Pangi Valley and Sach Pass, you’ll love it’, Godwin said. I heard ‘valley’ and ‘pass’ and got excited. What i didn’t know was that since he, a regular rider, hadn’t been on the road for over a year, he was already pushing the limits in his head.

I’m not a biker really. I don’t like groups. I don’t like following others’ plans. I don’t even like bikers much. They talk about pistons and cranks and rods and shafts and *yawwwwn*. But since this was Godwin and Snehal leading the way, I had no problems at all. Digvij and Bhuwan, two of their friends, were coming in from Rajasthan, and we’d join them on their way through to Pangi Valley. And those two turned out to be super fun.

Godwin & Snehal

Leisurely ride, I thought. So I booked myself a nice 500cc classic. A tad expensive, as is the norm renting bikes in Manali (Rs.1200 – 1500 a day).

The rule was Godwin & Snehal rode up front, me second, then Digvij, and finally Bhuwan – the most experienced one to keep a watch on us.

This should be fun, I thought.

It was, for the first two hours…

The ‘leisurely’ bit

Day 1 brought that easy ride to a shattering demise. It took us 9 hours to get across 190km, from Manali to Tindi. In my head, before we started, I was all ‘hmmm, that’s about the distance from Bombay to Poona, should take us about 5 hours…’

Bullshit.

Not when there’s NO ROAD. No kidding. The road disappeared after the first 40 km or so. Then there was only mud and rocks. Boulders and water crossings from glaciers melting above, foxes, and roads that you shouldn’t look over if you have a fear of heights. Up until Rohtang pass (50 km from Manali), everything was nice and reminiscent of a romantic scene in a Ryan Gosling movie.

After that it was all downhill, literally. Your ass hurts, of course, from the constant bump and grind on hard rocks. But readjusting your balls every 10 mins inside the boxers you wear, while using just the other hand to balance a 200 kilo bike on rocks and boulders, is a bit tough. Life lesson: never wear boxers to a long and treacherous bike ride.

Around 5 pm after i bounced over some 200 rocks and boulders, I turned to Godwin and asked him ‘how much longer is the road like this??’

‘Why do you ask so many questions, just ride man!’

That was it. I was trapped. If one question got that response, no more questions.

Resting it out at the Forest Dept Villa…

…wondering WTF I got myself into

At night, after Bhuwan had hustled our stay at the forest department’s guest house, we rested our respective arses. They had old monk for company, and as always – the spirits bring out the funnies in people. And Digvij went on to tell us how, from behind me, he had a field day watching me ride.

According to him, I was either faster than a bullet, or slower than a snail. No in-between. Sometimes I was so slow, he thought I was stopping, and he’d imagine I was taking a break to pee, so he would too… and as soon as he stopped and got off, I was speeding like that bullet again. I didn’t even know this was happening. I don’t know what was going on in my mind. Just survival, I guess.

Next morning we were up, post some chai and parathas, on our way again. If day 1 was hard, day 2 was US army torture in Iraq. It took us 11 hours to cross 137 kilometers.

Let that settle in. Add to that the cold. Early October, season’s almost down cos of snow. Yeah, its freezing cold. By the time you end the day, your wrists, fingers, ankles, legs, face, everything’s numb. Even with gloves and innerwear and jacket on.

Ummm, road block! *BEEP BEEP*

And in case I forgot to mention earlier, this terrain that we started off, can be seen on youtube under some of the videos that say ‘world’s most dangerous roads’

Bhuwan & Digvij playing Dark Knights

Landslide

Now ain’t that BREATHTAKING

One landslide delayed our progress by about 30 minutes. Chairi was our lunch stop. There’s not many options for food in these places apart from dal-rice-chapatis, parathas and maggi.

Waterfalls from glacier melt. Quite a few on this stretch.

Sometimes the manoeuvring is VERY tricky, that river is upto 3 ft deep

Just before sunset, Digvij’s thunderbird breaking down was our big worry. The bike just wouldn’t climb the steep slopes anymore. And these heavy ass bikes have a mind of their own once they’re on a sharp angle. The number of times I just let the bike lay on the ground instead of bothering to pick it up was quite a bit. Digvij was in two minds to head back. But our peak was only 20 km ahead now. So we worked on constructive thinking. And Godwin, the champ that he is, just pulled out the bike’s air filter, and voila, it was all good again!

