The Agony and the occasional Ecstasy

I've been here at Mattindia about 10 days, but feel as if I've been here a month, especially as my body is now more or less adjusted to the initial effects of the harsh therapies and unfamiliar medicines. The first Seven-Day phase is completed, and the treatments are now marginally less painful.

What one might imagine an Ayurvedic treatment room to look like
 - as seen in a local 5-star hotel

Let me describe my typical morning session.
After breakfast I settle on the verandah with my laptop, to see what's been happening to the family on Facebook, or write up an action list for the Cathedral Congregation Annual Barbecue, which I inevitably volunteered to organise, or I search out some photos for this blog.

By contrast, this is my  treatment room

Mid-to-late morning Arjay the masseur seeks me out and I nip back to my room to park my laptop and to strip down to a discreet wrap-around and walk down the corridor to the massage room.
Any images of lush, decadent décor should be dispelled; this room looks more like a stock-room at the rear of a back-street garage than a specialist treatment room at a health clinic. To be fair, the painter/decorator is working his way round the building, and much of the façade is now gleaming white and the woodwork has adopted a vibrant shade of royal blue, and it's difficult to keep a place clean and tidy when you're sloshing around large quantities of massage oil.

My two cheerful masseurs

 The massage bench is natural wood with an up-stand all round and a drain hole in one corner. The tiled floor of the room is engrained with years of massage oil and the walls carry the scars of splashes and smears. The therapists wear everyday clothes that also bear the stains of their trade. . . BUT . . . they are superb at their job. They always work in pairs. If I am standing or sitting up, then one works on my front while another works on my back. If I am lying down then one works on my left and the other massages my right. They work in rhythmic harmony, which has a wonderful, relaxing effect.
However, as I wrote in my first post from Kerala, they have the ability to locate the precise, painful pressure points on the side of the thigh or the centre of the instep, and work on them until I am literally screaming for mercy. I have spent a whole week writhing in agony, pleading for respite and gasping for breath. Other guests give a knowing nod and smile, because they've all been through it in their first week.

Now in my second week, the nature of the massage has changed and is in general less conventional and more gentle.

Hot, slippery, soothing oil massage

I climb on the bench and lie face-down. At the foot of the bench is the boiling ring linked to the gas cylinder, and on the ring is a large pan of medicated oil, roughly the colour of engine-oil, but with a definite herbal aroma. The men scoop out oil and pour it into long-spouted jugs that look like small designer-watering-cans, but without the rose. 

They then start at my feet and pour the hot oil over me, working up and down and side to side. The effect is amazingly soothing, except when they pause on one spot and the heat builds up, forcing me to wriggle and squeal, trying to avoid the painful build-up of heat. After the best part of half-an-hour, I turn over - not an easy manoeuvre when you're totally laid-back, very slippery and dripping with heavy oil - and lie face-up. The process continues, and is almost hypnotic, though when they work around my lower waist, the sensation of a flow of warm oil, to and fro across my genitals, is unusual, - to say the least. The whole process lasts about 45 minutes, after which I sit on a chair to recover, while the masseurs clean up and boil the oil so it's sterilised and ready to use on the next patient.

Muslin bags of herbs tied into powerful scented pommels.
The nonsensical candle shows they have Art Directors in India, too.

They then prepare the pommels of herbs which are used in the next treatment.
These are squares of muslin that are tied tightly around a stuffing of herbs to form a pommel. They are put into a shallow dish of a different oil over the flame to heat, releasing a strong herbal fragrance. I then climb back up and lie down, to be pounded all over with these bundles of oil-warmed herbs. It is an exhilarating sensation, but very tiring, and by the end of the session I am dripping with a mix of sweat and massage oil. I stagger back to my room with strict instructions to sit quietly for half an hour, until my body temperature has normalised, then I can take a shower and think about lunch.
After little more than a week, I can feel a difference, and from the comments of fellow-guests, it is visible. It all seems to be working well.

A Pilgrimage Party

Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer

Walking the Camino
de Santiago in Spain

Muslim pilgrims in
Mecca for their Haj.

A pilgrimage is generally considered to be an act of contrition, penitence, whether it is the Haj or the 800km Camino de Santiago across Northern Spain.

