I just arrived at a cozy Airbnb in Germany.
And I got here… without internet or GPS.
That’s right. I didn’t take the most optimal way to get there – following the purple Waze line on the tablet built in to my car.
Haha, we’re in the air again.
I feel quite different from “normal”.
Having spent a week in the Isha Yoga center, with daily meditations & yoga, hours of it at times, embracing mysticism and a more humble side of life … Something happened.
Even if I don’t know what. Nor could I explain it. So I’m not going to try. But maybe I kind of will.
My brain is fried.
It’s early evening and I’m writing from a hotel room in Mysore at the end of day 3 in this Indian adventure.
How come my brain is so fried, you might ask?
This story answers exactly this question, as it takes us back in time.. Back to the days of like, 24 hours ago.
It’s been too long.
I feel exactly the same, yet everything is different. Here I am again, hundreds of meters above ground in the sky, in an airplaine with destination Bangalore.
Berlin.
Street art, cultures from all over the world, street guitarists playing Jimi Hendrix covers, massive buildings, big parks, triple the amount of car lanes compared to Belgium, bad English of non-foreigners and the freedom for anyone to express himself.
A unique and wonderful place for sure!
There is alot of hype about Goa.
Many tales go around and live in the whispers of travelers.
Unfortunately, I got to experience a different reality.
This old ‘Goa’, this paradise of naked hippies raving on the beaches, peace for everyone, eternal festival, this place where one can escape from the madness of India and relax, feel home, bond with people, it seemed to me that only the story of this remains.
The story of a Goa that died.
Here begins the following 1.5 months where I wouldn’t meet a foreigner nor have any form of decent conversation.
In Kochi, I was mainly relaxing. The place was pretty interesting, being a big city, an island with an airport and another island called ‘Fort Kochi’, where I spent my time.
Undeservingly, randomly given this opportunity, to live in, experience and explore a true local village in India: Kuzhur.
Brought by an Indian poet -Kuzhur Wilson- that I had come to meet in Varkala;
Once I heard we were taking the same train to Kochi and requested him to travel together, I simply got invited to his house. In the West, this sort of invitation occurs once in a lifetime, so I gladly accepted the invitation in surprised fashion.
Unfortunately, I got to be the pet toy of a big company called British Airways, which royally and effortlessly screwed me over with joy from their mighty big company throne.
Varkala.
A writing event under a full moon that shines perhaps as bright as the sun.
Even though the mere reflection appears to be a very source of light, the potence and power of it hangs there, in all its glory.