Fat Finding Mission

Thanks to all of you who have written to me, and for your funny comments about this little blog. It's great to know some people still read more than 140 characters.  In summary you are mostly interested in what goes in, what comes out with the general thrust being "great blog, yeah, we know you do yoga and are interested in god and stuff, but can you give us more food,  poo and tourism/cultural stuff-ups?"

So in the last 48 hours there's been tears, homesickness, random kindness of strangers, strangers in my room I didn't want there, rain rain rain, yoga, Ayurveda massage, injury, no hot water, samosa hunting and it's been cold and wet and blah blah blah. First world problems, and I hit a first-world wall.  I decide I have 2 choices - it's either go back to talk to the tuk-tuk driver who offered me hashish, or go shopping.

When the going gets tough, the tough gets on the scooter, ditches chanting class and goes to Loyal World which is the closest thing to Westfield Marion, except with no escalators, no parking, and not many shops. But the 2 shops they did have were a factory outlet for 'fashion' (questionable but let's go with it) and awesome similar Food Glorious Food Indian style supermarket.  Nice combo, I thought while  jumping around pulling jeans on in a sweltering dark change room due to a power cut.  I'm gonna hit up that food store and show these skinny jeans who's boss! They had 8 different kinds of dates!  I didn't know there were that many varieties.  I thought it was pretty much the same guy over and over and the restaurant just changed.

I was told yesterday by a grungy downtown ayurveda masseur  (best massage of my life) I needed to eat something fatty and stay away from dhal...and that's not advice you need to tell me twice. Basically stop being full of air and stay warm. And drink this little packet of medicine, and no, it's not from the tuk-tuk driver. So back to the food counter... straight to the samosas and the desserts because let's face it, they are full of fatty goodness, gracious me! Ayuervedic massage doctor's orders. It's authentic! Traditional!  Just doing what I'm told.

Ayurvedic massage table

See picture below. The top ones have almonds and a weird texture like fairy floss when you bite into them, it kind of grinds on your teeth which is just strange. I can't decide if I like it, so I have to keep eating it to work it out.  I don't think any of these deserts are baked, it's like they are raw and held together with lots of lovely buttery yum.

I was desperately hoping the brown balls were chocolatety in the right way, but they are more what I would call ...chocolate salty balls.  I'm not saying any more except... thanks Chef and hello bin. And the yellow diamonds are turmeric and almond something, the best of the three, so far.

That was pretty much a long story to get to the good bit.  That's what goes in, but you know it's what happens in the next 48hrs that will tell how it all comes out in the end... here's a goofy pic of my housekeeper's son, Chetana wearing my swimming gear. He'd never seen anything like it before. A beautiful boy.

dress ups 

milk in a bag

Fruit of the Gods

Driving in cars with strange boys, talking to strangers, drinking the local water, riding motorbikes at night in the rain... all things I have been warned about. Women get a lot of advice before travelling. There are lots of rules for us, mostly based on fear and stories of bad things that have actually happened to someone else who we have no inkling of.

Why is it then, that this advice when not followed correctly results in having HEAPS of fun? What advice do I now give to my nieces and god-daughters and all the young women and girls I love and care for when my experience of travelling generally goes off the charts by doing all of the above? Trust yourself. To trust though, it helps to have experience. So it's catch 22. You've got to have experiences to understand fear and develop trust. Trust and fear - two sides of the same coin of both travel and yoga.

Oh and it helps to meet lovely guys, who stop and chat to everyone on the road and teach you how to pray properly. They also wanted to be in my blog, so that was another reason not to kidnap me.

On Saturday - yoga day off - I ride out to Ranganthittu Bird Sanctuary 28 kms north of Mysore in the country, a green bit on Google Maps. No white  people, no surprise. It seemed to be the place to meet your boyfriend for a snuggle by what I could tell. A lot of loving going down in the dark corners of this Sanctuary.

On a boat tour of the Kaveri River which is the main thing to do here, I meet a couple of guys down from Bengaluru on a road trip, Bharath the quiet one with a big smile and Mohan, a big guy with a love of adventure. Both work in IT, Bharath at HP and Mohan at Microsoft. So we get chatting about places to visit, and Mohan is loosely translating the guy rowing the boat:  There’s a bird. Yep. And another one, Yep, got it. There’s a crocodile. Yeah, yeah I see it. I’m pretty sure the guy rowing 20 of us into a head-wind wasn’t saying that going by his expression, but anyway.

Rowing man head down

They charge tourists Rs 300 and locals Rs 30 to do the same tour- an interesting marketing strategy to attract international birdwatchers. I know I know, it’s only $13 all up, cheap, and you can rationalise the price like some do here. Same way I suppose they rationalise it’s ok to keep 5 rupees of your foreigners change without asking, the assumption is you can afford it. Being treated like an ATM because you are white is not a compelling experience for anyone in any language, anywhere.

After the boat ride, where it starts to pelt down with rain while we are out on the water, Mohan is loving it. "Ah it's... it's just... bewwwwdiful!" It is. He is smiling ear to ear. He likes rain as much as me. Bharat smiles at his friend. Mohan has ants in his pants, the guy can’t sit still. Over chai and thali they invite me to join them on their “just cruising around, man!” tour of the region and we settle on going to Melkote home to a number of significant Hindu temples in southern India. There’s an Academy of Sanskrit there and the same place Sarah, an American Sanskrit scholar I met recently recommended I check out. My rule of thumb is, if you hear about a place from 2 or more separate sources, maybe go check it out. It’s 130 kms north of the Bird Sanctuary so I leave 'scootie' behind and we drive off together.

croc

I know they are legit and don’t plan to kidnap me because they are stopping every every 10kms to shout for directions through the car window to locals. It’s just how Mohan rolls, he’s definitely a people person. So everyone on the back roads to Melkote knows where I am, and who I am with because they all peer into the car and stare as they answer and point and waggle congenially. On the drive the the conversation covers all the big stuff... about girls who work, why women love money so much, how to get a wife, breaking up stories, living with mum, seeing the world, what's for lunch, the crazy mo-fos overtaking trucks in front of us.