Life was a little livelier when Geoffrey Chaucer wrote Canterbury Tales, and if yesterday was anything to go by, a pilgrimage in India can be a wonderful excuse for a party!
I had no idea what to expect from the note pinned up on the wall of the dining verandah. We were asked to be ready to leave at 06.30; all treatments were cancelled for the day and our accounts would be credited accordingly.
Of course, this is India, so 06.30 meant that we'd be lucky if we got away by seven and nobody won my sweepstake since nobody bet later than 07.25, and it well after half-past when the bus pulled away. Before we boarded, all the staff gathered in front one of the shrines in the entrance hall and recited a prayer. It seemed that they were all taking the pilgrimage seriously.

It was a couple of hours' journey to reach our destination, and no sooner had the bus ground to a halt than all the staff were scurrying around arranging breakfast. It was efficiently organised and within minutes everyone was devouring vegetable curry eaten in the fingers with chapatis and rice-flour pancakes. The group then clustered in front of one of the monumental statues and led by Joy, the proprietor of MattIndia, sang a hymn and chanted a prayer. We then all set off through the forest, climbing towards the various Stations of the Cross that marked progress.
My legs were aching from the vigorous massages of the past 4 days, and I realised I would not be able to climb the mile or so up the steep hill.I decided that the purpose of the walk was to find some spiritual solace, and I found a rock to sit on and enjoy the beautiful surroundings.

80 litres bottled water =
almost 100kg per load

As I sat there, I watched the porters follow the track, each carrying two cartons on his head, loosely roped together or tied with a cloth.
Each load was made up of 80 litres of bottled water, grossing approximately 100 kg. The journey to the top of the hill would take about an hour, and they were paid on a piece rate of 100 rupees per trip, and would make 8-10 trips per day.
Since the exchange rate is 100 rupees the the pound, they made good money by Indian standards - but they most certainly earned it!
I relished the luxury of my solitude until my fellow-guests started to come back down the mountain and, after everyone had consumed large quantities of water, we piled back into the bus for the forest by the river and waterfalls, where we would have lunch.

Thomas is generally portrayed
as a young man

Thomas was one of the original 12 disciples and is remembered for challenging the others when they claimed they had seen Jesus after the resurrection. When he did later meet Jesus in the Upper Room where they had dined together at the Last Supper, Thomas was ashamed by his earlier behaviour and became one of the most dynamic, evangelising apostles. As a Roman Jew, he could travel easily to the overseas Jewish merchant communities and sailed to South India to meet with the Jewish community and preach Christianity.

"Footprint" in the rock

He landed in India in 52AD and a shoe-shaped hollow in  a rock is revered as his footprint. He went on to establish seven thriving Christian communities in Kerala baptising thousands personally and training his own disciples who continued his work throughout central Asia.
When we later stopped to visit one of the churches, there were broad steps at the side of the churchyard, leading down to the Periyar river. Here, priests continue to hold baptism ceremonies, just as Thomas did almost two thousand years ago. It gradually dawned on me that there were Christians in Kerala many centuries before there were Christians in Lincolnshire.
After we drove away from the shrines, churches and stations of the cross, and left behind the chanted prayers and communal hymn-singing, the driver put Bollywood music on the coach's audio system at deafening volume. Within seconds, a dozen people were dancing in the aisle of the bus. As dusk descended, he flicked a switch and on came the disco strobe lighting. Everyone (well, almost everyone,) joined in clapping and singing, and the dancers were thrown from side-to-side as the coach bounced along the road.
The atmosphere was definitely Chaucerian, and everyone - having done their penance and their pilgrimage, settled into a rave.

Preparing vegetables for dinner

By the time we reached Kochi, people were getting hungry, but everything was already planned for one final picnic. 
We pulled into the front drive area of the home of someone's relative, and quickly set about preparing vegetables and putting pots of water on gas burners.

The festive mood continued through dinner and all the way home; everyone worn out and glad that the next morning's 7am yoga had been cancelled.

What is your good name, kind sir?

In 1959 I was still Bobby

My grandmother called me Robin, my father called me Jumbo, my mother called me Bobby, my primary-school teachers mostly called me Robert, and in secondary school I was Harvey to both masters and my peer group.

Bob as a VSO youth-worker in Nairobi

As a volunteer in Kenya I was Bob, though I cannot believe I ever coached boxing! 

I think that was just for the benefit of the photographer from the Daily Nation or the East African Standard. 

Was I ever that slim?

