I’m writing this piece, albeit a little shaken up, from a beautiful cafe / healing center in Southern Goa called The Space Goa. Space Goa is in the small town of unspoiled, white pristine beaches and colourful shacks called Palolem.
from then till now: golden goa
Throughout history, Goa was one of India’s main trading hubs till the Portuguese took rule in 1510. The Portuguese turned it into the Asia capital of their kingdom to control the spice trade. The Goan bazaars flourished – there’s a Portuguese proverb that even states “He who has seen Goa need not see Lisbon”. Golden Goa stayed prosperous till the Dutch started patrolling the Indian waters, blocking access to the city.
Though Goa is the smallest state in India, it still takes 2 hours to travel from the North to the South. Modern day North Goa is more about partying and clubs, while Southern Goa is more about relaxation, quiet and peace.
I booked 2 nights at Woodstock Village Bamboo Cottages, a beautiful paradise next to a gorgeous stretch of Benaulim Beach. Benaulim is at the beginning of South Goa. It’s next to the famous Colva beach so tourists Benaulim has stayed off most people’s radars.
Generally, the beaches in Goa are very different kind of relaxation, there’s an element of serenity to it. I saw wild dogs chasing crows, cows getting washed, locals playing cricket.
exploration of the south
I dedicated my second day to exploring south southern Goa. I rented a scooter to hit up Palolem, Agonda and the surrounding natural beauty as it’s a 2 hour ride away. Though I just learned how to ride a scooter, I figured why not? I’ve always told myself that the best way to learn a new skill is to throw myself into it and be fully immersed – when you’re forced to do something for a long period of time, you have no option but to carry one.
So here I was with my scooter. The journey started seamlessly. I was maneuvering well, going at a safe speed – it was like biking, but faster and with absolutely zero effort apart from the flick of my wrist. I rode past palm trees with leaves shimmying to the warm ocean breeze, I rode over glittering rivers with colourful homestays dotting it’s coast. Each additional moment I rode, I rode with an increasing confidence. This is great, I thought, I’m a natural.
Then suddenly, everything did a 180. I was accessing an upward hairpin on the side of a mountain when two motorbikes sped at me from the opposite direction. I panicked and in a split second, my hands clammed up, I lost speed and I fell. I toppled off the road and a meter or two down the bend of the mountain. Lucky for me, there was a bush so I collapsed onto a mass of mini thorns rather than rocks, or worse.
all it took was one second
Nothing and no one was to blame but me.
My negligence. My cockiness. My ego.
The ego is a dangerous thing. Stripped away of fancy words and analyses, Egos are superimposed images we have of ourselves. It is who we think we should be based on 3 things –
- I am: belief
- I think I am: aspiration
- I will instead be: movement
These three pieces combined allows us to survive and grow, and gives us the necessary confidence to leave our comfort zone. But like a double sided sword, the ego also generates blind faith that often creates harm to you or those around you.
Take my accident for example. There were facts, there were beliefs, there were desires to master a new skill. In this case, the Ego allowed me to jump and take the first step towards conquering a new skill, but it also grabbed me back by the throat just when I was starting to get comfortable.
yin yang of the ego
Some may say the Ego is good – for you never make the shots you don’t fire. Others may say the answer is Ego is an evil that we have to keep in check – that it’s important we stay humble.
I’m not winning a Nobel Prize by stating that our society favors the former. We reward the ego – our conditioning has taught us to prefer those who are bold, always ask for more, and believe that they should get exactly what they want.
But is this the right attitude? Is it good that the majority of big companies are run by people who don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and want to replace themselves with others with similar personalities? During one of my earlier performance reviews, I recall my then-manager telling me that I do amazing work, everyone on the team loves working with me, but I need to change the way I communicate. I needed to be louder, more assertive, more demanding. This puzzled me for a long, long time. Why am I asked to change my style when everything is working out fine?
I learned recently, years after that conversation, that my manager wanted me to improve my confidence rather than the way I speak. “Faking it till I make it” was an extremely valid attitude (probably even encouraged) to my manager. But to me, that sounded lofty – why would someone respect me if I have no substance, no experience, no knowledge?
This goes back to our society’s obsession of the ego and how we assume those with the bigger ego are the ones who are more successful. Is this a result of our conditioning (this is the way things have been, so therefore, we accept it and fulfill the assumption)? Or is it actually true (those who do have a bigger ego do posses the skills to get ahead)?