Singin in the rain

At Melkote and make our way into the main temple, and Bharath scolds me off for having too much fun in the temple. He is the quiet, serious one and he who teaches me how to prepare and accept a blessing, rub my hands over fire, drink and sprinkle water – “With the right hand, Sue, the right hand! She’s from Australia,” he explains to the holy man amused at my strange attempt to both drink and shower at the same time. Luckily for me, it’s not a one shot game. There are lots of gods to pay respect to so I’m on my way to being an expert before I leave. Actually it was a moving experience and I'm grateful for Bharath getting serious on me.

Then Mohan starts. “It’s rude to point your toes at the carving, Sue.” “No, no Sue, you don’t turn your back on the holy man after your blessing. You back away facing him and slowly turn away.” Except there are people crammed in and there’s no way I’m able to do that. “You look at the god’s feet, not just the top part with all the flowers…” “But the feet were covered in flowers,” I protest trying to hold some ground. I get a dark look. No excuse. I am the Christian in the room. Christians do good lighting, space and hygiene and keep our candles to the alter.  No playing with fire. No drinking the holy water. No rolling around on the floor, not like here. There are babies and old people sitting in the way, lying flat out, tummy sliding on stained 1000 year old concrete shiny with wear, doing god knows what snake impersonations. It’s getting funky below the knees in the temple but Bharath is steering me out towards the sunlight, before I decide that could be fun too.

In my extensive experience in being told off, disapproved of and tutted at, I find there is a point where you either go into paralysis and become like a robot, or you perfect your ‘whatever’ and hope others will get used to you eventually as you do them.  As I’ve been (gently and with good humour) corrected so much in 20 minutes, I was in the first stages of paralysis while the boys were disagreeing over something in the background.   Childhood neighbours for 25 years, Mohan and Bharath couldn’t be more different, such a great pair of opposites. While they are fighting a woman in a green sari comes up to me as I’m tracing my fingers across ancient Sanskrit carved in stone walls wondering about the age of this place.  She shoves some dragon fruit on a banana leaf in my hands and motions for me to eat it and walks off, but I’m doubtful because everything else I’ve done has been wrong. I look around helplessly trying to get the boys’ attention but of course everyone is watching what I do next. Great. Do I make it an offering? I’ve seen fruit offerings go by in here to rival the greatest grey-nomad sun-downer platter. Do I give it to someone? Pay her?

A young girl stands and openly points and laughs at me covering her face, shaking her head at the whitey who doesn’t know what to do with the fruit that I didn’t ask for and can’t stomach right now.
So you can’t take photos, laugh too much, turn your back, use your left hand, or be efficient in queues but you can eat fruit, slide on your belly in sacred temples and push in aggressively. I love this crazy country! I eat the fruit, relieved that eating at least, is universal.

God or Guru?

Being a Hindu place with a God for every occasion you'd think there'd be plenty of opportunity to explore ideas of God, but it's harder than it looks. I'm no newcomer to religion and not uncomfortable with God as an experience. But if you do yoga, do you need to believe in God? If you don't believe in God, which I'd say statistically would include most people who do yoga, then is the next best thing to treat your teacher like a god? Is the guru a substitute for God?

Religion is an ordinary part of life for locals by what I see in daily routines, but the only people doing the sweating are the westerners. And the only people I see us worshipping are teachers and the images of gurus past and present. So then, is a guru/teacher the western replacement for God?

'God' is up there with 'strategic', 'love' and 'spiritual' as an over-used and abused word, used with either great caution or too much definition. But knowing God is one of the 8 limbs of ashtanga; after self study comes studying God.  If you're into yoga then at some point, you may start checking out what you believe about god, or spirit, whatever term you use.

God is a pretty big topic to stomach before 8am. Hard to tackle between your mat, millet pancakes and eco-friendly date-shake. But if you're not 'going in', or thinking about where god is in all this sweating and concentration, then it's a workout in a place with coconut trees.  But I didn't come to India for a workout.

Visiting a temple recently I was a spectator, and more interested in the silverware than the ritual, which what I could see involved taking money from lots of poor people, pushing them through a small doorway past a dirty concrete statue of something for about 2 seconds and then pushing them into another doorway out into sunshine yelling at them to hurry up the whole time. God On The Run.  Drive Through Religion.  But you can't be a tourist if you want to find God, standing on the sidelines and waiting for the entertainment.  God happens inside, by what I know.

Coming to India to find out about God is not a bad place to start. But you wouldn't want to be lost and searching, cause there sure are a lot of them and there's no text book.  A prison is another place you would probably be wondering if there's a God. Or at war, or in intensive care. Often dealing with my housekeeper I am muttering to God.  A yoga mat is a pretty soft place to be, really. It's hard to find and fight for real love when there's been little adversity, or suffering, or motivation. In many ways we don't need God, until wham! Suddenly we do. Even this guy will do in an emergency.

