History Lesson

I was very proud of my last post. I considered the spontaneous connection I was able to draw between my upcoming travels through south India and the Russian culture I was curiously dissecting wise beyond my years. Turns out it wasn't even wise beyond my days.

To be fair, I did suggest that all evidence cited was purely anecdotal. And I still stand by the first half of the sentiment, where I stated, "In south India, one finds it to be the most uninfluenced of Indian culture..."

Not an inaccurate generalization.

A mere three days later I was in Kerala, in the southwestern corner of the subcontinent. The epitome of "south India."

It's the second half of the above sentence where I'd like to re-draw your attention as I strayed from 'andecdotal' and clearly attempted the vein of 'historical'. I concluded, "...predominantly untouched and unconquered throughout it's history."

As we toured Kerala's largest city of Cochin, our guide rattled off a few statistics:

• The Dutch conquered Cochin in 1663
• The Portuguese conquered Cochin in 1502
• Pre-1502 Cochin was influenced by the Arabs and the Chinese whose fishing nets still line the coast.

The area of Cochin is a relatively small one in the vastness that is southern India, and the history of one city does not completely disprove a general argument. Still. I may have screwed up just a little. And I am sorry.

Stay tuned for my next blog, when I detail how the Brahmins of Tamil Nadu teamed up with the Klingons to save Christmas.

The Russians Are Coming!

Too late - they're here.

I think the Russians are a misunderstood people whom seldom receive the credit they deserve. If you think about it, they're trendsetters for America. They drink vodka, now we drink vodka. They invade Afghanistan, now we invade Afghanistan. And as they pour into Goa more and more every year by the bus load (or plane load, as is logistically more likely) maybe one day it will change the tide on American travel to Goa as well.

But I hope not.

As with any on-the-fly travel writer, the evidence for the following is purely anecdotal. But I find Russians to be of two worlds. The first are the cold women and surly men who wear their attitude on their sleeves - or for the cracked out sweating ravers whom long ago lost their shirts - on their chest hair.

The women in this category (the surly and cold, not the sweaty and shirtless) often dress as if they're partying like it's New Years in Amsterdam and they're on the clock. Which is about right, for it seems to be conventional wisdom that some of the Russian women in Goa are indeed prostitutes. And here I thought the 12 inches of leopard print dress struggling to cover the necessary body parts was the "in" style in Moscow. I'll have to cancel those plane tickets.

The surly men almost angrily occupy their own personal bubble in the most inconvenient pedestrian spaces and will forcefully brush you aside at the bar to order their drinks. For the later my strategy is to dance until I sweat like the monsoon rains. Nothing like the disgusted expression of a douche Russian who just got slimed, Justin style.

But most traveling Russians are like anyone else - here to party, relax and have a good time. They're happy, playful and some can dance like it's 1933 and prohibition has just ended. Though I guess Russia circa 1933 was less a boozy celebration and more a famine for tens of millions due to Soviet grain confiscation. Both good reasons to dance.

I find Russians to be fascinating, because their culture over the last few hundred years and possibly beyond has lacked interference by foreigners. In south India, one finds it to be the most uninfluenced of Indian culture, predominantly untouched and unconquered throughout it's history. Not to say the north of India is any less Indian - but the British influence and the Mongol influence is not only obvious but an ingrained part of the culture and tourism.

Russia in that vain is much more like south India. Even more so, they've been the Empire conquering other lands - the second largest contiguous empire in history (1st being the Mongols) and the third largest empire ever (British and Mongols). They've had intruders on their territory, but none long enough in recent centuries to reshape who they are. Which may explain why they are often more unique and less familiar than most other tourists I meet. Also, the hats.
Sadly, the Russians I befriended left too soon after we met, before I could extract countless tales and anecdotes to further my personal definition of Russian culture. But my favorite three notes from our conversations are the following:

-The Cheburashka is a cartoon bear-like creature from a Russian children's story. As it's told, he is accidentally shipped from Africa to Russia, where he has awesome adventures. He's essentially the Russian mascot, roughly the equivalent to the American bald eagle. But so much cooler.

-When it is your birthday and you go out to dinner with your friends, YOU pay.

-They pronounce the word Catholic "Cat-o-lick." And it's adorable.

For more on Russia, consult your local library. Or just come to Goa.

Real Housewives of Goa

I have completed five days of ayurvedic treatment, including six straight days of ayurvedic massage. By day four my doctor had herself gotten sick. I no longer had an accumulating relationship with an ayurvedic specialist to gauge my day to day health in response to the time spent at the clinic. When those consultations ended, the massage treatments took on less purpose in my mind. Every day prior my doctor would explain the reasoning for the day's customized routine. Once that was lost, my facade of positive thinking was replaced with my deep seeded New York-esque impatience.