I was slowly finding my identity and by the time I went to Sussex University, I was outwardly extrovert and inwardly very confused. Nothing unusual about that, I'm sure, because when you're a few inches taller than 99% of people you are bound to feel different and struggle to find your own identity. 

After graduation I started work for Bata in Aden (Yemen) and mingled with the Colonial Service crowd, (Yes, Aden was a British colony) Historical note: in 1967 I went to the last night of the Club, which was the last existing British colonial club in the world, others still existed but had relaxed their membership rules. In Aden, the membership rules insisted that all four grandparents had to be born British. Aden knew it was the end of an era and bid farewell with a few hard-drinkers and a couple of choruses of "Rule Britannia." 
My friends in Aden adopted my early childhood name of Jumbo, then in my next post I was Robert J. Harvey BA, MInstM. 

In my restaurant, with my Italian nephew, Aldo 

So I was then Corporate Man for about ten years, but I went through a series of consecutive executive failures, until I finally realised that my face just didn't fit in the corporate world. So I went back to my love of food, wine and cookery and for 15 years I ran a restaurant. My staff christened me "Mister H," because they were not comfortable on first-name terms. Even those who later became good friends found it impossible to call me anything else - to this day.

21st century
corporate Bob Harvey

After the restaurant closed I took a new route when I discovered that there was a dearth of corporate writers. For me, writing was really "money for old rope," and in three months my turnover was greater than if had been in any 12-month period of the restaurant.
And so I am, and have been, a writer ever since. Sometimes blogging, sometimes writing for magazines, writing copy for business brochures and editing books for children. I also write speeches for executives, and then train them in public speaking.
All very corporate and very boring, so when I hit the ripe old age of 70, last month, I decided it was time to rebrand once again. 
My son in America, Tobias John Harvey, had been known as "T J" from childhood, and the name "R J" appealed to me as a complete break from the past and an opportunity for yet another new beginning. 

I rebranded myself Arjay

I am not going to go through with deed poll and make it all official, and I will still be Dad, Grandpa, Pops, Poppa and various other names - including "Bob" to those who know me as such. However, with a certain circle of close friends I am becoming Arjay, and I like the sense of a new identity.

Coming to Kerala has been the first time in a long time that I have been asked for my name.
It was the masseur who asked, as he started to coat my chest with a liberal quantity of coconut oil. 
"What is your good name, kind sir?" was the quaint phrase, and he stopped and stared when I replied "Arjay."
"But that is my name, Sir, I am Arjay! Why are you having an Indian name?"  Which was a pretty fair question, but looking at the affinity I feel for the sub-continent, was really a question that answered itself.

Staggering to bed

It was 3am when my flight from Doha landed at Cochin, 4am by the time I had worked my way through the immigration and customs formalities to find the driver who had come to meet me and 5am by the time I collapsed on the bed in my room at Mattindia. Not that I was able to sleep, thanks to a mix of exhaustion and the fact that there was no electric point in the room to connect my sleep mask (I suffer from obstructive sleep apnoea.)
I rested for a fitful couple of hours, and then tottered down to find some breakfast - fruit salad of pineapple and water-melon, then rice-flour pancakes with a mild curry of chickpeas, and a glass of freshly made fruit juice.

The medical and therapy staff at MattIndia

I then went for my consultation with the (lady)doctor, who seemed to take a rather more gentle approach than I had experienced at Ayurveda Yoga Villa three years ago. I would not be subjected to a punishing initial fast, like my last time. On the contrary, she wanted to start me straight away with massage treatments to get my circulation going and disperse the marks of thrombosis from my legs. After a day and a half travelling, my legs ached. Also, the thrombosis in my calves had been getting quite painful, and my circulation was so poor that the smallest scratch would take weeks to heal. 
First I had to sort out my accommodation, and fortunately there was no problem relocating to a room with a power point. I unpacked everything and pushed my empty luggage under the bed. I dug out a 2pin/3 pin adaptor and had just started to organise my stuff into shelves and the small desk cupboard when there was a knock at the door, and I was escorted off to the massage room.
When it comes to décor and furnishings, you get what you pay for in India: if you want 5-star, you pay for 5-star. When it comes to treatments, you probably get the best in a humble setting. My experience in the spa of a luxury hotel in Kerala some years ago,was that the massage was a sanitised version offered to Western tourists looking for a soothing experience. Here at Mattindia, the facilities are very basic, but my first treatment has been truly mind-blowing. 