Ganesh remover of obstacles - quite a busy elephant 

Pattabi Jois (died in 2009) is/was  Guruji for many people who learnt ashtanga yoga from him. I not sure I'd call him that, in any but the true meaning of the word - a teacher (guru) of great affection and respect (ji).  Worshipping gurus seems odds with what we are being taught in yoga - to be self sufficient, practise daily, find our own sense of spirit and be become better people over time by being conscious of our crap. If you don't believe in God, I guess your guru is the next stop, but worshipping humans - apart from boy bands when you are 14 years old - is a little fraught if you want to call yourself an adul

But I see it, the gushy adoration of gurus. It's sad how we are so willing to give ourselves up, give our power away to another human being, putting people on pedestals when they are just people whether our bosses, politicians, teachers, rock stars.  It's one thing to trust but another to worship a teacher. I think you are always free to say no, to disagree. It's not arrogance to back yourself up, test out your ideas. Even if you are wrong. It's not superiority or smugness.  I'm sure Pattabi Jois bugged his wife, left his wet towels on the bed, told bad jokes, forgot to get the milk, argued...whatever.  I like to think about this version of the man in his ordinary-ness, but also with his talent as teacher, father, husband, person.

I think of all the everyday people who do amazing things, saving lives and negotiating conflict, doing the plumbing, trash collecting, teaching children, and keeping company of elderly people preparing for death and who cares if you can back bend?

I don't think you need a 'guru' to worship,  but you might need one to help you study God and know the difference.

The Poo Post

I sat down the morning of the first Moon Day (moon day means no yoga practise because the moon is full, or new. Or making lots of water in our bodies, or something) of the trip. Sat at the Microwave Desk with my first proper cup of coffee after a week experimenting with a variety of strainers, coffee makers and cowboy techniques, taught by my coffee guru and camping buddy, Kasia.

Microwave Desk

Things are starting to feel normal here in downtown Gokulum. I listened to a favourite podcast Saturday Morning Extra by Geraldine McDouge an intelligent, thoughtful broadcaster. Inspired by the quality of her content I thought:  Right. I’m going to write something meaningful today. Not just about my experiences travelling and yoga and observations. No. I’m going to write something different that will sum up things without any straining. Lower your expectations, people. Lower.  Much lower.

This is for my girlfriend Michelle in Sydney. She has been hanging out for the ‘Poo Post’. Because she’s a newish mum, she has plenty of current experience with boisterous bum behaviour. Alas, Shell, there has been little farting going on in this Indian shala as far as I can tell; I may just be out of harm’s way. But a hell of a lot of body fluids are being shed. It’s a sweat fest. I cannot understand how some people remain dry after practising in that room. It astounds me, when sweat is literally dripping into my eyes off my legs in shoulder stand.

When you are so busy 'going in', sometimes you forget that there are things that want to come out, like heat, sweat and hot-air. Farting is the great leveller in a yoga class, a test on whether you are concentrating or not and also a bit funny, whether you are the farter or the fartee. I have been both, I’ll admit but the skill is in carrying on like it wasn’t you. This is called the Fart? What Fart? manoeuvre where if you can just create just enough doubt among your neighbors within earshot that it came from your direction you can just get on with your practise. It's more about self deception than deceiving others so rarely works but is the last fallback before the Apology manoeuvre which you never really want to resort to as it disturbs the breath count, the poo prana and the general bum zen. It’s better to own it with attitude, than to apologise for it, in my humble view.

From my shallow and fairly loose research a fart is the result of a complicated series of gut reactions over a 24 - 48 hour period that reflects an amazing working world of the stomach, processing and internalizing the outside world via the food we eat, literally into each of our cells and organs. (A great metaphor for a writer). A fart is no simple feat. It is the sounding of a long process coming to its end, a public cry of release in a room full of people, that says “Hey guys. Things are happening over here, finally the works are relaxed enough for the next shift to start, and all the stretching and breathing and letting go, is pretty rad. Til next time,  ciao!”

I have a friend at home who is the greatest yoga farter I know. So much so, that it’s gotten to the point where it’s almost like his talkative bum is a whole separate being practising in the room. And his farts stink and it’s a small room. So we have to stop and acknowledge it and groan in fake disgust.  Then he mutters what he had for dinner the night before (Musta been that pea and ham soup…) which cracks me up even more because it’s just a bit wrong, when we are trying to be so serious and our teacher is trying not to laugh and keep us all focused, but it’s funny.  If you were offended, you’d be wasting your time. The body left to it's own devices doesn’t give a shit what we think, pardon the pun, it has it’s own delightful needs and knowledge and ability to let go. And the head is attached to it, is the witness swivelling around like Carrie, whoosh, whoosh, oh-oh, reacting to others’ reactions. So it’s gotten to the point now, where if you were new to the class you’d think, Holy cow, that is just rude. But by now most of us just chuckle at the delightful human horror and then hope there’s no more to come.

Having a happy bottom is an aim worth aspiring too. Eating mainly vegetarian food here is normal, and wonderful because I could never copy how they put it together, the food is soft, warm, mushy and full of flavour, colour and vegetables. Perfect for digestive health.  And my body has never been more regular, than eating Laxmi’s home-cooked food daily.  I am loving not having to cook.  My stomach has decided India is it’s new love nest and is likely to stay on and marry all the people who have cooked for it, including this man and his crew who make the best sweets and weird yogurt and pistachio filled deep fried rice ball pastry things, for 50 cents. Yep 20 rupee, but only after 4pm. Guys, you've gotta get here. Masterchef is a SHAM.