I learnt a few things about riding through glacier melt this same day. Snehal taught me a few things about staying steady and keeping your legs down. Cos I was treating it like a theme park ride. Legs up in the air and WHEEEEEE splashing water. But one rock under the water, slipping, could be the end of the ride. For the bike. And the rider. So the next time I almost fell in the icy water, I simply jumped off and let Godwin rescue the bike.

Sach Pass, our peak.

After reaching our highest peak, which was Sach Pass at 4440m, at sunset, we had to get to the next guesthouse before dark. My bright idea was to turn the bike into neutral and let it glide down the mountain.

IT WAS THE MOST EXHILARATING SHIT I’VE EVER DONE ON A BIKE.

It was pitch black by then in the mountains, moonless night. And the narrow beam of the headlight was all I could see ahead. Everything else around, black. The speed I had managed to pull with gravity alone was ridiculous. And I’m grateful to the foxes and dogs that did not run across my path. It’s not too good for the bike though, this neutral gliding thing. But there’s some things you can do on a rented bike…

It was almost 9 pm when we reached satroondi checkpost – which is a heavily guarded point because of its proximity to the Pakistan border, and history of militants coming in from the same. Shortly after that, we were at Bhairagadh – and cozily settled into ‘Mannat Guest House’. There’s nothing more rewarding than a pillow for the bum after a whole day of riding on rocks. These guesthouses we lived in were all in the range of 200-400 rupees a night. And the forest department houses are pretty cute too.

Day 3 was the calm after the storm. Also the easiest day for my bum to handle. Flat roads again, and despite another 11 hours, we managed 255 kilometers. We halted in Chamba for lunch at Zaika Dhaba, and bike corrections for Digvij. The ride from Bhairagad to Chamba was a beautiful one through the forest. Our boys from Rajasthan split here at Chamba, so it was eventually Godwin, Snehal and me heading back to Manali. There was still 2 more days to complete though.

Chamba to Dharamshala and eventually Bagsu was our final stint for day 3. Bagsu is right below Dharamkot, where unbeknownst to me, I was going to lose my heart a week later.

Day 4

Godwin & Snehal decided to stay at Bagsu a day or two. And since I had to return to manali to give back the bike, and catch a bus to Dharamsala and eventually get to Dharamkot to attend my retreat, I spent the final day solo. 10 am kick off from Bagsu, through Dhauladhar tea estates, where I stopped for some awesome green tea and juice, and then moved on to Mandi where I had a massive lunch of dal, chappatis, and you-guessed-it, parathas.

I was getting to Manali just around sundown. That’s when the Aut tunnel threat happened. Within the helmet was my sunglasses, which I should have taken off before the tunnel. But I didn’t think of the consequences. As soon as I got into that tunnel, everything was pitch black. And this is a tunnel that runs about 4km. Imagine riding 4km BLIND. I’m half-blind after sundown anyway. Old issue. Add to that, sunglasses that I cant remove mid-ride, because I have fat gloves on. I cant stop cos I cant see the side of the road, and there’s no way one can really stop in a tunnel. There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach. There’s panic, there’s also prayers. And you hope the one guy you’ve been ignoring all your life will somehow get you through this. HA! Eventually, the glare of oncoming traffic, which I usually cant tolerate, saved me.

It’s just I have a history with tunnels.

This here is Aut tunnel (via youtube) – but doing the same thing like The Terminator is a different story.

As soon as I got out of the tunnel, I stopped at a quiet little tea stall, and reflected on life.

For a first ride, this was the hardest, and the most gorgeous ever. Would i attempt it again? Hell yeah! If it wasn’t for Godwin, this wouldn’t have happened, so i’m glad he got me into this ‘easy ride’. You learn a lot of things about yourself on the road.

Survivalism is just one of them.

Throwback Goa – The Hippy Days

Ever since the post that featured Goa Gil, i’ve come across him a few times on various other links.

This one came up on my fb timeline today. A heart-wrenching look at what happened to Goa in a few decades. To think we were not even born during the best days.

It’s a thing with human beings; find something beautiful and destroy it. We’re all guilty. That’s why I’ve spent most of the last two years in sparsely populated lands.

