Friday, February 12, 2010
Name change.
The new title of the blog should clue you in as to why it's been so long since I've made a real post. I'm on antibiotics now, so hopefully soon I'll be all better and the usual posting can resume.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Asanaaah!
I started practicing Ashtanga through the teachings of my roommate in Utah (thanks, Casey), who had himself only recently become interested in yoga. We learned from David Swenson's Practice Manual, picking and choosing from the poses, leaving out things like Janu Shirshasana B, that involved jamming heels into groins. I never did the full primary series, and often, towards the end of a practice, I would turn on some Tupac and skip ahead to poses like handstand, trying them until my head spun or my lunch hinted at its desire to be revisited.
Last year, before my first trip, I had just barely started to practice regularly. Part of the reason for traveling here was to test the depth of my interest in Ashtanga in particular, which stood out to me among other schools of yoga because of its system of vinyasa* between poses and its lack of flowery Westernization**. I figured immersing myself in a few months of daily practice at the source of the tradition would adequately test my validity as an "aspirant," as the Yoga Mala would put it. While here, I usually struggled to wake up at 5:30 for class. Often, in the midst of some sort of digestive agony or a car horn-induced deafening, I would even question my decision to be here at all, dreaming of American comforts like air conditioning, beef, and tap water that doesn't end up coming straight out your butt. But eventually, I started to look forward to the practice, and on returning to the US, found myself seeking out spaces and teachers where ever I went.
This trip started with a few hurdles (see the post about bedbugs and diarrhea) that had me briefly convinced that I was an idiot to sign up for another four months of India, but after a few weeks things have smoothed out considerably. I have a solid foundation in the primary series this time around and motivation is no issue. I go to bed at 8:00 and wake up at 4:00 psyched to go spend a couple hours sweating and bending.
A few days ago, Sharath (Pattabhi Jois' grandson), told me to start adding Pashasana to my practice. It looks easier than it is; the combination of squatting, twisting, and wrapping an arm around your knees to grab the opposite wrist is tricky. It's the first pose of the intermediate series. Until I am given enough intermediate poses to warrant splitting the two series into separate days of practice, I'll be tacking on poses to the end of the primary series. This eventually turns an hour and a half of work into more like over two hours.
I was also recently Saraswathied. This is what they call it when Patthabi's daughter, Saraswathi, cranks you into Chakra Bandhasana, which looks like this:
Thanks to David Gellineau for the photo and the flexibility.
First, I did several dropbacks on my own, and then Saraswathi spotted me as I walked my hands in towards my ankles. Once my fingertips touched my feet... WHAM! SPLOW! BAMMO! Saraswathied! Shaky and panting, I lost grip of my sweaty ankles after just a breath or two and came up with my eyes rolling. Saraswathi laughed and smiled. The look on her face said "Yeah, I know. Crazy, isn't it?"
*Vinyasa is a Sanskrit term that literally means "to place in a special way," but in this case means something more like "breath-synchronized movement."
**Refer to Anusara Yoga.
Last year, before my first trip, I had just barely started to practice regularly. Part of the reason for traveling here was to test the depth of my interest in Ashtanga in particular, which stood out to me among other schools of yoga because of its system of vinyasa* between poses and its lack of flowery Westernization**. I figured immersing myself in a few months of daily practice at the source of the tradition would adequately test my validity as an "aspirant," as the Yoga Mala would put it. While here, I usually struggled to wake up at 5:30 for class. Often, in the midst of some sort of digestive agony or a car horn-induced deafening, I would even question my decision to be here at all, dreaming of American comforts like air conditioning, beef, and tap water that doesn't end up coming straight out your butt. But eventually, I started to look forward to the practice, and on returning to the US, found myself seeking out spaces and teachers where ever I went.
This trip started with a few hurdles (see the post about bedbugs and diarrhea) that had me briefly convinced that I was an idiot to sign up for another four months of India, but after a few weeks things have smoothed out considerably. I have a solid foundation in the primary series this time around and motivation is no issue. I go to bed at 8:00 and wake up at 4:00 psyched to go spend a couple hours sweating and bending.
