Captain Cautious Strikes Again

In my thirty two years on this earth I have never missed a flight. Some of my stellar record in this area is undoubtedly due to luck, but I'm also certain that my ultra conservative travel time estimation tendencies have played a large role in my success.

How conservative am I in my estimations of travel time? Well if an airline says that they open check in three hours prior to departure, I'm aiming to be at the airport 3 and a half hours prior to departure. If the staff at my hotel estimate the taxi ride to the airport will take 30 minutes, I'm booking the taxi for an hour before I want to arrive at the airport.

It actually takes a very pessimistic outlook to maintain this conservative attitude to travel. While other travellers happily book airport taxis based on reassuring local advice, I am constantly imagining unreliable drivers who fail to show up, random break downs and inexplicable episodes of pre-dawn gridlock. As a general rule, I usually allow an additional 30 minutes for each imagined obstacle to travel.

Sure, this usually means I end up with several hours to kill at the airport. But with a kindle in my carry on bag and a steaming cup of chai always readily available, extra time at the airport is no great hardship.

Some travelers book early morning taxi rides to allow for maximum sleep in time - but not Captain Cautious here. This was how I found myself standing in the pre-dawn stillness out the front of my hotel in Varkala at 5 am one morning.

My flight, from the nearby Trivandrum airport to Mumbai, was scheduled for 8 am which meant that Air India Express would close the check in at 7 am. I was aiming to be at the airport no later than 6:30 am. In peak hour it took an hour and a half to get from Varkala to Trivandrum. The hotel staff assured me that in the early hours of the morning nothing short of the return of Krishna himself would cause the trip to take more than an hour. But I would not be swayed and insisted on booking the taxi for 5.

When my alarm went off at 4:15 that morning, I did start to reconsider my ultra conservative tendencies. But when my driver still hadn't arrived by 5:15 I was very glad I had allowed the extra time. We ended up heading off from Varkala at 5:30 and I was still very confident about making the flight.

"You see," I thought smugly to myself, "Everyone pays you out for being so cautious, but if their airport taxi had been 30 minutes late, they would be right up a certain creek without a paddle. You, however, will probably still have 30 minutes leeway at the check in".

We made good time to Trivandrum and pulled up at the domestic terminal at 6:30 am. I took my time zipping up the straps on my pack and hauling it onto a trolley before I strolled up to the Air India Express counter and handed over my printed ticket.

"Your flight doesn't leave from this airport" the nice lady said. To which I intelligently replied, "I'm sorry...What?!" The rising panic engulfing my body was amplifying my heartbeat and she had to repeat herself three times before the news sunk in. My flight was leaving from the international airport not the domestic airport.

I rechecked the paper in my hand and there was no mention of international airport on the ticket. The ticket simply stated that my flight was leaving from Trivandrum and as Trivandrum and Mumbai are cities in the same country I had stupidly assumed the flight would leave from the domestic airport. I would have loved to discuss the accuracy of the Air India Express ticketing system with their staff, but as the check in for my flight was closing in 25 minutes, and I was still at the wrong airport, I elected to save my suggestions for a later day.

My driver had left as soon as I had got out of the car and a quick glance confirmed that there were no taxis to be seen in the vicinity of the domestic terminal. The only vehicle in view was an auto rickshaw, so I ran over and asked how long it would take to get to the international airport. The driver said "maximum 30 minutes" but when I told him that my flight was closing in 25 minutes he shouted "150 rupees - GET IN!". I got the sense he hadn't been lying about how close I was to missing my flight when he motored off when I was still only half in the rickshaw.

Thirty seconds into our journey we hit a queue at the exit gate of the domestic terminal car park. My driver shouted something at the official in charge and we were soon waved through and shooting off towards the international terminal.

For those of you unfamiliar with auto rickshaws, the motor has a similar power to weight ratio to that of a ride on lawn mower. This means that at their maximum speed, of about 50 km/h, the auto rickshaw offers its passengers a bone jarring ride. Knowing my situation the driver had really put the pedal to the metal and I suspected our 65km/h speed might actually get me to my flight, even if I was missing a few fillings when I arrived.