Modesty towel added for photo

The massage bench in the men's massage room at Mattindia is an 8-ft long,waist-high table, the width of a cupboard door. There is no concession to modesty, and the two young men had me sit sideways on the bench in naked glory, feeling embarrassed and rather ashamed of the voluptuous size of my stomach.
They applied a liberal volume of coconut oil and took up positions on opposite sides of the bench, one working on my shoulders and the other on my chest. Their light touch was electrifying and I could feel a tingle as the stresses and strain started to drain away.
As they continued, the pressure built up, and I could feel some life returning to my lower limbs, but more was to come.
Just when I thought they had finished, they put a thin foam mat on the floor and told me to get down from the bench and lie face down on the floor. Now the real work started, They massaged my calves hard and long, and then started to look for the pressure points. 
With all the skill of an interrogator at Guantanamo Bay, they found the exact spot on my thigh,or on the soles of my feet, and started to apply pressure. I cried out and gasped for breath, but they were merciless.
This process continued for what seemed like an eternity,before they finally told me to climb back onto the bench and stretch out.
Now came my reward. They tucked me up with a heavy cotton sheet and poured jug upon jug of hot medicated water over me. The soothing water soaked into the sheet and the sensation on my body was exquisite. I was drifting off peacefully until they coaxed me back to life and escorted me in my dream-like trance, back to my room.
For the second time in 12 hours, I staggered into bed.

Kafka was an architect

And so I arrive in Doha around midnight local time. It is pleasantly warm as I cram into the coach that drives forever around the airport site as if it is looking for the terminal but doesn't know where to find it. Eventually we arrive and disembark into a deserted arrivals hall where we are forced to process to and fro through the cattle barriers that might make sense when there are a thousand people crowding through but are a rather silly merry-go-round as we troop first to the left, then to the right, then back to the left and so forth, before finally arriving before the weary official who will tell us which desk to proceed to - as if we could not see which immigration official was waving us over to his counter.

But there is no point in being impatient, because they are all the same, whether you are in Boston or Barcelona, and you are bound to get it wrong even if you take the greatest care to read the small print. I had checked on-line about visa regulations, because I had chosen an inexpensive city hotel rather than a 5-star hotel at the airport itself. I was assured I would not need a visa - and I double-checked with the airline. I could almost hear the smiling shoulder shrug and dismissive gestures in the reassuring responses. 

Of course, what they really meant to tell me when they replied with a cheery negative, was that Immigration would happily take my money off me at the airport - no need to pay anything in advance. The £18 fee, when taken with the cost of the taxi to and from the city, somewhat reduced the price advantage of a cheaper city hotel against the glitz of the airport Marriott.

When I arrived at the hotel I was met with a cheery smile from the man behind the desk. The horrendous panache of decor is a nightmare would make even Kafka squirm. In one corner, the marble floor tiles ran up the wall as if the builders had a couple of boxes left over and decided to use them up. 

The loo in my bathroom was squeezed next to the shower cubicle, but unlike the one in the photo was installed sideways, so that it was impossible to sit down because the side screen of the shower was in the way. The shower itself ran either scalding or icy and was surrounded internally with exposed pipework that had attracted grime over the years. The bed took up the entire room, leaving no space for a chair for the desk, and the two of the three electric points flickered worryingly. The airconditioning power supply emitted a threatening flash when I turned it on, and then died peacefully.

So much for a leisurely and relaxing break between flights! After being totally dead to the world when I collapsed into bed, and after a breakfast assortment (bean stew, sausage Chow Mein and cornflakes) that gave a whole new dimension to the word "eclectic," I think I shall make my way back to the airport and find a quiet corner.

And while I'm there I'll change my hotel for my return flights in May.

Grim hotels provide interesting travellers' tales, but on balance I'd rather not have one to write home about.

Into the Lions' Den

Ah! The pain and anguish of cutting out coffee

The Old Testament Book of Daniel is best known for the story of Daniel in the lions’ den, but there’s a lot about dieting too, and it’s rather interesting.

Daniel purposed in his heart that he would not defile himself with the portion of the king's meat, nor with the wine which he drank: therefore he requested of the prince of the eunuchs that he might not defile himself.  