Rice ball things called diaparu. Perfect for the poo post.

If you are squeamish, or worried about toileting in Mysore, India here’s the lowdown. It’ a fairly modern place all round if you are frequenting the mainstream areas, which most western yogis are.  If you are going to cafes and restaurants or in your apartment (if it’s been built in the last 20 years) you don’t need to squat over a hole, but if you are out visiting temples, attractions, markets and going to toilets at public places then squatting and splashing yourself with buckets of water and on the ground around you, is the way you do it. Toilet paper, if available goes in the bin, not flushed due to old or just poor city plumbing. There are hand held shower guns by some toilets to help wash away waste.  People value but are not obsessed with cleanliness, so lower expectations of housekeeping and bathroom cleaning generally.  Restaurant bathrooms seem purely functional spaces, doubling as storage often, not places to show off interior design concepts like at home.

So I hope you enjoyed the toilet post! It was only a matter of time. If you are interested in gut heath and links to emotional and full body well being, read  ‘Guts’ by Giulia Enders, a very amusing and insightful German science writer who actually did the research, into poo, pooing, and digestive organs. It is fascinating and strikes through a lot of our shame about farting and pooing, reveals the biological truth behind phrases like ‘gut reactions’ and ‘feeling it in my guts’… but please don’t tell my yoga buddy, he doesn’t need any more encouragement. Bless him.

Here's a review: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/may/07/gut-reaction-book-digestive-tract-german-bestseller.

Yoga tourism - am I being duped?

So you might think, if you were Indian, what the big fuss is all about with this yoga tourism? Why are there no Indians here, doing a lot of astanga? It's a western thing now, eh?  A bit like aboriginal art in Australia is a 'white person' thing. No aboriginal person I know hangs fancy dot paintings worth thousands on their walls. Only rich white people do that. Perhaps it's because aboriginal people have their culture,  their stories, they don't need to look at an image to marvel at it.

I'm not suggesting Indians nor aboriginal people are selling their culture like selling out. But there is no doubt this experience has a price tag.   Mysore is on the map because of the heritage of yoga here, particularly astanga-style with vinyasa. And local businesses are springing up, and new apartments being built here, and there is a lot of local wealth here, but local people are a bit baffled about what all these young, white people are doing here in the neighbourhood?

Neighbourhood of Gokulum in monsoon

Where are you from? Older couples stop to ask me in the street on their morning walks at 8am practising their very good English. Nanna hesru Susan, nanna desha Australia, I reply faltering in Kannada, the state language. Yoga? they ask  Yes, I reply. Hmmm. They think about this. Where is it? Pattabi Jois, with Saraswati, I say. Oh, she start already? They are so curious to hear this. It is a tourism phenomenon, supporting a lot of local people in a very nice way. Personally I don't have a problem with any of it, I prefer to support small local business people offering a service, than beggars and like seeing the enterprising nature of the men and women around this emerging yoga tourism industry. They are really smart and good on them.

Destination development we call in in the trade.  There are whole strategies and plans around it, how you do it, who you engage, infrastructure requirements, support provided to communities. But to do this here in India seems laughable. Nothing is straightforward. And of course this is not where the original shala started, nor the inspiration for the current, new shala. That is another story all-together, and not mine to tell. You need to come here to learn some of that heritage from the teachers here who chat to us after class, after pranayama. It's very nice this part. I think it's mean spirited to moan about how coming to Mysore to do yoga today is not like it used to be before the new shala opened, as though somehow we didn't wish for locals to benefit from growing western interest in their town and culture, as though doing it harder is somehow, better. I don't buy into this.  I don't support 'poverty porn' either, you know  gawping at how other people live and taking photos and walking among them and wrestling with guilt and going home to comfort. Ethically I have a problem with it, and don't feel sorry for poor people. It is how it is and it is unfair but people don't need our pity, they need food and work and clean water and school and privacy to live their lives.

The emergence of 'slum tourism' sounds disgraceful, but like a lot of things around poverty, cultural tourism and money, first impressions are not usually correct.  In India the phenomena gives locals the chance to tell their story their way, be paid as guides and show curious westerners about slum living, creative social systems, survival and services. (Read Shantaram for more about this, or A Fine Balance by Rohan Mistry.) To me this is a slightly better way, than perverse, invasive photo-snapping and vouyerism or visiting orphanages to give love (pity) to children, who tourists have no connection to. Or making stuff up without the facts. I think it's important to get clear on what we believe based on our own experiences and research.

It has crossed my mind in a horrible way, that perhaps I've been duped. I've bought into this thing that  coming to Mysore is somehow going to deepen my practise, but does it matter where you do this? There was a point in my practise today where I didn't even really know where I was, that's what going in deep is like. The town you are in is irrelevant when you are focusing so much on breathing, and finishing it is like coming out of a vivid dream; there's a mental shift back into time and space when I finally lay down for shivasana. I remember thinking after practise Oh ok. I've got to go back 'out there' and have breakfast and stuff. Navigate this town and country again. It seems a bit daunting and not really important at the same time.

Locals worshipping at Chammundi Hill Temple

Is the Mysore experience really a thing, or just what you make it? What you bring to it? And this may well be true, I may well have been duped.  I will tell you in a month if it is true, or if it even matters. You are what you think.  (I'm paraphrasing Buddha with a fair bit of liberty there)

Sometimes I wish I didn't think so much.

It's not me, it's YOU India. (Top 6 Mysore Must-Haves)

If you are having a break-up fight in your head with a whole country, you know you are in trouble or at a turning point.