I was philosophical as we rocketed past early morning walkers and local traders setting up their stalls. One of the advantages of my Captain Cautious attitude to travel is that I always know I have done everything in my power to ensure a smooth journey. If I missed my flight this time, at least it was through no fault of my own. Fifteen minutes before the check in on my flight closed, I was resigned to the fact that the situation was completely in the hands of the gods. I said a quick prayer to Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, and settled back to see what happened.

It seemed as though Ganesha wasn't as open to the last minute pleas of foreign travelers as I'd hoped he would be. Just after I finished my prayer to the elephant headed deity, our motor coughed... spluttered... and died. Well, I thought, the gods have spoken. I'm just not supposed to get on this plane.

My driver, whose body language suggested he viewed the failure of his vehicle in this harried mission as a bitter judgement from above on his very soul, was not ready to give up. Fortunately for me, he channelled his bitter disappointment into a manic determination to get me another ride. This was how I found myself, less than two minutes after my rickshaw ground to a halt, throwing my pack into the boot of a car whilst simultaneously thrusting 50 rupees into the hand of my original driver as he shouted "GO! GO!".

Ten minutes before my flight was due to close, the complete absurdity of the situation began to set in. I was in the back seat of a modern white sedan whose occupants, I assumed, had been heading off to work for the day when a crazed rickshaw driver had jumped in front of their car forcing them to stop. Just when I was sure that Ganesha had completely deserted me, he had instead given me the best gift that any traveller can ever hope to receive... The kindness of strangers. I spent the entire 5 minutes of our breakneck journey thanking the driver and his friend and apologising for taking them out of their way - but they would have none of it. "You are a guest in our country" was their only response to my ramblings.

We had barely come to a stop at the international terminal, when the friend jumped out of the passenger seat and ran off to get a trolley for my pack. The driver insisted on lifting my pack onto the trolley for me and tried to give back the couple of hundred rupee notes I had thrust into his hand, but I took off towards the check in counter before he could succeed.

Catching my breath as I watched my pack disappear down the luggage conveyor belt, I had time to glance at the clock above the check in desk. Even with the late taxi driver, the airport mix-up and the break down of an auto rickshaw I had made it with 3 minutes to spare.

Captain Cautious strikes again!

This is not India

I always knew that I wanted to spend the last few weeks of my travels for this year relaxing by a beach. And I have to say that I have found the perfect location for that relaxation in the clifftop traveler's enclave of Varkala in Kerala, South India.

Varkala consists of a lovely crescent shaped beach at the foot of towering red cliffs. The clifftop space is one long line of cheap restaurants, hotels and shops. It really does have everything the budget traveler could need, with the notable exception of a disco to dance in. I was pointing out to one of the hotel staff that all Varkala needs is a good disco when I was informed that public dancing is actually illegal in Kerala.

Who would have thought that in the south of India I would stumble into the plot of the movie "Footloose"! I immediately had excited notions of leading an uprising against the shackles of dance repression, Kevin Bacon style. But further investigations revealed that the locals weren't really that bothered by the restrictions and I ended up deciding to go and have a mocha shake instead :-)

Varkala beach is one of those hippy traveler towns full of shops selling a mixture of "free Tibet" and Beatles merchandise as well as restaurants showing pirated movies each evening. You can go a few days here without meeting a single local Keralan as most of the people working in the shops, restaurants and hotels are from Tibet, Nepal or north India. The names of the restaurants, such as the Funky Buddha, Cafe Del Mar and the Chill Out Lounge, are consistent with the zone out mentality of many of the tourists here.

I used to really look down my nose at places like these and, by association, travelers who chose to spend time at places like these. I mean, this really is not India. The idea that someone could travel from the U.K all the way to India and only spend time drinking and eating by the beach in places like Varkala used to be a bit depressing to me.

The reality is that though Varkala is not India, it is a lot of fun. And sometimes you don't want challenging backpacking adventures, you just want to enjoy the sunset with friends and cheap delicious food. Most people I've met here have also not been visiting only Varkala, but rather using it (as I am) as a bit of rest and relaxation before they head home or off to their next backpacking adventure.

I had expected to spend a lot of time swimming, eating and reading in this lovely corner of Kerlala. What I did not expect was that Varkala would offer a veritable smorgasbord of social options. It was less than three hours after I arrived in Varkala that I bumped into the Belgian component of what would become our united nations of a social group. I had spoken briefly to Linda, Annie and Chris in the Ashram and was very pleased to see them again (and not just because they gave me an excellent tip about a cheap hotel room!).

