While on an 8 week consulting project in Copenhagen, Denmark, I had the opportunity to extend the contract and deliver my software architecture to the offices of my client’s outsource vendor in India. This team would be doing the bulk of the work on the project. I jumped at the opportunity.
I flew to India for the final week of my contract. I was there to train-up a small team and get them started. After the gig, then take a little time to see India before returning to Denmark to explore Scandinavia for a week or two then return to the States.
When signing onto projects I try to keep enough personal time in the plan to enjoy new countries and new cities. Here was no exception. When offered to work in Denmark I planned for 8 weeks work and 3 weeks play. That flexibility paid off as I could now play a little in India too.
After a successful week of work in Ahmadabad, my clients delighted “I wish we could invite you back in a month to check in, but we can’t afford to fly you from the States”.
“If you are serious”, I instinctively replied, “I’ll check my schedule and just stay in the country longer”. I did just that. Returning 5 weeks later, I worked another intense 6 day week. Adjusting my flights for the 3rd time, I stayed a second full month. My stay in India went from 1 week to about 8 or 9 weeks.
During the first furlough I traveled from Ahmadabad by plane to Mumbai. There I got on a train for 14 hours to Goa. I beached along with packs of wild cows, and took a slow boat down lazy mangrove-lined rivers. I saw the whole coast in small chunks – all the way down to Kanyakumari, the bottom of the v-shape of India outline.
During my second furlough, I explored to the north. The state of Rajastan contained most of the marvels of the typical westerners’ trip to India. The famous ‘Golden Triangle’ of tourism covers three captivating cities of the country; Delhi (the capital of India), Agra (the city of Taj Mahal) and Jaipur (the land of Rajput kings). I sped through overcrowded and extra shady Delhi, skipped the one-trick-pony Agra (home of the Taj Mahal and not much else), and went west to Jaipur. In Jaipur and the surrounding cities, I explored desert temples, golden fortresses, and camel safaris.
While in Jaipur settling into my hostel, I chanced upon some new adventure. Hostels are social hubs for travel, essential to adventure. I’d done quite a bit of travel in my life before ever staying in hostels. In my experience ‘hostel’ were ‘bad hotels’ in Europe – meant for struggling young travelers. A substitute when budget can’t include a hotel room. However with more time, I saw that hostel-stays offer a decidedly different way to travel.
The First Encounter
Hostels in India ranged around $USD 8 to $USD 20 per-person per-bed per-nite. Beds are in shared rooms, with a locking locker for your bed. If you are lucky, there is an old slow computer with internet and a long line of travelers waiting to use it. I paid the front desk at [I FORGET THE HOSTEL NAME], locked my bag in my room and went to the internet room. Sitting down on a antique-looking daybed, I smiled a hello to the girl using one of the 3 computers. In hostels, luckily, English is the language of choice. Not just in India but worldwide. (This would later prove frustrating when trying to study new, local languages.) However there is an awkwardness where you don’t know for sure what language a given hosteler knows, so you just nod and say the universal ‘hey’ rather than start a longer conversation. At least that’s often my M.O. A guy walked in with a more gregarious disposition and proceeded to evangelize his previous evening’s dining experience to all who would hear it.
“Choki Dhani is a cultural center and a restaurant. Its quite cheap and worth a look”. Me and internet girl exchanged glances and nods. The departing travelers advice helped spark a conversation. Three hours later she and I were off via ‘Tuktuk’ taxi on a ride to dinner. Sascha was British and returning home after a year or so working in Australia. She worked in music and much later gave me a copy of her huge collection of 16000 MP3′s, which still entertain me today. We traded stories about travel, after an hour we were well beyond the compulsory “What country are you from?”, “Where have you been on this trip?”, and “How long are you traveling?”. We explored this cultural center.
Chokri Dani is a walled dinner theater with 10 stages of various levels of pomp from magicians with 3 viewers, to musicians, jugglers, and snake charmers. We put our name in for dinner and walked around. There are times when I am filled with excitement and expectation after meeting a new friend. Here I was happy to meet Sascha, but wasn’t “trying anything” and neither was she. We were both rather standoffish I guess. Weeks later she told me a comment or two in particular really intrigued her like my “Life is really amazing and I’m lucky to live it”. She was cute and smart and funny (in the classically dry sense).
Meeting Again
Sascha and I traded a few emails. We would be in Udaipur at the same time so we arranged to meet again. I arrived at [I FORGET THE HOSTEL NAME] first and booked us a room. We met on the rooftop for drinks later.
The view from the rooftop of the hostel was gorgeous. A restaurant served food and drinks, music played to a few dozen travelers seated in sofas, large lounge-beds, and traditional dining tables. The second night we’d met a group of Swiss who played music and told great stories. We made a habit of meeting each night that week on the rooftop to discuss our days adventures – whether spent together or apart. That week I was writing an article for a client’s magazine, so I saw a bit more of the rooftop (and my computer that week). I sent my new friends out on adventures during the day while I was ‘at the office’. On the 3rd night, we met a new friend as well.