I've explained previously that the ayurvedic massage is not my proverbial jam. And after 2.5 hours a day, on the fifth day I had what a middle school teacher might refer to as 'ants in my pants.' And since I wasn't wearing pants, I just got straight up pissed.

And on this fifth day, I kept note of the little things that pissed me off:

• My shins were raw from combination sun exposure and being rubbed mercilously over the course of the week.
  
• Daily I acrrued a new batch of mosquito bites to be irritated by this dude's callous hands.
• I only had one masseuse today instead of the usual two. What am I, an untouchable? (That's a caste system joke for all you fellow Indophiles out there)
• Have you ever had someone massage your stomach? It's obnoxious. And today I had to pee, so every time that fucking guy pressed on my abdomen I wanted to slap him in the face and take his sister out to a nice dinner.
• Due to the cyclone off the coast of Goa, gale force winds were tearing through the window, blowing wide open the curtain separating my bare paper thonged ass from the rest of the clinic. Actually, that one was hilarious.
• I was in a different room than usual, and when I tried to sit in the steam box (read: medieval stocks) it was a physically impossible fit. So the masseuse simply slide the seat down. For four days they crammed me into this box, banging my knees on the door and forcing my torso into an awkward hunched formation. Today he decides to lower the seat.

As I sat in the sweat stocks with a man on hand to do nothing but dab my misty forehead and massage my scalp if requested, it dawned on me. This must be why the Real Housewives of reality television fame are nuts. When a form of pampering becomes a routine - an entitlement - it's easy to complain that the man you hired to wipe your ass hasn't cut his fingernails. And to forget that you're in a position to hire a man to wipe your ass. Which, by the way, I highly recommend.

So on my last day, I went in to my massage calm and composed, and it was super. Because it was my last day I was given a hot oil bath. Laying on a slanted wooden board, they pour hot oil over you and massage it into your skin. My favorite part was when I had to turn over. It was like a slip n' slide with spotters and a paper thong.

At first I was unequal parts relaxed and concerned of the possible scalding of my reproductive organs. But eventually I relaxed, and once again sought solace in Slippery Superman's next great adventure - his showdown with the arch nemesis of any pro-slip spiritual agent of justice - The Succubus Shaman Stay-Put Non-Slip Shower Mat Man.

(2.5 hours is a really long time)

The Ayurvedic Massage

I'm a deep tissue massage kinda guy - I like to be roughed up a little. Ayurvedic massage is essentially the opposite of that. Every year I give the ayurvedic massage another try in India, and every year it's been a disappointment. Last year's was an all time low. If you've never laid naked on a table while a strange man pokes you awkwardly all over your body, well, it's probably for the best. But that's another story - a hilarious, terrible story - for another blog.

I'm currently doing a five day intensive Ayurvedic treatment in Goa at the Ayurvedic Natural Health Centre (ANHC). Ayurveda means "the science of life," and this traditional Indian medicine is practiced throughout the world as a form of complementary or alternative medicine. The treatment here includes 1.5 hours of yoga every morning, a daily consultation with a doctor, herbal medicines, a regimented diet of amazing vegetarian Indian food and yes - ayurvedic massages.

There are many variations of ayurvedic massage, and my three previous experiences differed dramatically, so my expectations were both low and uesless. Because of traditional customs, in India you only receive a massage from someone of your gender.

Despite all possible expectations, I am going to try with all my might not to use the phrase 'Nothing Gay About it' for the rest of this blog.

The massage started with two men asking me to strip.

. . . give me a minute.

In exchange for your cloths they dress you in what is essentially a paper thong. It feels like a cross between the material of a hospital gown and a plastic toilet seat cover. If you're ever going to a gay sumo club, this is your outfit.

Ayurvedic massages are heavy on the oil. The masseuse follows the lines of your body, rubbing you down at varying speeds and altering the amount of pressure. At the ANHC they provide two masseuse's because, well, it's more awesome.

You start sitting up while they rub oil on your face and head - the relaxation version of war paint. Once you lie down, they start at your feet and focus on isolated regions of the body, then add on. It's a very fluid, flowing motion. They will focus solely on your shins for a period of time just rubbing up and down. Then they move on to your thighs before massaging up and down your whole leg. They follow this process across the whole body, front and back. The purpose is everything from increased organ function and blood flow to relaxation.

There are many variations to the types of treatment. At one point I was seated on a platform inside a wooden box that came up to my shoulders. They closed the box with a lid that had a hole cut out for your neck, like the medieval stocks. Next to the box is a boiling pot of water. The steam is diverted through a rubber tube into the box - a steam room for your body. As I'm taller than the average Indian, the neck hole fell too low, and the leg space left something to be desired. I sat there with two men simultaneously dabbing my forehead while my sweating body was awkwardly placed on the other side of a partition from my head - like the stalks.