My second day in Varkala saw me bumping into more lovely ashram veterans at the Juice Shack. It soon got to the stage where I was lucky if I managed to walk past two restaurants in a row without being called over to the table of someone I knew. It was like living in a small town with all of your friends. Though most of our group were aquainted from the ashram, we also had people who were "friends of friends" or "hotel neighbours" with someone we knew.

After a few days we fell into a kind of routine where we all did our own thing during the day, which often involved joining someone you randomly bumped into for a yoga lesson, a swim or a drink, before meeting up for dinner and maybe a movie in the evening.

One of the slogans at the Sivananda Ashram was "Unity through Diversity" and our little Varkala gang was certainly a testament to that. We had people from Australia, Scotland, Ireland, South Africa, Belgium, Germany and Italy in our group and the ages ranged from 20 to 55. The occupations of those in the group was just as diverse as our countries of origin, as we had a photography student, a tour bus driver, a dentist, a TV producer, a yoga teacher, a business manager, a real estate agent and, of course, a teacher in our midst.

I don't know if it was our diversity, our shared passion for storytelling, our eagerness to laugh or some combination of these factors that caused us to gel so well...But whatever it was, it was magic. Indeed that magical lure of Varkala was such that people found it very difficult to leave. I had always planned to stay in Varkala for nearly three weeks but everyone else had initially planned to move on after a few days. This lead to the situation where we were frequently having "farewell nights" for members of our group only to bump into them the next morning and hear that they had decided to stay for a few more days. Some in our group (you know who you are) had no fewer than three farewell dinners in their honour before they finally managed to make a clean break of it!

After the last of my new friends left on Monday, I was thinking that I would now have a week to catch up on my reading. I ended up having a day to myself before I started chatting to a lovely Swiss lady as we watched the movie "Slumdog Millionare". Rahel and I ended up catching up for breakfast and dinner 4 days in a row before she too headed off to Gokana.

So, after expecting to enjoy three weeks of solitude in Varkala, I will end up managing to get three days completely to myself. I had thought I needed to spend the last few weeks of my big trip reading and reflecting by myself. Instead I learnt from, and laughed with, some wonderful new friends.

Just goes to show you that the universe always delivers what you actually need, rather than what you think you need :-)

Goddess or greased pig?

One of my goals for this year was to be open to new experiences. I can now happily report that I have succeeded in achieving this goal in each of the seven countries I've visited during 2011. It was this goal, that lead me to the ashram and it was also this goal that saw me signing up for an oil massage.

My first oil massage (yes there have now been more than one) was at the ayurvedic clinic at the Ashram in Neyyar Dam. It took the immense pain that resulted from 5 hours of cross legged sitting and 2 yoga lessons each day to overcome my natural reluctance to try this ayurvedic treatment. Why was I reluctant? Well, during an oil massage the only thing dangling between you and complete nudity is a rather small calico loin cloth.

I was prepared for the loin cloth, having discussed the massage procedure with other women at the ashram, so I was not surprised when my lovely masseuse smiled, handed me the small scrap of calico and gestured that I should remove all my clothes. There were, however, a few rather awkward moments after that while I waited for her to leave the room and she grew more and more insistent about me removing my clothes.

It turns out that even the modicum of modesty that the loin cloth affords you is an illusion as the masseuse gets to see everything anyway as you struggle into the loin cloth. As if the entire situation was not embarrassing enough, I then managed to tie the loin cloth on back to front and my masseuse had to rip it off me and retie it herself.

After this less than stellar beginning, the rest of the oil massage was as smooth as...well...an oil massage. My aching ashram abused muscles truly loved the oily attentions of my masseuse. After an hour of treatment I was so relaxed I didn't even pop open an eyelid when she massaged my boobs for longer than I thought was strictly necessary (there are, after all, very few yoga postures requiring strenuous use of your breasts).

By far the best thing about that first massage was the hot water bathing afterwards. There was a cold shower in the small bathroom adjoining the treatment room and I was also provided with a large plastic tub of lovely hot water to aid the oil removal process. I also managed to craftily discover the hot water tap in the bathroom and was thus able to refill the tub several times during a luxurious 20 minutes of bathing.