I'm stomping up the stairs, sweaty from walking around in the heat because my scooter hasn’t come when promised for the second time, I can't get food despite being cashed up and surrounded by a million cooks... "but not right now Miss. Sleeping!", and I'm getting ready for round 5 with the most temperamental washing machine in Southern India. Apartment residents use the rooftop 'laundry' which consists of a few strung out washing lines, about 15 pegs that 4 groups share creatively, and no shade and of course what Sanir from Bombay (my grumpy downstairs neighbour) and I now call The Stupid Bloody Piece of Shit Washing Machine that we battle with and curse over together which we thoroughly enjoy. Of course, now we are pretty good friends. He is hanging out for 12 weeks while his wife does yoga teachers' training and like me is in a domestic routine of hanging out, riding around the neighborhood, washing, watching telly, eating, talking to strangers, doing jobs. Being grumpy is perfect for doing washing, especially the thumping-the- crap-out-of-your-yoga-pants-on-concrete-slabs kind of washing because it feels so good to vent, and now I know why Indians’ clothes are so clean.

But for mental health my three options to get through my inner fight with all the shitty little things about India getting on my nerves are 1)pray 2) lie down, or 3) both. I take option 1. It goes something like this:

"Oh God. Please help me with my attitude. It really sucks, I wish I was a better person and all that but my specific point is ...because I know you are busy, that if I don’t get your help to change my perspective on all the shit that is not working out, like in the next hour, I am going to be the Screaming Hungry White Woman of Mysore Rooftops. And that is not how I would like to be remembered. God, my attitude is 'I should get what I want and should ask questions' but realise these don't really have answers because they are my questions, no-one elses' responsibility to answer and God, help me to shut up. Getting what I want is so close but so far away. Help me be content with confusion and patient while treading fucking muddy water. But mostly - and this is the big one - help me to trust people more. Please help me be like Keanu in the Matrix and discover a new reality (but can you make me look a bit smarter than him). Finally, thank you God for the guy who makes those buttery chocolate coconut balls because if I’m not premenstrual right now, then when I actually am, they are going to save me and everyone I deal with from a big, fat headache.

Amen.

P.S. thanks for making the extra pegs appear today in the crazy laundry space, because that’s one less thing I have to go buy in my "serviced apartment" that is neither serviced nor an apartment.

Ok, so I'm not going to change India. I can mutter and eyeball and tut all I like, but I've gotta trust the locals more. They are telling me how it is in their own special way. Indians are very honest, not deceptive, not mean-hearted. I’ve been here before – struggling against cultural differences and my expectations while travelling – it’s the toughest thing but it does sort out by about week 2 with varying degrees of ‘same shit, different situation’. I realise how how awful tourists must appear to communities where people don't have the opportunity to get outside their 'normal'. Feeling a little ashamed for the luxury of self indulgent moaning, I clean my own bathroom, and wait until someone in India is awake and ready to cook. Unbelievable.

Getting settled is a big part of being grounded enough to get the most out of my yoga practise, for me anyway. The feeling of being settled is a total skill that I've had to get better at in the last 4 years. It's not something you are given by someone else, you have to create it yourself. It’s taken me 5 days to finally get sorted, settled and identify what's missing that I need - a good cup of plain black tea. An apple. Fresh milk. Here's my top 6 must-haves to settle down and enjoy yoga life in Mysore:

1) Money

Getting cash out is straightforward - I can just use my domestic Commonwealth Bank debit card at a local ATM. There are no Cirrus signs on the local ATM, no indication you can use other international bank cards, so this was a nice surprise, no dramas. I bought no rupees over and changed a bunch of AUD with a money changer locally. The black market is active and cheaper than bank fees.

2) Food 

Mysore is Hindu so vegetarian is the norm. I’m not vegetarian, but found options at western style cafes. Going out to eat 3 times a day can be exhausting if you are walking in the heat, and sometimes it's nice to just be able to stay home. Fruit is fresh and plentiful in the First Main Street, Gokulum. Vegetables are plentiful but quality is ho-hum, depending where you shop. Sanir gave me the number of a young woman locally and she cooks for yogi bears in the neighbourhood for 100R ($2 AUD) a meal, lunch and/or dinner, and delivers. What’s not to like? I am very grateful to have found her.

3) Wheels

There is nothing more liberating than riding around on a scooter in a foreign town among the tide of local traffic. You love it or hate it, but I love it. It's the only way to really see a place fast, each trip you see about 50 new things, down streets, in houses, clothes, fare, places. Scooters are around 3000R or a bit less, you may have to pay a deposit. Go to Shiva (the Facilitator) in the pink house on 8th cross just up from the main shala. There are a lot of lazy, well-fed street dogs around his place - a measure of the man's character. Nice guy.

4) Sim card

To text and communicate with people here to get things you need, make arrangements to meet. Locals won't text you on international numbers, too expensive. If your phone is unlocked with your provider head to the First Main Road Gokulum with the cluster of shops and look for a guy in a red shop with Sim signs. He will replace your Sim with a local one for about 200R and then you buy 200R of phone credit and Internet access. Txts are 1 R which is 2 cent AUD. Cheap!