A few days ago, Sharath (Pattabhi Jois' grandson), told me to start adding Pashasana to my practice. It looks easier than it is; the combination of squatting, twisting, and wrapping an arm around your knees to grab the opposite wrist is tricky. It's the first pose of the intermediate series. Until I am given enough intermediate poses to warrant splitting the two series into separate days of practice, I'll be tacking on poses to the end of the primary series. This eventually turns an hour and a half of work into more like over two hours.
I was also recently Saraswathied. This is what they call it when Patthabi's daughter, Saraswathi, cranks you into Chakra Bandhasana, which looks like this:
Thanks to David Gellineau for the photo and the flexibility.
First, I did several dropbacks on my own, and then Saraswathi spotted me as I walked my hands in towards my ankles. Once my fingertips touched my feet... WHAM! SPLOW! BAMMO! Saraswathied! Shaky and panting, I lost grip of my sweaty ankles after just a breath or two and came up with my eyes rolling. Saraswathi laughed and smiled. The look on her face said "Yeah, I know. Crazy, isn't it?"
*Vinyasa is a Sanskrit term that literally means "to place in a special way," but in this case means something more like "breath-synchronized movement."
**Refer to Anusara Yoga.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Zee market.
Most of the produce in India is sold farmer's market-style every day: en plein air with multiple vendors selling their veggies out of baskets. Of course, here there's more yelling. No one makes a big deal out of things like the localness of the produce, but it's very clear they're not getting their papayas from Mexico.
The picture below is a shot of some of my loot from a special organic market that only happens once a week. All the white yogis flock there every Sunday and adopt the local tradition of ignoring things like lines and personal space in a mad dash for rare (in India) things like arugula, basil, and decent cheese. They've also got fresher-and-cleaner-than-usual versions of classic South Indian stuff like cauliflower (known here as gobi), chikoo, okra (AKA bhindi), etc. And the people running the booths speak English well, mostly in funny British accents, some even with stylishly waxed mustaches (I'll try to get a picture of this).
From left to right, you're looking at:
- Something the vendor called Chicken Spinach. I had some this morning but with enough other stuff that I didn't notice a distinct flavor.
- Methi, or fenugreek, leaves.
- Curry leaves. These are in EVERYTHING in South Indian cooking.
- Ghee. Clarified butter. Liquid gold. I've been ordering sides of this almost everywhere I eat in an effort to thwart India's attempt to rob me of another ten pounds. It varies in quality from place to place; this particular batch smells deliciously cheesy. Most households make their own out of milk bought from men who ride around dangling metal jugs from their bike's handlebars and, of course, yelling. Apparently, sometimes they'll bring the cow right to your door. We need that in America.
- The guy said "These are cherries. Sweet and sour." But these things are shaped more like tiny pumpkins and are more sour than sweet.
- Daikon radish. Nothing special.
- Kohlrabi. Also nothing special.
- They told me this is related to a "custard apple," which is another name for a Cherimoya, the fruit I was buying in Mumbai.
- Some coconut meat.
- Lemon and ginger pickle. Tangy!
And here...
is a modified rickshaw overflowing with dry coconut husks. As I left my house to come use the internet and make this post, this thing came barreling down my street with two guys in the cab and one on top of the coconut pile... yelling. They stopped and began unloading bunches of the husks at a woman's gate. Apparently they burn them to heat water.
The picture below is a shot of some of my loot from a special organic market that only happens once a week. All the white yogis flock there every Sunday and adopt the local tradition of ignoring things like lines and personal space in a mad dash for rare (in India) things like arugula, basil, and decent cheese. They've also got fresher-and-cleaner-than-usual versions of classic South Indian stuff like cauliflower (known here as gobi), chikoo, okra (AKA bhindi), etc. And the people running the booths speak English well, mostly in funny British accents, some even with stylishly waxed mustaches (I'll try to get a picture of this).
From left to right, you're looking at:
- Something the vendor called Chicken Spinach. I had some this morning but with enough other stuff that I didn't notice a distinct flavor.
- Methi, or fenugreek, leaves.
- Curry leaves. These are in EVERYTHING in South Indian cooking.