After that initial experience, I started encouraging others in the Ashram to try the massage with the passionate fervor of a new religious convert. Some of the women that I spoke to said that they didn't enjoy the oil massages that they had previously tried as they were "a bit rough". I thought they were completely mad until a week later when I had my second experience with oil massage.

As a reward for surviving two weeks of yoga vacation in the Ashram, I decided to treat myself to a deluxe oily experience in the beach resort town of Kovalam. This time I opted for the full body massage as well as the sirodara (which is a treatment involving the steady stream of oil poured onto your forehead for half an hour). Other travelers I've met had credited the sirodara treatment with everything from deep relaxation to opening their "third eye" so, needless to say, I had high expectations.

In addition to the sirodara, I had also forked over a large sum of rupees to have not the regular, but the four handed massage. It seemed I had learnt nothing about the dangers of excess in the Ashram, as I reasoned that if I had thoroughly enjoyed the attentions of one masseuse in my first massage surely I was going to have a transcendental experience with two masseuses.

It all started well.

Now that I was familiar with the practice, I did not hesitate in stripping off in front of the two women and, after I donned the loin cloth, I sat on a stool to enjoy a vigorous head massage.

The first clue that this treatment was not going to feel exactly like my first oil massage came in the form the table I was asked to climb onto. This was not the standard padded massage table I had lay on in the Ashram but rather a heavy, wooden structure about 1.5m x 2.5m with a small groove carved around the sides to allow the oil to drain into a pot. As I gingerly reclined on the hard surface I was reminded of my friend Lana's comparison of a similar table she had her massage on to a butcher's block. I now had first hand knowledge of how accurate her description had been.

Determined to relax, I shut my eyes and tried to enjoy the oily attention. I have to say though, that I did not love the four handed nature of the experience. When there is only one masseuse there is some certainty in where the next hand will be placed on your body. For example, if one hand is massaging your left shoulder you know you will not suddenly feel someone tugging on your toes. The same cannot be said for the four handed massage.

As the massage progressed I also began to get the unnerving sense that the women were egging each other on as each stroke felt firmer and faster than the last. Forty minutes in, the strokes got so vigorous that it felt like they were trying to physically redistribute my fat to other parts of my body. The sensation was sadly more bruising than relaxing.

When I had to be assisted to turn over, slipping and sliding near naked in the pooled oil on the table, the sheer absurdity of the situation hit me and I got the giggles. I had thought that having four hands lavishing attention on my body would make me feel like a worshipped goddess. However, the reality of the experience was closer to that of a greased pig!

Oh well, I thought, even if the full body massage was not as lovely as I had hoped at least I still had the steam bath and sirodara to look forward to. However, as I was asked to climb down from the slab, it soon became apparent that the steam bath was not going to involve the masseuse running a hand held steam producing device over my reclining body as it had in the Ashram.

In Kovalam the steam bath involved me climbing into a large wooden cupboard, with a stool inside, that looked remarkably like an iron lung. Once the door was shut, my entire body from the neck down was encased in the steamy enclosure. The steam did feel lovely on my oily skin, but it wasn't long before my giggles returned. I tried to explain to my puzzled masseuses (apparently laughter is not a normal reaction to the treatment) that I felt like a magician's assistant waiting for someone to slide a sword into me - but they didn't seem to understand.

Finally I was released from my wooden enclosure and lead to another wooden table, with a large brass pot suspended over one end, for my sirodara treatment. The steady stream of warm oil on my forehead initially felt quite bizarre. After I while I found it difficult to focus on any sensation apart from the oil being squeezed through my hair before being returned to the dangling pot above my forehead.

I certainly didn't feel anything close to my "third eye" opening but there was a nurturing aspect to the experience...A bit like having your hair washed by your mum when you are a child. This comparison turned out to be uncomfortably accurate. For just as my mum rarely managed to keep the shampoo out of my eyes as a child, it wasn't long before my eyes were stinging with therapeutic oil in Kovalam.

All in all, my deluxe oil massage and sirodara treatment in Kovalam turned out to be not so much transcendental...as excruciating :-)