Gabor, a 20-something from Hungary, approached our lounge area. He introduced himself bending left and right, stretching to show his new-found flexibility. “I have not been able to move like this for 15 years”. He continued, “My doctors told me my back condition was fragile, and any masseuse would likely hurt the situation.” I forget the particulars of his condition, but at that moment he seems perfectly normal and especially happy about it. He explained that Udaipur had a master masseuse who he’d learned of and sought out. Finishing just two sessions, this man had cured him.
Sascha and I immediately became interested, and the next day we went for a session.
The ‘Miracle’ Worker
After some meandering we found the masseuses office on [I FORGET THE STREET NAME]. The master, was in his 50′s and dressed in western clothes. He had dirty denim on denim fashion sense and a long grey pony tail. “Yes, I was able to help your fiend Gabor, and today I can help you. There is only one of me, so who will be first.” We agreed I’d hit the internet cafe and return within the hour.
I walked back in with a few fresh print-outs of my return flight to Europe and looked up as Sascha and the master descending the stairs. She was flushed. White and reddish patches on her face and neck, and she had a seeming calmness (or exhaustion) in her expression.
He continued to sell “So if you want to return tomorrow for that second session…”, she interrupted politely “No I think I will be leaving the city, thanks again.” She signed his guest book, paid, and took-off with little explanation. The master and I walked up the stairs to begin my session.
On the second flight of the stairs, we looked out a bay window in his simple, yet large office building. Regulars on the street looked up as we passed the window. “Every time I go up these stairs, they know I make $40. These people give me bad stairs. Indians don’t want to see Indians make success.” Sad. Another one of the endless examples in India of this ‘spiritual people’ disappointing me and my maligned expectations.
We walked into the massage room. I was struck by how stark it was. Four walls. White. Windowless. No decorations, no furniture, not a single thing, except a mattress in the center of the small room. A bare mattress. No sheets, towels, pillows, nothing.
Should I be “naked’ or “naked-naked” (the latter meaning no underwear). “Naked-naked”, the master replied. This was not uncommon. In my previous massages in the country this was quasi-normal. However the normality ended there.
As I disrobed, peeling my pants out from under my heels, I saw from the corner of my eye – something new. Never before had I seen – while I was taking off my clothes, the masseur was taking of his. I had a brief moment of concern that was mentally-masked by the possibility of a good story to tell (if I would live to tell it).
“Back or stomach,” I asked.
“On stomach”. Face-down on an un-sheeted mattress, he climbed on top. I could ‘tell’ he was naked. He began to whisper to himself (a very common part of Indian massages. He touched my spine three times with two-fingers pressed to together.
“Vertebrae 5, 7, and 11 are out of alignment..” he diagnosed. I thought great, let’s get started, with hasty disbelief. The following hour was “Indian Massage”. An application of oils in fast movements up and down each limb. The oils smelled good and felt warm on the skin. At times he performed acupressure, pinches of muscle, joints, and bone. The motions were ho-hum worthlessly not enjoyable at times and painful at others. Three times I was at the threshold of asking for lighter pressure, but didn’t say anything. After quite some time, I felt like I was there humoring him as compared to all my previous massages this was less than rewarding.
During the massage he talked only a small bit. He mentioned continued diagnoses and a few things here and there. From back to stomach I was completely oiled up. Upon the completion he instructed, “Stand Up, we are finished”. Or something to that affect.
The moment I stood up, I felt like never before. Spine in perfect alignment. I felt ‘taller’ by an inch or 2. This feeling would last all day. I could not help but have awkwardly perfect posture, like I was putting it on for show. Nothing strange or inappropriate happened (to me). The pleasure-during vs. after-effect was flipped on its head compared to the normal massage.
That Night on the Rooftop
That night I reconvened with my friends atop the hostel. We were quested about the massage the first moment Sascha and I had sat down by the curious group. We hadn’t discussed it together yet. We both politely nodded “It was good.” I leaned to Sascha to ask “Wasn’t it weird when he took his clothes off?”
“He didn’t take his clothes off for me”, she giggled. My embarrassment was curtailed by her continuing… “But when he first laid me down, he began to whisper and touched by back just 3 times.”
“Yes, me too.”
“He immediately knew that I had pelvic problems, I hadn’t explained a thing and he told me all about it. Its because one of my legs is just a touch longer than the other. Been an issue in sports all my life.”
“Oh…”
“During the massage he said he could fix it, but only with a second session.” Seeing the masseuses attempt at bilking a bit more money, she negated. “Couldn’t we do it today, I may not be in town after tonight”, she lied. He refused.
When descending the stairs – the exact moment I had entered to see her flushed and red in the face, he’d asked. “Look, I can fix the problems with your hips. I didn’t want to mention it during the massage as it makes some people uncomfortable.”
“What?” She’d asked.
“Well I can fix that problem, but I want you to know I’ll have to put my fingers in your ass.” She refused, and fled before saying a word to me.
For another week of traveling together we had an inside joke. Crossing the room, one of us would ask the other, “Are your hips alright? Do you need a little help?”