- Ghee. Clarified butter. Liquid gold. I've been ordering sides of this almost everywhere I eat in an effort to thwart India's attempt to rob me of another ten pounds. It varies in quality from place to place; this particular batch smells deliciously cheesy. Most households make their own out of milk bought from men who ride around dangling metal jugs from their bike's handlebars and, of course, yelling. Apparently, sometimes they'll bring the cow right to your door. We need that in America.
- The guy said "These are cherries. Sweet and sour." But these things are shaped more like tiny pumpkins and are more sour than sweet.
- Daikon radish. Nothing special.
- Kohlrabi. Also nothing special.
- They told me this is related to a "custard apple," which is another name for a Cherimoya, the fruit I was buying in Mumbai.
- Some coconut meat.
- Lemon and ginger pickle. Tangy!
And here...
is a modified rickshaw overflowing with dry coconut husks. As I left my house to come use the internet and make this post, this thing came barreling down my street with two guys in the cab and one on top of the coconut pile... yelling. They stopped and began unloading bunches of the husks at a woman's gate. Apparently they burn them to heat water.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Guilt post.
I am feeling guilty for waiting so long between posts. I haven't been taking many pictures, and don't feel very inspired to write, but here's what I've got...
Most importantly, I think the bedbug issue is over. I found single, live, blood-filled bedbugs in my bed on two separate occasions, but haven't found any in about a week. I doused my bedframe in eucalyptus oil, which apparently kills them. On the 9th, a day before the shala opened, a cluster of bites appeard just below my belly button. It looked like I had caught a case of crotch-rot and I wasn't too thrilled about practicing shirtless my first day back at the shala, but I knew any shirt I wore would just end up a soggy, floppy mess. I figured I would just snag a spot at the back of the room and not worry about it, but when I arrived at around 4:10 AM real time (4:27 shala time... the clock in there is fast), the gate had already been opened, the room was packed and the only spot left was onstage at the front.
On the 14th was Makar Sankranti a post-winter solstice holiday celebrating the coming longer days. Here in Karnataka, people celebrate this by painting their cows and running them through fire. Sadly, the fire part is banned within Mysore, so I didn't see it. But here are two women laying down some Rangoli-age for the holiday:
And for the hell of it, two more pictures...
This is the room I'm renting. 7,000 rupees, or about $150, per month. The house has five bedrooms and contains no less than one German couple, one Brazilian girl, one Canadian woman, and a Swede with her two children. Including me that makes eight of us, but sharing one kitchen is surprisingly easy because we all have weird schedules involving various early morning yogic obligations.
This is a dress shop on 9th Cross, one street over from my house. I just liked the way it glowed as the sun went down.
Most importantly, I think the bedbug issue is over. I found single, live, blood-filled bedbugs in my bed on two separate occasions, but haven't found any in about a week. I doused my bedframe in eucalyptus oil, which apparently kills them. On the 9th, a day before the shala opened, a cluster of bites appeard just below my belly button. It looked like I had caught a case of crotch-rot and I wasn't too thrilled about practicing shirtless my first day back at the shala, but I knew any shirt I wore would just end up a soggy, floppy mess. I figured I would just snag a spot at the back of the room and not worry about it, but when I arrived at around 4:10 AM real time (4:27 shala time... the clock in there is fast), the gate had already been opened, the room was packed and the only spot left was onstage at the front.
On the 14th was Makar Sankranti a post-winter solstice holiday celebrating the coming longer days. Here in Karnataka, people celebrate this by painting their cows and running them through fire. Sadly, the fire part is banned within Mysore, so I didn't see it. But here are two women laying down some Rangoli-age for the holiday:
And for the hell of it, two more pictures...
This is the room I'm renting. 7,000 rupees, or about $150, per month. The house has five bedrooms and contains no less than one German couple, one Brazilian girl, one Canadian woman, and a Swede with her two children. Including me that makes eight of us, but sharing one kitchen is surprisingly easy because we all have weird schedules involving various early morning yogic obligations.
This is a dress shop on 9th Cross, one street over from my house. I just liked the way it glowed as the sun went down.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Back.
Alright. This is the inaugural India 2010 blog post. It's gonna be quick because the power is out and this internet cafe is on its backup batteries. So far, I have spent a week in Mumbai, where I...
-stayed in a tiny, 4x10 hotel room with a gnarly shared bathroom
-saw Avatar and a Bollywood movie called 3 Idiots (they have intermissions here!)