Regardless of the answer to the unanswered question above, I’ve learned during my travels that louder voices often does not mean more success, just more unthoughtful words. Shooting out 100 ideas to get 1 does not make one better and more innovative than a person who makes the one shot they fire. Our society needs to better balance between these two conflicting personalities as it stretches across gender, race and culture.
There’s no easy solution apart from work on both sides. The quieter, more introverted ones (what I identify as myself) need to help themselves and raise their voices a little louder to be heard a little better. After all, no one will hear the idea that is not said. And to the rest of society, we ask that everyone reflects more the words/phrases that are being emitted. Serenity brings about more mindful ideas and no one needs more noise to circumscribe our daily lives.
(Sent from Goa, India)
I spent 5 days in Hampi, an ancient city on the Tungabhadra river in Karnataka.
Ask any Indian about Hampi and they’ll rave about the historical significance of the Vijaynagar Kingdom’s capital city. They’ll animatedly discuss how Hampi was once the most prosperous and largest medieval-era city, boasting of magnificent stone-carved temples and one of the world’s biggest trading centers; how Hampi survived multiple invasions and attacks before being tragically reduced to ruins in 1565 by five Deccan Sultans.
The Indians will then enlighten you on the spiritual and mythological aspects of Hampi – how the city is the pilgrimage spot where Rama and Lakshmana met Hanuman, Sugriva and the monkey army; how Hampi is the place where Pampa pursued Shiva and resolved herself to yogic meditation and asceticism.
Ask any foreigner who has visited Hampi and they’ll rave about the incredible chill out zones, solid marijuana, and dope “hippie culture”.
This dichotomy is so drastic, it’s comical.
My initial reaction to this was to hate on “modern day hippie” – surely they know that smoking a lot of weed, having dreads, scooting without chappals and paying too much for trinkets at local markets does not make them a hippie (!!!).
But then I dwelled on my annoyance a little more. I soon realized that it is less to do with the image one is trying to build, but more to do with the way one travels. We often see travel as a holiday we take to escape all responsibilities of daily life. So, we adopt the mentality where vacation equates to a total freedom to pursue whatever makes us happiness. This makes us travel without much care and quickly forget that our vacations are technically enroachments upon someone else’s home. We forget that respect is different in every culture, we forget we’re guests in someone else’s country.
I spent a lot of my time in Hampi thinking about how I travel and more importantly, what travel means to me.
To me, traveling has always been so much more about exploring new places and seeing new sights. The word ‘traveling’ is about a series of isolated Moments,
Senses and Perceptions welded together by a journey. You are not just going to a place, you are indulging in a whole new and uniquely You experience.
Travel is about the aimless wander, stumbling upon small wedding ceremonies tucked behind ancient ruins; travel is about the refinement of plans, frantically scribbling on the back of pamphlets words dictated by strangers; travel is about dirtying your feet, following a spark of curiosity past running streams and balancing boulders to a small white cave with engraved footprints of the gods.
Travel is about observing, silently watching local culture to understand and become One; travel is about listening, waking up to the morning moos of a herd of sacred cows; travel is about breathing, connecting yourself with the depths and pulse of the universe; travel is about touching; transforming yourself to a different era under the soft caress of your fingertips.
Travel is about patience, where inner peace takes longer than time; travel is about giving, where currencies are more than coins and notes; travel is about gratitude, where thanks are given and felt with the heart; travel is about Feeling, watching the world pass by in daze as your inner self combusts with thoughts and aches with tenderness.
And to pay homage to a recent favourite book, travel is always about the “Here and Now”.
Hampi is the dreamy place where I learned the above. Thank you, Hampi for teaching me how to travel.
(Sent from Hampi, India)
It’s the time of the year again to start reflecting. Regardless of your religion, culture or belief, end-of-years are always when people are the most earnest in recounting their adventures of yesteryear.
So, I’ve decided to resume my old habit of “blogging” (aka, writing one piece and forgetting that I even write). Now that I’ve figured out this ‘long term traveling’ thing, I’m finding it easier to make time and breathe. Let’s kick this off with a prelude to my 40 day solo adventure in India —
Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you: she’s going to go. I’ve always been a passionate dreamer of the intricacies of life; I’ve always been tragically in love with the hidden corners of the world. I can sit, lost in thought, for hours at the time, heart desperately yearning for adventure.
