Monthly Archives: February 2023

Shivratri in Gokarna

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Our last few days in Gokarna coincided with the beginning of the Hindu festival, Shivratri, in honor of Lord Shiva’s birthday. Anticipating much congestion and noise, we were not excited, but we were in for a surprise. Wandering the town we noticed the huge wooden chariot had been pulled out of its parking spot beside the temple. Men clambered on top to build a ballon-shaped super structure, which was then decorated with brightly colored strips of cloth.

Gokarna was transformed into a busy cacophony of color, people and noise. Stages set up for dance performances, music blasting from loudspeakers. Thousands of devotees queued to perform puja and purchase offerings of flowers and coconuts.

The path from the temple to the beach was covered with a decorated cloth canopy giving some shade to the devotees patiently waiting. Each day the crowd built and the queue grew longer. To enter the temple, they all stood barefoot, their sandals discarded in a large pile. Will they ever find them again? I wonder.

We left town before the finale, when an estimated 20,000 filled the short narrow street to watch the chariot pulled on ropes while onlookers threw bananas at the brahmin priests sitting inside. The reason why has been lost in translation. But the idea of thousands of people throwing bananas and the smell of the overripe fruit did not entice me to want to stay.

The temple significance lies in a legend associated with Ravana, a mythical demon king. The temple supposedly contains one of the powerful Shivalingam, the center point of worship. Ravana wanted the lingam and through his devotion impressed Shiva to give it to him, but on the condition that wherever Ravana placed the lingam it would be stuck there. In Gokarna, Ravana met Ganesh and asked him to hold the lingam while he prayed. But Ganesh put it down and vanished. Finishing his prayers, Ravana tried to pull it out without success. Tearing the outer covering of the lingam, he threw the pieces in different directions, which became the sites of the different temples in Gokarna.

In the usual Hindu combination of the sacred and secular, the small town became a carnival. Packed in beside the regular shops, a multitude of stalls were set up selling an assortment of plastic kitsch, aluminum kitchen ware, women’s “inner wear”, sugary sweets…and so on. We’ve seen this type of carnival often in Indian towns at the time of the many Hindu festivals.

The near side of the beach, beside the town, was flooded with Indians. They stood crowded together at the edge of the water, some venturing to play in the waves. Instead of sand castles, they built lingams and adorned them with flowers.

But down at our end, nothing much changed. The dogs and cows still owned the beach, the restaurants remained relatively empty. We continued swimming until the morning of our departure, then packed up. I said goodbye to the beach that had been my friend for the past month, and we took a rickshaw to the train station. Once again, to find our train was too hours late. Finally, it arrived and we found our seats among an extended family returning home to Mumbai. Gerard quickly entered into conversation with them. Dinner time came and they spread out a feast with paper plates and wooden spoons. Even the chapatis were wrapped in newspaper tied with string. I was intrigued by no sign of plastic. Even the vendor walking up down the corridor sold us clay pots of yoghurt with wooden spoons. It seems in this part of India, the notion of no plastic is taking root. Still talking, Gerard remarked that we won’t find such camaraderie on tomorrow’s airplane!

Incredible India continues to surprise

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An Italian woman, troubled by sand fleas, walks through the water every day to avoid being on the sand. She likes to talk and I can easily hear her clearly-annunciated but heavily-accented English until she tells me about a wonderful ayurvedic massage down the beach. “Where? My husband would like a massage.” “It’s called LaTOOsa.” “Say it again?” I ask. Eventually she spells it out: L-O-T-U-S. “Ah, Lotus?” “Si, LaTOOsa!” she beams. We exchange our names. “Orrbearta!” Italian Marina exclaimed. “My sister’s name!” Roberta sounds so much better in Italian, and I’ve found a new friend in the water.

I’m enjoying conversing with British friends using expressions I haven’t heard in a long time. “Chivvy along,” a mother ordered her dawdling children. “WHAT?” said Gerard thinking he was hearing a foreign language. I explained, ‘chivvy’ meant hurry. “In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never used that expression!” It’s not the first time I’ve surprised him.

Visiting the weekly market provided a photo op.

Marion and Juergen encouraged us to join them taking the ferry off the peninsula to a tiny hamlet on the mainland. Before breakfast we caught the 7.30 am bus to the port where the little ferry was waiting. People and motorbikes crowded on for the short but lovely ride.

Marina had told us of a chai shop on the other side and we set off in expectation for a nice breakfast. Four miles later, through road construction and clouds of red dust, stil no chai shop. Exhausted, thirsty and hungry we turned around.

After the long walk back, we found the chai shop right where it was supposed to be and sat overlooking the bay with our chai.

But what saved the day was the unreserved friendliness of everyone. Obviously few western tourists ventured their way and we were still a curiosity: big smiles and waves from road laborers, housewives and school children. By the time we got off the ferry hoping to catch the bus back to Gokarna, it was high noon. The shopkeeper said the next bus will come in two hours. There wasn’t a rickshaw in sight. Fatigued and overheated we started walking. Eventually we caught a rickshaw back to town. Not exactly the outing we’d anticipated.

Certainly the dogs along the way could have advised us if we’d only taken the time to listen. 

A few days later, bird watcher, Tina, proposed another walk to the little beach of Belekan. “About a two hour walk,” she claimed. “We’ll leave early to avoid the heat and take a bus back.”