5) Expectations of accommodation

In tourism here there is no ‘standard’ or industry website that advertises accommodation options that you can openly compare like in regional tourism websites in Australia. Value for money is not consistent. What you get for $500/month AUD can range from 2 bedroom apartment with balcony and separate kitchen ($300 US), to a nice new, one bedroom apartment, with no real cooking gear and a fan, A/C extra $20 ($560AUD). Not that you need a lot of space, or AC in June/July. ‘Hotels’ are often used to refer to restaurants. 'Serviced apartments' means I have to negotiate with the cleaner what I want and how often, according to the manager here, who didn’t want to step in. Hmm. A bit awkward but negotiations are all about relationship building, and staying cool, smiling, head waggling, easy does it. People just want you to be happy and will keep asking if everything is OK? Very sweet actually.

6) Meeting a regular visitor to Mysore

I met Jennifer who's been coming here for 10 years to study with Sharath and Saraswati. She's a yoga teacher in San Fransisco, and has been invaluable at giving me tips about getting water, the places that do fresh milk, or coconut milk, the places to go for a beer, (thank god! A yogi who is not a complete saint) she showed me about how the traffic works and being assertive on scooters. She's a road cyclist and bonkers but I love her because she rides her bike around the major hairy 'ring road' and up very steep Chamundi Hill. It's just nice to have at least one person my age/culture who lives just across the park who I bump into in the neighbourhood and ask my questions.

Fancy Pants

My first led class in Mysore was not as easy as I thought it might be which goes to show, you can never get complacent with your practise, or anything in India. This is the place to have low expectations – you just end up hot, cranky and dissatisfied.

Led class is a 'called class' by Saraswati, where all the students at the KPJAYI shala practise together, breathe together, a pretty awesome experience to be in a sea of bodies moving and later singing together.

I know I'm a little late as I can hear the opening chanting start as I approach the shala and kick off my shoes on the stairs. An American woman Alyssia, is soothing her howling child out the front, who doesn’t want to be left alone. We enter the room together and it is packed. No real room anywhere, 5 cm between mats. I’m not a particularly ‘sacred’ person when it comes to tiptoeing around, how can you be in this place, where ‘personal space’ concepts seems so ridiculous! Leave it at home. So I walk over a few mats to get to the change rooms and then we are directed by David to the front, where there’s the only room left, on the stage, next to where Saraswati is sitting and calling the first postures. I am right next to Saraswati’s feet. OK. There goes the plan to blend in at the back and take it all in. My modus operandi is screwed. Again. 

Earlier in Take it or Leave it, I wrote about what is appropriate to wear in Mysore both on and off the mat. Today I decided it’s gonna be cranking hot in led practise, I’m wearing short-shorts and possibly I’ll get a disapproving comment if inappropriate, or it’ll just go unnoticed among the throng. But up on stage, next to Saraswarti, there’s no hiding now. God has a sense of humour all right. If you are worried about it, it will probably happen. That’s my lesson.

I feel a little self conscious and talk myself around. This has been a real benefit over the last 4 years of practising, learning to self soothe. Hey Sue, it’s not performance. I am on a stage but out of necessity. Don't perform yoga. Do it how you would at home. For me. Noone cares but me. It doesn’t matter who is looking and what they see, it is not our problem. I am a student and allowed to make mistakes and look after myself. Get focused. Go in, go in, go in, I tell myself. Use the dristi. Don't try so hard. Just do what comes next. I think of my teacher at home, who taught us dristi and am grateful as I realise what a powerful tool this is right now. Dristi are the focal points in each asana for the eyes to be steady, when the mind is getting agitated, to help keep calm and carry on). Perfect timing with my fancy pants paranoia, a room full of strangers, wondering eyes, performance anxiety among a lot of new-to-yoga students in the room, and All That Jazz.

The practise is hot and intense and sweaty, just what I’ve come to expect. How many times Saraswati has called that class, I cannot start to know. The count flows off her tongue like prayer, interspersed with corrections to people across the room, “Straight leg! You make it straight.” She calls the count in Sanskrit as my teacher does so I enjoy the familiarity of her voice keeping me connected to my experience and the present moment at the same time. My heart sings! As people are getting tired, she stops the beginners to sit through until backbend, watching others. “You rest. Stop! Stop. You stop.” She has a great memory and sharp eyes.

I remember being a learner – it was full of frustration, doubt, agitation, restlessness and moments of oh, wow! I did that? So... what else is possible? Hmm, sounds familiar even now!

Yoga Stoned, Squishing Ants and Grumpy Friends

A breeze comes down the street, through the coconut trees and into my apartment cooling everything. Did my first practise today at the main Shala – ‘the big one’, with all the portraits and history on the walls – and now I’m in my apartment, just feeling so great and a little overwhelmed and relieved I don’t have to have expectations anymore, of what this place is like. Now I just have to get out of bed every day and go experience it. I’m a bit yoga-stoned and everything is going slow, but feels great to not have to catch a train, make a phone call, get on with the report, or feed the dog. A cold shower, coconut oil massage, breakfast, coffee. Slowly.

The last two mornings I've been watching the young boy next door do his morning rituals outside his parents’ back door. Sometimes he stops and looks at his yellow dog lying at his feet, teasing the boy with his hairy yellow belly ripe for a scratch in the warm morning sun. A man’s voice calls out from inside the house and the boy gets focused. He has a single thick string slung diagonally around his neck and chest that religious men wear. He lifts a small bowl and sprinkles water above his head and turns around underneath it, lips moving, and crosses his chest fast a number of times, tapping his head, shoulders and chest so fast, that water splashes lightly on his fleshy brown-boy skin. It’s 8.30 and the sun is up, the neighbourhood is awake.