When I was younger, I was convinced I’m an alien – how could I be from this planet when I’m so in love with the extraordinary?
2017 was a great year – no – it was the best year. Finally for the first time in my life, I felt like slowing down. I felt like I was truly innately happy – with work, with love, with life. I felt like I belonged to the lavish lushness of loving Seattle. The year flashed by. And like a furtive gaze across a dance floor, heart twirling, eyes closed, I found my feet dancing, lightly, twirling, heels flicking the varying technicolours of life.
But, my happiness metaphored easily as cubes of ice. A beautiful crystalized hexahedron of translucent beauty that will suddenly, without warning, melt and trickle past my curbed palms and clutched fingers. What I felt cannot last forever. I could not have found what I sought for so long, so quickly and so simply. This cannot be it.
Complacency has always been the Enemy. So I took off. I knew it was time to jump to grow.
I’ve dreamt about traveling the world since the age of 9. I was always drawn to the idea to absolute freedom and unrestricted boundaries – the freedom to roam wherever, the freedom to pursue whatever. I was wrapped up in the idea of Going, passionately obsessed with experiencing everything raw and new, tragically in love with developing the idea of Me. I was, completely and utterly, head-over-heels attached to the idea of absolute detachment.
Living someone else’s idea of Me is suffocating. Call this my first experiment, call this my last hurrah, Janus smiled at me and I found a pocket full of stars.
Now that I’ve cut the puppeteers’ strings loose, let us cheers to all the adventures ahead. No regrets.
(Sent from Aurangabad, India)
“It’s dark because you are trying too hard.
Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.
Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig. Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me. When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic. No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Little Nell.
And of course, no theology, no metaphysics. Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light.
So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling, on tiptoes and no luggage, not even a sponge bag, completely unencumbered.”
— Aldous Huxley
You lie next to me.
Next to the soft warming glow of a tending fire. Mesmerized you watch the flames dance; mesmerized, I watch you watching. Orange, yellow, crimson, gold; a secret brews in the oceanic depths of your deep blue eyes.
Eyes. Eyes softening as you stare into the blistering pits of universal combustion. The flames fickle and cackle, drowning the last remains of residual air. I sprawl across our makeshift camp, crinkling the old hotel sheets we tossed so carelessly onto the floor. This moment feels like a small slice of our heaven, hung and strung so delicately together by short wisps of time. It’s the most intricate array of fleeting chances smiled upon by the fortuitous Lady Luck.
A stale half bottle of wine. A crusty rind of an aging cheese.
And like my favourite book, I read you. The way your royally ruby-stained lips slowly chap with the sweltering, dry heat. The way your lower jaw locks as you are met with a soft gust of hot air. The way the creases across your face deepen to outline the most passive of emotions. The way your mind works, and, the way your thoughts paint the world with the most terrific of colours, naked to even your closest lover’s eye.
The flirting of the flames, laughing in absolute mockery, sympathizing in a bittersweet empathy. Your voice trembles playfully with the shadows; your words roll smoothly off your tongue, slow and sweet, dripping into a jar of thick, viscous honey. And in vast contrast, you melodify my name, like it’s the most harmonious sound fluttering free from a light summer flute. The notes dancing to our pipedream conceived under a dazed, golden sun.
I coil up against you. Your heartbeat riots mine in violent rebellion. It reminds me of an aquatic creature – the swell of a single strong pump chased by a trailing tail of fading dreams. Swimming, gliding, meandering through the soft currents of my wandering mind. I am experiencing an entirely new spectrum of emotions. Feelings of utmost fullness.
A subtle scent of rustic firewood. Your breathing is so gentle. Your tenderness, so mystical. The faintest and lightest drop into the stillest of waters. Rippling the body, a masterpiece so finely tuned. I’m lost in your maze and my senses trance in blissful oblivion.
Sent from Seattle via a beautiful moment when the Earth stopped moving
“Why do you love traveling?”
I recall, dusting the lids of the moments tucked in the closet of my memories, shoveled between decaying, mahogany bookcases nestled in the labyrinths of my mind. Soft pages, my fingers rummaging through, the soft sunlight from a window of awareness, descends ever so delicately upon the fragile pages of experiences, backpack hanging off one shoulder, meandering through a fish market, balancing on the journey of a 60-mile bike ride, pages, pages yellowing with antiquity, bounded by the smell of old, worn leather.