For the first hour we followed a small road through the jungle alive with bird calls. Then Tina followed a footpath that meandered past rice paddies and the odd house. 

The green of the rice paddies shimmered. And if we stood still long enough we caught glimpses of white–egrets, ibis and storks. n stalks glimpses of white–egrets, ibis and storks.

Suddenly the footpath opened up to the beach. At the far end sat a cafe where the bus terminated. After our two hour trek our chai tasted even better. 

Then we were informed that the bus would not be coming for another two hours. ‘Man proposes and God disposes’, someone muttered.

The general consensus was to walk back. Gerard was of a different mind, happy to hang out at the cafe and await the bus. Had I known what was being said, I would have enjoyed also staying for a swim. But not following his gut, we trudged off with the others. Now in the noon day sun, our pleasant stroll through the jungle became a test of endurance–heat, sun and no water. Finally reaching our room, Gerard collapsed on the bed. After looking at map, he huffed, “Two-hour walk, huh? That was more like ten miles!” Once again, Incredible India has its hidden surprises.

I could have told you that

Gokarna: Friends at the Beach

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Two warnings are pinned to the guesthouse wall. One is ridiculous: “Swimming on the beach is not safe.” Hello? Have you ever tried swimming on the beach? The other is more ominous: “The owner will not be responsible for any drowning in the sea.” Undeterred by occasional rough seas, I swim twice a day, and then walk the long stretch of sand, appreciating the moment.

I enjoy the simplicity of our lifestyle; it unclutters my mind, which likes to seize on the busy minutiae of daily living back home. I may not always like the Indian meal served, but it still beats the time and mental energy devoted to cooking and food shopping. Every day, I look forward to my idli and dosa breakfast. A young Indian has just started up his little dhaba and serves us with enthusiasm.

Gerard enjoys leaving Wellington Street far behind. Oddly, he does not seem to miss painting just as I don’t miss biking, knowing they will be waiting when we return. When he’s not swimming with me or socializing, he’s busy completing his memoir which he began writing exactly four years ago in India. His favorite tunes encourage him when the writing is difficult. Mosquitos and sand flies have found his skin irresistible and he’s had to contend with a slew of itchy, inflamed bites. But two weeks into our stay the bites are reducing. Dare I say the insects are loosing interest, moving on to the next tasty newcomer?

With many of the establishments here preferring to cater to Indians now, the old time travelers congregate in just a few cafes up and down the beach. Some of us question if we’ll come to India again whether put off by traffic, pollution, plastic waste—everyone agrees that the subcontinent is drowning in a sea of plastic–or Modi. 1.4 bilion create a heck of lot of waste! Gerard and I try to do our bit by bringing a portable water filter to avoid contributing to the mountain of plastic bottles. The otherwise beautiful walk through the vegetable gardens to the beach is marred by litter. To avoid looking at it for a month, Gerard got a gunny sack and picked it up. But where to dispose of the full sack?

Walking through the vegetable fields we notice that each little garden has its own shallow well. So close to the sea, surprisingly these wells are not polluted by salt water. With the rich soil, the baking sun and plenty of water, the vegetables seem to grow as we watch them. Too bad not enough of them find their way into the restaurants.

Our friend Marina is a social magnate; after twenty years in Gokarna she knows the old timers and easily makes new friends. At one point, there’s nine all from her area of north London. We’re sad to see Emma leave after her brief three-week holiday. She doesn’t understand those who complain about the new influx of Indian tourists crowding on to the beach (mostly on the weekends). She looks at the long stretch of sand and says, “To me, it’s bliss!” She spent her childhood summers in south Devon and we both agree that there’s no comparison to the sardine-packed people on the beaches of Torquay and Paignton.

Although I get frustrated in trying to follow the group conversations, it doesn’t overwhelm me anymore (given the occasional meltdown). This is our third visit to India since I lost my hearing, and I’m relieved to find it has gotten somewhat easier. I know my mechanisms to avoid hearing fatigue – and when I take a mental break and space out for a while, I return to the conversation to find surprisingly the same topic is still being discussed. I don’t seem to have missed much!

We wish we could identify the exotic tropical bird songs that I’m so grateful to hear. North London Tina’s a bird person and can recognize when Gerard provides a great imitation of a call. One is the Koel bird that we watch from our balcony in a papaya tree picking away at the fruit. Tina must be almost 80 and has traveled solo in India many times, which I find inspiring. Again, I wonder if I would have the resources to do it alone.

Our German friends, Marion and Yergen, insist that we accompany them to Kudlee Beach, a pretty sheltered cove we first visited three years ago. The descent to the beach is crowded with Indian tourists, the more so because it’s Republican Day weekend. Kudlee now caters only to Indians; several old buildings are demolished and undergrowth cleared at the near end of the beach to make way for a large luxury hotel. Rented dinghies, water ski launches and other plastic flotilla pepper the water. It’s beginning to look like Paignton! How many beautiful beachfronts are there left in the world that haven’t been ruined by over-development?

French Frederic, who we first met in the Himalayas ten years ago, took an overnight bus from Bangalore to spend three days with us. A resident of Auroville, he was on his way back to France to renew his visa. We have a special bond with him and are able to pick up where we left off four years ago in Varanasi. Swiss Peter, who visited us in Boston last summer, came down from Agonda for a few days as well. Both Gerard and I are flattered they made such an effort to visit us.