Another treatment consisted of them simply pouring hot oil across my forehead for 30 minutes. It's either supposed to increase mental function or qualify me to work in a call center.

2.5 hours is a long time. After about an hour of laying motionless I was drenched in oil and knee deep in daydreaming. I tried to crack my knuckle and couldn't; my hands were too greasy. I started to wonder - what would happen if in some freak spiritual accident this oil permanently fused to my body? And then, only as I finally started to come to grips with my new condition, terrorists attacked the health centre? Then it would be up to me to save the day.

I'd become Slippery Superman. Unable to walk like most mortals, I would embrace a slingshot method of thrusting myself into harms way utilizing doorways and pillars as a launching platform, sliding in attack formation towards the jihadists.

My lubricated physique would deflect their blows, and any attempts at grappling or holding me down would result in comical slips and falls. Sadly this superpower would also mean that hugging is now forever futile, and therein lies my melodramatic superhero subplot: I'll never again be able to embrace the love of my life.

My kryptonite? Bullets. Also knives, bombs and crossbows. Any normal deadly weapon, really. But just my luck - these terrorists are Greco Roman.

Overall the treatment has been a great experience so far. Now three massages deep, it looks like I've found my ayurvedic massage centre. As for my overall well being, we've all just witnessed it's impact on my mental health.

I start at the call center next week.

Travel like it's 1999

For those that have experienced separation anxiety, you know it's a hard emotion to describe. Whether it's family, friends or places, after that separation something suddenly feels missing. It hurts.

And when my iphone broke one week after I left the United States, I was a mess. I survived in Australia with comprable first world amenities; I learned to cope. But here in India it's presence is truly missed. I've lost a camera, a translator, a stereo, an ipod, a friend.

This years out-of-country experience has been one of technological failures. I learned today that my facebook account has been temporarily suspended because of the spamming some of you experienced. Allow me to reiterate that I have in no way been mugged in London at gunpoint and need money wired. If you still don't believe me, please wire money to my Chase bank account. And hurry.

No iphone? No facebook? I feel like I'm traveling in 1999. Where's my discman at?

I'm off to board my flight to Goa. I have many more great stories I plan to share about this country. Real stories, unlike this one. For example, today a pidgeon flew into my head. In his defence, I was wearing a hoodie.

Until then.

Singapore Airport

Singapore Airport is the Presidential Suite in the hotel room analogy of airports. The list of free amenities includes but is not limited to the internet, xbox, a movie theatre and botanical garden. It's as pristine as it is modern.

When I disembarked here from flight #2 of the day - a comfortable7.5 hours from Melbourne to Singapore - I was admiring the contemporaneousness of it all when I stopped in one of the airport bathrooms to brush my teeth.

A maitenance employee was fixing one of the sinks. His dark brown south Indian complexion and matching work uniform clashed with the all white feng shui of the room. It was only because of this stark contrast that my attention was drawn to the minute detail of his accompanying work accessory. In this affluent south Asian financial hub, in arguably one of the most impressive airports on Earth, the maintenance employee stored his extra faucet pieces in a weathered tin Pokemon carrying case.

This made me very happy.

The Soundtrack of Our Lives

Ipods have created a generation with the power to score their daily lives. We can stylize the way we work out at the gym in the filmic style of a montage re: Rocky / South Park / Road Trip, or we can simply change the atmosphere of our commute. I personally get busted popping and / or locking to Justin Timberlake on the subway at least twice a week. It can be old and familiar or new and exciting. But when that interlude strikes you just right - the tempo changes, the pace quickens - a routine any other day becomes an inspired experience.

And so it was on my first of three flights from Australia to India, the warm up hour long hop and skip fromTasmania - Melbourne as the sun rose with the plane. The engine roared, the wheels floated off the runway and a burst of sunlight flashed my eyes as I ignored all requests by the flight staff regarding electronic devices and hit play on my ipod. A new Andrew Bird song slowly crescendoed in my ear. My foot tapped and I smiled uncontrollably. One song was single handedly setting the mood for the start of my journey, and I couldn't be more inspired. Then the chorus began, "a fatal premonition, you know you got to envision, a fiery crash."

I decided to read the rest of the flight.

India Blog Revival

Justin returns to India - Why you should care:

• I will seek the answers to questions generations before have struggled to answer. Why are we here? Who named the Earth? What's a guy gotta do to get a good palak paneer up in here?


• The age old battle of Justin vs. his immune system in Asia. Can a travel itineray once again be altered by unexpected illness? Is another hospital visit / blog inevitable? Will over the counter valium destroy all semblance of time and space? All I know is, this time - it's personal. Also, the last times.


• You like me, tolerate me, or need to kill time waiting for your facebook live feed to update.

If you've got a better reason, I look forward to hearing it. But I was sold at palak paneer.