And yes, when a man from the 60s tells you that cocaine and heroin killed the hippie era, stay off that shit.

This dude right here, if you can find him, spend as much time as you possibly can.

What’s in a name?

This is the prequel to the last post.

The previous week, we’d bumped into Adrian. Lovely guy. Adrian’s the only person i know, who’s been married twice in his life.

Once to a woman, then to a man.

We bumped into him again, as we were exploring our Saturday night plans. He looked at me with fire in his eyes. She looked at me with a clear ‘no fucking way i’m sharing you with a guy‘ stare.

On the prowl, shack to shack, zipping our bikes, hunting for a place with barely decent music, given what a whiner I am at these commercial music shitholes, we went all over Anjuna. Some dude was supposed to play ‘tropical bass’ at Lilliput at 3 am. Sounded interesting, but we had lots of time to kill.

Stopped outside Hilltop Lounge to gauge the music – SO shit. Kept moving, reached Waters Lounge and rode our bikes into an empty parking lot. There was silence, but the bouncers were setting themselves up at the gate. So I went up to have a word. It was midnight, and the bouncer said the dj would start at 1 am.

‘Which DJ?’, I enquired.

I heard him say Goa Gil.

‘Right. Here.’, I flayed my arms at the empty parking lot.

‘Yes, people will come by 1 am.’

‘Entry?’

‘Free now, charged after 1 am.’

So i told my two lovers, ‘WE ARE BLESSEDD!!!! Let’s run in NOWWW’.

So we walked into the empty club, thanking our stars, that we didn’t even have to be in queue or pay entry for a Goa Gil gig. Goa Gil has chilled with Albert Hoffman. Albert Hoffman is the man who created LSD. So this is the Godfather of DJs we’re talking about. I mean, at gigs in South America, when people knew I was from India, they’d come to me just to talk about the Goa Gil. Like those evangelists talk about Jesus.

www.goagil.com/

That’s Mr.Hoffman (a personal hero of mine) on the left, and grandmaster Gil on the right, in 2003.

A few minutes passed, we opened the menus to get something to warm up to. It was half past midnight and still no people.

I was bewildered. So i asked the manager if they’d promoted this gig.

‘Yeah, we put it on our facebook page.’

Wow. Nice. Very confident of you. I’m still raving to my people, how lucky we are..

‘So where’s Gil right now? Is he setting up? Are you sure he will play even if nobody turns up…’, I ask the manager.

He started to give me the desi head nod and suddenly stopped.

‘He…? Sir, which Goa Gil are you talking about?’

As far as I know, there’s only one bro, I say. The old wizard that plays 10-12 hours. Him. Goa Gil.

‘No sir… our dj is a young girl.’

My heart shrank into itself till there was a vacuum where it existed.

Young girl? What the fuck are you talking about man?

‘Yes sir, young girl. Goa Gail. Gail.’

Holy mother of God. My old friend Gail. Even she’s a DJ now. But couldn’t she have chosen a better, unique name? GAAAAIL. There’s an A in that name you numbnuts, i wanted to scream to every one of their staff.

By the time i turned to my peeps, they knew something was amiss, from the look of plain horror on my face. I had to apologize, explain this miscommunication thanks to my Goan brothers’ pronunciations. And we sheepishly walked out. I didn’t even have the air in me to go talk to my old friend Gail.

We went to Curlies, where Adrian looked at me with more fire in his eyes, my girl went in to dance, and i slammed some calamari. Calamari for life. Calamari for sad days. Adrian proceeds to tell me what he felt the first time he saw me.

I’m not Mad Max. I’m #AwkwardMax.

I downed two beers and we made our way to Lilliput. And danced to shit music all night. Not really all night.

There was one DJ there, who as of two weeks before this night, i had seen as part of the REGGAE RAJAH CRU MAHN PULL UP PULL UPPP PWAAAAA. But by this night he was already fired by the RAJAH ARMY CRU MAHN PULL UP PULL UPPP PUULLL UUUUPPWAAA. Personal reasons, he said. He played the only decent music I heard this whole time in Goa.

There was this absolutely smashed birthday celebration crew of 20-21 year olds there. Sweaty as pigs, and hugging me all night. I still don’t know why.

What happened the next day, you already know. Else, catch the post below.