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.

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.

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.