And Melzar, the prince of the eunuchs, said unto Daniel, “I fear my lord the king, who hath appointed your meat and your drink: for why should he see your faces worse liking than the children which are of your sort?” 

Then said Daniel to Melzar “Prove thy servants, I beseech thee, ten days; and let them give us pulses to eat, and water to drink.  Then let our countenances be looked upon before thee, and the countenance of the children that eat of the portion of the king's meat: and as thou seest, deal with thy servants.”

At the end of ten days, their countenances appeared fairer and fatter in flesh than all the children which did eat the portion of the king's meat. Thus Melzar took away the portion of their meat, and the wine that they should drink, and gave them pulses.

Living without meat, fish, dairy, eggs or any processed food sounded an interesting challenge, and a way of getting into training before my Ayurvedic Panchakarma detox in Kerala and it coincides nicely with Lent. Consequently, since Ash Wednesday, I have not defiled myself with meat nor with wine (nor any other alcohol, nor eggs, nor leavened breads, nor dairy products, nor any processed foods.) The list goes on, but I won’t bore you.....but imagine!  It could be the Essex dream - a diet of chips, chips and more chips.

No tea or coffee results in initial headaches, and after three days I had very little energy, but since them I have been full of beans in more ways than one.

And I need all the drive and enthusiasm I can muster if I am to finish the packing, the cleaning, the laundry, the ironing and remember everything I need while I am away.

I must share with you all a vote of thanks to the friend who wrote to tell me I would be able to buy soap in India. That was really helpful; imagine if I had arrived soapless! 

I believe they have shampoo as well. With more millionaires than Europe, India probably has most things.

How to feel 50 years younger

Mine was just like this:
sturdy, heavy and packed with memories

The male menopause (assuming it actually exists) means different things to different men. For some it's a new romance; for some it's a sports car, but for me, it was a backpack, or a rucksack as I would call it. I bought my first rucksack when I was 16. It had a heavy steel frame and was probably ex Army-surplus. It travelled the world with me. It was manhandled out of train windows when the Simplon Orient Express stopped at some remote Alpine halt, and  it was lashed onto the roof-rack of a country bus in Africa. It crossed continents with me, and when it was thrown off a bus in the Sudan, it dropped onto the road, and the steel frame snapped. No problem: it was simply welded back together by a blacksmith in the back-streets of Khartoum.

Country buses often carried goats on the roof-rack

That bag saw a good few miles. It was luggage with personality and character; and for a while it sat in the loft in a succession of family homes while I played the Dad, and had a suitcase like everyone else. Then, 20 years ago, the kids no longer came on family holidays  and I started a new phase in my life. 

I discarded the shackles of a Samsonite plastic box, and swung a rucksack over my shoulder.Immediately I felt 20 years younger.

The latest multi-purpose
luggage from Lowe

I bought my Lowe Alpine "Round-Trip 70" sometime in the early 90s, I think. It is a wonderfully utilitarian piece of luggage comprising a heavy canvas bag, with handles both at the side and the top, and with sturdy back straps so that it can be carried as a rucksack, or - with a longer strap - slung over one shoulder. They have upgraded the design since then, but the features are the same, right down to the little square of canvas supplied for a DIY repair kit.

But times have moved on, and a disconcerting number of back-packers can now be seen in Terminals 3 & 4 with huge boxes being coaxed along on multi-directional castors. No water-filtration kit; no Primus stove, and the ridge tent with flysheet has been superseded by a pop-up nylon igloo which might have built-in Wi-Fi for all I know.

I have made my last-minute preparations for my journey: I bought a tube of toothpaste and I tried on all my summer clothes. I bought a swish new day-sack with a padded compartment for my laptop. I would love to take my iPad, but we've not had time to get to know one another yet - and I still prefer a full-size keyboard when I'm doing any serious writing.

Which is one of the main reasons for going to India for two months... but more of that later.

Meanwhile, here is a useful guide to packing your baggage:

So, no boiling up a brew on your camping stove; no running a ghetto-blaster from a car battery as in-flight entertainment, and any fireworks, ammunition or poisons must go in your checked baggage in the hold.

It was much more fun flying Air Djibouti, when the captain ran a poker school after take-off, once he'd handed the controls over to his 18 year-old son.

One thing about travelling; you're never far from a good story.

Now, when I was in Dar es Salaam . . .