-was approached by a grey-haired Sikh man who asked me what my name was, shook my hand, and after some further questioning, with our hands still shaking, said "you leave my hand now"
-ate my first Cherimoya and loved it
-took the following pictures:
I didn't look at the menu, but I bet they were chicken... or worse, potato patties. Beef is rare in India, and not in a tender, bloody way.
Har dee har har.
This is part of long mural painted on a wall inside the grounds of an art school.
Some okra and weird multi-colored noodly things sun drying.
This guy hung out outside of Crawford market, a major produce market in South Mumbai just down the street from my hotel. He had a sort of froggish voice, not unlike this guy from my last trip. He croaked "Happy new year!" at me a few times.
Most of the buildings in Mumbai seem to be sort of rotting. And some of them are decorated with murals of horses galloping at the speed of light. This one has a little of both.
On my 24-hour train ride from Mumbai to Mysore, I slept in the same compartment as an old couple on their way to visit their daughter. It turned out she lives just four or five houses down from the shala where I will practice. When we were served our Indian Railways lunches (tv-dinner style chickpea curry) the couple gave me some homemade methi chapati.
I spent my first day in Mysore with a throbbing head, diarrhea, and a sore throat. That was yesterday. Today I feel fine, but I woke up with tons of itchy bug bites on my ankles and lower back, probably bedbugs. I'm hoping they were in the bed at my hotel in Mysore and they didn't hitch a ride in my clothes from Mumbai or the train. If that's the case then they might follow me to my new room in a house just down the street from the shala. That might warrant a bleaching of my entire wardrobe or something.
My start time for practice is 5:15 AM, but on Sunday, the first day of practice, I'll go in at 4:30 for a led class.
-stayed in a tiny, 4x10 hotel room with a gnarly shared bathroom
-saw Avatar and a Bollywood movie called 3 Idiots (they have intermissions here!)
-was approached by a grey-haired Sikh man who asked me what my name was, shook my hand, and after some further questioning, with our hands still shaking, said "you leave my hand now"
-ate my first Cherimoya and loved it
-took the following pictures:
I didn't look at the menu, but I bet they were chicken... or worse, potato patties. Beef is rare in India, and not in a tender, bloody way.
Har dee har har.
This is part of long mural painted on a wall inside the grounds of an art school.
Some okra and weird multi-colored noodly things sun drying.
This guy hung out outside of Crawford market, a major produce market in South Mumbai just down the street from my hotel. He had a sort of froggish voice, not unlike this guy from my last trip. He croaked "Happy new year!" at me a few times.
Most of the buildings in Mumbai seem to be sort of rotting. And some of them are decorated with murals of horses galloping at the speed of light. This one has a little of both.
On my 24-hour train ride from Mumbai to Mysore, I slept in the same compartment as an old couple on their way to visit their daughter. It turned out she lives just four or five houses down from the shala where I will practice. When we were served our Indian Railways lunches (tv-dinner style chickpea curry) the couple gave me some homemade methi chapati.
I spent my first day in Mysore with a throbbing head, diarrhea, and a sore throat. That was yesterday. Today I feel fine, but I woke up with tons of itchy bug bites on my ankles and lower back, probably bedbugs. I'm hoping they were in the bed at my hotel in Mysore and they didn't hitch a ride in my clothes from Mumbai or the train. If that's the case then they might follow me to my new room in a house just down the street from the shala. That might warrant a bleaching of my entire wardrobe or something.
My start time for practice is 5:15 AM, but on Sunday, the first day of practice, I'll go in at 4:30 for a led class.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
More to look at.
Here's the promised shot of me in a lungi. This is me with the groom, his brother, and lots of little kids from his native village.
This is the Sharavathi river seen from where one of its ferries docks.
What seems like Main St. in a small village near Kodai, up in the mountains of Tamil Nadu.
Another awesome ad for the Mysore bonesetters. The guy on the right is Shah Rukh Kahn, a famous Bollywood actor.
The mountains surrounding Kodai as seen from its youth hostel.
This guy was sort of a hipster. Notice the black button-up shirt, slim jeans and white belt. He worked at a print shop in the same mall as the bone setters.
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