Typical house colours in Mysuru

I’ve been up restless since 4am waking every half hour and then finally up at 5.30 to get ready for class completing my own rituals that now set me straight.

I stepped into the shala at 6.15am full of  50 - 60 breathing hot, sweaty bodies, taking in their heat, the steam, the focus and feeling pretty excited. No anxiety, well not mine anyway. The heat does it's work on me. It's gonna be a sweaty month in here!  At home in muddy water – yeah! Feeling like this is just what I want to be doing.

I walk past a tiny woman with dark eyes, it's Saraswarthi – small but a big voice and sharp, sharp vision. She doesn't miss much.  I look for a space in the room and one opens up at the back, perfect for keeping my head down and going for it.  The woman on my right is doing second series, the young man on my left seems new to primary series. Before I finish standing postures I'm sweating all over my mat, it's slippery like never before but I just keep going. Later I realise I forgot a few asana, and after backbend, I go blank about what comes next. It's funny how familiar things  can slip and slide, too. But no-one saw me, and I think that's the trick. Don't draw attention to yourself, know what you're doing and practise with lots of gusto. Oh, and wearing shorts is fine. (See earlier posts)

I got 3 adjustments the whole practise - normally I get about 5 sometimes more from teachers back home.  Just shows with so many people not everyone gets the attention you can get from a good teacher in your home town. I wouldn't want to be a beginner here, it could feel very frustrating. There is no doubt they are selling magic here, the place is packed and it's not even peak yoga season.

I don’t need to be busy. I don’t need to sight see. It’s such a relief. I don’t feel right now like I need to meet people. Although naturally when travelling you meet new people all the time,  and it’s in my nature to strike up random conversations with strangers and it seems to me Indians are also expert at it too. Talking to other yogis is not very interesting actually. I'm a bit of a snob about it. I just don't want to get into analysis. I would rather talk to locals like I have been about directions, what kind of kitchen sponge to buy, who got the best deal, why a coffee filter needs so many useless parts. I had a conversation with the housekeeper who can't understand any English, about ants who raided my almonds and she proceeded in sympathy to help me squash ants on a plate, squatting together out on the balcony tutting in annoyance together. She was of course, just avoiding housework, and quite right too.

Sanir my grumpy middle-aged married Indian neighbour downstairs has offered to put me in touch with a local woman who homecooks veggie food daily for 100 R for yogis that you can eat at home. Fantastic. I could devour a yogi or two. I'm not vegetarian and quite hungry and lazy. Going out to eat twice a day every and being stared at by local men is a bit much, already. I’m going to have to find an answer to getting a decent feed because eating cereal for dinner probably isn’t it. Many of the places I’ve googled are closed, the tourist places are expensive. Sanir could be my new best Indian mate. I like his grumpiness. Somehow it makes it easier to trust a person who is not so keen on your affection. 

I'll tell you a secret. It's nice to be here alone, middle aged, well travelled and comfortable in myself. To have money and not suffer, or apologise for it. This is the perfect time to travel, in my view. Don't let cliches about middle aged women travelling to India to find themselves turn you off! It's great, do it, it's life, not a Top 10 list of Things I did that Others Thought Were OK. Let's face it, that list could be quite hard to complete.

It's Not Magic.

Day 1 in Mysore has been amazing. I cannot believe I am actually here and tomorrow morning I start my first Mysore style ( self led) yoga class in the main shala.

After a day of getting sorted, I’m finally sitting on my 2nd floor balcony at 6.30 pm and the sun is going down behind palm trees and the sounds of the neighbourhood, 3rd Stage, Gokulum meet me. Kids playing cricket on the vacant block, mums picking up kids from after work care across the road, street dogs barking, incessant horns blaring on the Main Road in the distance. Someone’s tv blaring, old women in bright saris strolling the street and old man in a white tunic with his younger companion stopping in the street to stare up at me. I think I met that old man outside his house, today. We talked about yoga, as I have with every second person, mostly locals strolling on the street who smile and nod and have seen it all before in this genteel suburb of the modestly wealthy middle class.

I’ve been getting set up all day and reading Shantaram between waiting for others to chatter about me and work out how they can help this ‘old lady tourist’. Yes, I was actually called that in the most affectionate way by Manju who fed me breakfast; my first dosa masala pancake with coconut mush with green chilli and hot sweet chai. That sorted me out. 

If you are a non-vegetarian, Mysore may be tough.

I could focus then on talking money, staying in good humour, remembering I might get moved again. And, thinking to get through the day communicating, what is absolutely necessary? This is a culture where you don’t want to be too difficult for anyone, it’s already hard enough with language and cultural barriers so getting along and politeness is a big thing.  Surrender and letting stuff go, like being short changed. Insert head waggle here. With this many people, it’s be the only way India works.

Literally next door to me is Saraswarthi’s shala, Pattabi Jois’ daughter who I’ve come here to study with. Well, 'study' is a loose term. Get yelled at across a room by, probably. A thrill ran through me as I realised, wow, that’s it. Isn’t it wierd that I’m a bit in awe of a 70 year old Indian lady who I don’t know who will hardly remember me if at all, and the only time we’ll have contact probably is when I’m not doing something right?! This yoga thing is nuts, eh.

I walked around Gokulum at 8am a bit foggy from only 5 hrs sleep since arriving at 3am. Enjoying the coolness, the shade of the flame trees, the peaceful waking up sounds. Looking at the washed driveways of houses, freshly chalked with these funky hand-drawn mandalas of all types, each one unique to the household. The morning rituals, so beautiful, mostly women out and about the porches, washing and sweeping steps. 