Love is a feeling. A melancholic longing for something in the past, present or future. It is an overwhelming craving, of lust, longing, a moment in its purest freedom, in its untainted form, contained only by the chains of passion.
We are constantly seeking, craving, wildly sprinting after a love tied to a human being. We need, no, want, no – are fixated on this superficial idea of a lover, a savior – the kind that wears a Superman cape and swoops down to save you from the perils of a humdrum life.
Why do we tie our every changing wants, our desire to understand ourselves, to one unique human being? Why do we tie our happiness, our sadness, and all that comes between to someone we arbitrary picked out from a sea of individuals?
Places, not People.
I believe you should fall in love with a place. With an experience. With a feeling, created by a mix of fleeting instants. A shy first kiss on the bottom of the Swiss Alps. Hands cold, toes damp, snow gently falling as we slowly brush the frosty crystals off our innocent youth. A lustful moment in a midsummer night, night as dark as the tail feather of a black raven. And once again, next to you. Craving, lusting. We’re surrounded by late 19th century buildings, the night as silent as a dead man’s grave while neither one of us can admit, and accept the innocence behind each other’s eyes. A two hour journey, cramped into two small seats on our way to New York City. A runaway, a getaway. A moment steeped with freedom and beautiful impermanence. Love songs recited ever so tenderly. Lost in our whimsical fairytale, our heads rest with melancholy at a companionship that cannot be.
Places, not People.
It is the moment that moves us. The series of happenings that unanimously unraveled to make the heart quiver. The overwhelming sense of perfection.
People are like stars. A dust within the speckle of time, a sparkling fragment of a new found memory. People shine, come and go. Ephemeral synchronizations.
Places, however, always remain the same. Past, present and future, they are the old friend who beckons you home, the one who supports both your happiness and sorrow. Places are the blank canvas you are about to paint, about to slash. They are the heavens you are about to glitterize. And with a splash, you illuminate all the small slivers of life. They become a part of you, a part of the dusty memories you keep so closely hidden in those mahogany bookshelves, littering the hallways of your mind’s labyrinth.
Places. Not people. Love the place where you can be you, the place where you will be who you want to be. After all, how can you fall in love with a person, when all you’re looking for is the missing piece of the puzzle to yourself?
(Sent from New York City)
As social beings, we are constantly moving, changing, developing. We continuously chase after different materialistic goods, dreams, desires and satisfaction. Our soulmates are the ones who step in, and rattle up our idea of a conventional world- they show you how to paint with colours that are not constrained by the limits of the rainbow; they are that missing puzzle piece that you are looking for that very second.
These people waltz into your life and unknowingly, transform gaping holes of emptiness into memories of happiness, laughter, and brightness. Fulfilled, complete and feeling as a whole, you do not know, and simply cannot revert to life without these people, for they have sculpted you into the person you are proud of being today. These people create the city you’re living in. They make you feel so carefree, and more importantly, so light.
When your lover breaks up with you or your best friend moves to a different country, you are devastated. I remember meeting my best friend in Year 9. She was my better half and taught me the value of real friendship. When she left Hong Kong to go to boarding school in the UK, I loathed her for it. I felt like she abandoned me to the empty shell of a dead-end city.
Fast forward 7 years down the line, and here I am still referring to her as my best friend. The off-chance we are both in the same city, we would still lie on her hammocks, stargaze with dry red wine, and gossip about work, love and life. Conversation is always effortless.
We all have many different soulmates – each exist for a particular purpose, to enrich and fulfill a particular hollowness. We relate to those we think will make us a better person and like chameleons, we take a little bit of our soulmates and lock them up in our hearts.
But at the end of the day, we are all human and we subject to change. Soulmates exit your life as easy as they enter it. You may meet again one day, but when that day comes, maybe you don’t need them anymore. They live a different life, you live a different life – maybe you both have moved on.
We have all grown to be strangers. Maybe they’re no longer your soulmate, but just a fragment from the past, reminding you of the memories that you used to hang onto so tightly.
You thought you could not live without them but, look at you. You’re alive.
(Sent from Faro, Portugal)