Pavement drawings

And then I was on 8th Cross and I know this is the street of the main shala. And bam! Suddenly  there it was, in front of me, a very ordinary building where a lot of people have come to practise and transform just a little bit more. I took a breath and everything inside me smiled and went 'Hmm. So this is where I'll be sweating and breathing and bending.'

The entrance to the main practise room.

It’s an honor to be here, like being handed both ends of a thick piece of rope. On one end the rope is me, my practise but the rope goes back through time, connecting my practise to my teachers in Adelaide, and their teachers, back to this place, to Sharath and his mum Saraswathi and her dad Sri Pattabi Jois who authorised my teachers, and onto Guruji's own teacher. And being here is like my turn to hold the rope.

Being here is like washing away all the thinking, imagining, internet searching, YouTube videos and yoga permutations. All the noise is gone. All the romance is brushed away by the quiet clean-floored reality and normality  of the shala, the potted plants, the empty sandals on the steps, the quiet study of students upstairs, the wall of family portraits and old black and white pictures of Saraswathi and Manju doing asana all those years on the road with dad, colour photos of Sharath holding his daughter. It's like being in the Jois family home. It's not magic, it's real. 

And now I can relax and be real in this reality and that's why I came here. To go one more step in making this practise mine. Real for me. It's not magic, it's not fantasy, it's real and it rocks. 

Take It or Leave it

Getting ready for a month stay in a new country in a monsoon climate with a traditional, patriarchal culture, I've been asking what am I going to wear? Do they do espresso in southern India? How will I get my laundry done so it's dry in time? Is practising yoga in shorts inappropriate for Indian teachers? As India is sounding more traditional in dress code than Thailand, I’ve been asking around how to avoid unnecessary social faux pas and 'fit in'. A big part of getting ready to go practise at the shalt has been my teacher giving me lots of tips and information about the teacher's in India, the unspoken expectations, the major traps newcomers fall into on the mat and also socially. Personally I love this stuff, uncovering what makes a culture tick and knowing it can make the transition a bit smoother.


Probably for the first time I’ve asked for help on things you might have thought I’d know from all the travel I’ve done and written about. But every country is different and it's interesting what other people remember about their Indian experience. It's a different trip as there is no 'itinerary'; it's more like visiting a friend where you settle into a community and neighbourhood. It’s going to be freaking hot, wet and rainy, and a very physical 'holiday'. I’m not planning on moving around much. And I’ve got an apartment to base myself at for the month. So this means I can afford to settle in, like the lotus, get comfortable in muddy water - apt for travelling in the monsoon.

In terms of packing this means taking what I need to get comfortable and maybe of interest to you if you are considering a yoga journey (do it!).

Take

• Roller, hard ball and other physio toys – you can’t get the rollers there, but I’m pretty sure you could buy a cricket ball from somewhere

• Yoga mat - apparently you can’t get good mats there, so take your own. Surprised me! 
• Normal yoga clothes. You may think India = home of yoga, there’d be a lot of yoga clothes around but when you think about it, ‘yoga fashion’ is a very western thing. I’ve been told most of what’s on sale is loose cotton shirts, fisherman pants and general clothes that locals wear. So if you are more Lulu Lemon than loose threads, bring your gear from home. 
• Movies to watch in the day. If you are not doing chanting, singing, dancing, cooking, language, meditation, chakra blending courses, then maybe you just want to watch Kung Fu Panda while eating smuggled Tim Tams. Txt me. 
• A set of light cotton clothes in carry-on luggage to change into at Bangalore airport while waiting for luggage and before doing the 3 hr drive to Mysore - it's muggy at midnight. 
• One warm jumper. Sounds contrary to the above but apparently at 4.30 am lining up for class outside the Shala it can be chilly. I’m just gonna take my friend's word for it. 4.30? yikes. 
• Your normal clothes you wear at home, (with sleeves and long pants to cover legs and shoulders) on a hot day. 
• Alcohol/hand rub - personally I think this is a gimmick. You kill bacteria with hand-washing pressure, not alcohol ....unless they are alcoholic bacteria going through a rougher than usual patch. 
• Brolly! 
• Heavy duty mosquito repellent – Southern India is mozzie country in June/July and has epic proportions of malaria and dengue fever. Buy coils over there, take tropical strength Rid 
• Good health insurance cover – don’t forget to activate it before you go if you have travel insurance via your credit card or bank. 
• Coffee - if you love it, they do french press, but not really espresso like we are used to in Australia. So take your coffee already ground over there and probably more than you think you'll need 
• Bathers - there's no beach as Mysore is inland, but there's a hotel with pool where yogis hang out ...and presumably swim and look fabulous drinking elaborate mock-tails posing in an assortment of extravagant yoga asanas.

Leave

• Shorts and short skirts – Mysore is a more traditional city and in all pictures you see the men are wearing long sleeved shirts and trousers and women are covered shoulders and legs. Showing belly however, is fine. 
• International roaming - Buy a local SIM card when at the airport to stay in touch with new local friends in the community. Internet is a bit sketchy but there are internet cafes for email and Facebook 
• Hairdryer - probably leave! But then can be good for drying clothes that stay damp in the humidity. 
• Heavy denim, jeans, anything polyester that doesn't breathe. 
• Books - opt for the Kindle. 
• Ideas about finding butter chicken - that's more central and northern cuisine. Southern dishes are more soupy, wet lentils, vegetables, breads and dairy... yum! 
• I'll tell you the rest when I get back!