Bangalore to Budapest ~ Learning and CrossFit in India and Hungary

I recently returned from a one week holiday in Budapest. (pause) Budapest in October is a cooly restrained elegance. Dark and tightly symmetrical, the urban landscape presented this lonesome traveller with his first taste of culture shock in a very long time. After living amid the hullabaloo of Bangalore, the scantly populated shadows of the Hungarian capital seemed like a uniform ghost. A spectral, silent haunting. Especially in the mornings when the icy mist of late Autumn moved breathless across the Danube. It was not the sort of trip I had anticipated. People wait for the lights to change before crossing the streets.

In all honesty, I went to Budapest because I had heard it mentioned several times while on my last adventure in Turkey. It sounded like a place to get your hipster on, sup fine espresso and party until the early morn. And it is. But it is other things as well. Perhaps I arrived too late in the season. With Summer a slowly setting memory, the night scene did not take me in her arms. Travel is just as much about who you meet as it is where you go. I just didn't meet those kinds of people.

Instead of drinking and dancing and posing in laneway coffee houses (okay... fine. I posed in coffee houses. But only one. Espresso Embassy. If you go to Budapest, go there.), I found myself poking about in museums, wandering inspired down streets old and dark, and discussing history with not-so-party inclined individuals of a similar age bracket to my own. The quiet and introspective nature of this experience was laden with rewards. I spent much time sitting here or there, scribbling in my journal and reading Raymond Carver. These are things I have done in India as well... but when work resumes, the writing quells. The isolation made room for reflection and decision making. It also meant that I was in good shape (not hungover) and able to make it to a few CrossFit classes.

(Warning: if you have no interest in CrossFit or exercise in general, then you might want to stop reading now.)

CrossFit is young in India. It remains largely unknown but appears to be gaining popularity. In the third largest city (population in excess of 9 million) in the world's largest democracy, there are exactly four boxes to choose from. In the Hungarian capital, which boasts a population of 1.8 million, there are five. By a similar point of comparison, my home town of Melbourne (which has a population of 4 million) has at least 50 boxes in the inner city alone and over 100 if you include the suburbs. CrossFit is huge in Australia. And I have never done it there.

But it is exciting to be a part of a new fitness movement in India. And it is encouraging to know that one can satisfy their passion for this crazy stuff (my friends think I've joined a cult) just about anywhere in the world (there is no CrossFit in Antarctica or Bhutan, but there are two boxes in Kabul). Though, on arrival at the Reebok Duna CrossFit (reebokcrossfitduna.com), I was a bit apprehensive about training in new place with different people. We're a pretty tight bunch at my place in Indra Nagar (thetribefitness.com), and while I'm not the strongest or most agile fella in the place, I hold my own and usually do quite well in the WODs. So going to a different box in Budapest was a touch scary. For starters, Hungarian people tend to be a bit bigger than your average Indian. And it is in Eastern Europe, which is a part of the world associated with serious weight lifting. CrossFit has been happening there for a lot longer. The men and women are extremely fit and take their training very seriously. Writ short, I was expecting to have my ass handed to me.

And my expectations were not inaccurate. There were athletes at Duna who were doing my one rep max for squats as a warm up. The venue itself was an old warehouse space on Obuda island with a grey and brooding view of the gentle Danube. When sprints were programmed, we bolted through icy winds and rain beside the river. The industrial charm of the venue and work ethic of the athletes inspired an almost ecstatic atmosphere. I don't know if my fellow trainers shared my wide-eyed joy, but the experience of lifting heavy weights in Budapest was just too bloody romantic. I gushed as I slid a barbell back onto the rack, then thought about where else I might get the opportunity to train. Perhaps I'll hit a new PR with my clean and jerk in Berlin. Or smash a benchmark WOD while travelling in Iran. It is fun to think about.

And what new ideas about programming can be learnt by moving about, training with as many coaches as possible? While the set up and style of CrossFit gyms might be largely uniform (though I expect boxes in Dubai, New York or Shanghai would have their idiosyncratic differences), the training experience in Budapest was distinct from the one in Bangalore, and not in immediately obvious ways. Like I said, I was expecting to be destroyed by the Hungarian CrossFit experience. But this was not necessarily the case. They were hard and they were heavy. But they were not excessive. Which may or may not be indicative of a usual week at Duna. You can never tell with CrossFit. No two workouts are exactly alike.

For the very brief time that I was there, the coaches were following the 5-3-1 strength training method devised by Jim Wendler. The coaches informed me that the box had had a recent influx of new members and that this had necessitated a return to some fundamentals. I had come along during the third week of a cycle (for those unfamiliar with 5-3-1, Wendler's programming operates on a four week rotation of set/rep ranges and percentages. See jimwendler.com) so the work looked a bit like this:

Squats:
2 warm up sets of 8 reps @ 50% of your 1RM.
3 working sets. 1 of 5 reps @ 75% (or 1RM), 3 reps @ 85%, and 1 rep or more at 95%.

This obviously didn't take very long. The WOD that followed was either a benchmark like Fran (thrusters and pull ups for 21-15-9 reps as fast as possible), or a combination of movements that complemented the major lift of the day. For example, after dead lifts, the WOD consisted of sprints, kettlebell swings and lunges. All great movements for developing power and kinaesthetic awareness in the hips and pelvis.

The WODs at Tribe, on the other hand, tend to have a stronger focus on metabolic conditioning. Again, it depends on the day. And we have done a lot of heavy lifting during the short term of my membership at Tribe. But the WODs are always absolute monsters, and scaling (reduction of weight or rep ranges - acceptable and negotiable at Duna) is frowned upon. The trainers in Bangalore (at least at my box) bite off a lot and they chew hard. Bodies hit the floor in dizzy pirouettes as the final reps are performed. When the energy to rise is summoned, a stencil-like arrangement of sweat angels bears witness to the brutality of the work.

As if that wasn't enough, and inspired by my time in Budapest, I got chatting with the trainers at Tribe and we decided to start following the Wendler method in addition to the regular, one hour workouts. So Tuesday last week looked a bit like:

Week two Wendler's program: Squats (warm up plus 3 working sets of 3 reps at 70% 80% and 90%).

Then the regular class, which consisted of: a) another warm up routine, b) handstands and handstand push ups, then c) four cycles of push presses and hang cleans (eight minutes of continuous work - seriously intense shit) and then a bonus challenge of 50 burpees as fast as possible. I. Was. Dusted.

All up, the workout lasted 90 minutes. And we do this (or something that looks like it) four days per week. On the fifth day we just do the regular 60 minute programming. There is some yoga in there somewhere as well. One of the fellas I'm training with goes in for a sixth day, just for the fun of it.

Which prompts me to wonder: are we doing way too much?

If you read Jim Wendler's book (which I am), he encourages following his programming for primary lifts with some ancillary work not more than four days per week. I can't imagine his routines lasting more than 45 minutes and they are based on "tried and tested" methods for achieving maximum strength gains gradually over time. The man is a monster (having pumped out squats with over 1,000 lbs on his neck) and his method is extremely well regarded. He discourages deviations of any sort. But here we are slotting it in before a 60 minute session that consistently leaves its participants unable to descend a set of stairs. Wendler claims that the slower, less-is-more approach is designed to avoid plateaus and burn out. So is this 90 minute business sustainable? It is seriously hardcore and I don't think I've ever routinely worked so hard in my life. But it isn't as much work as the Outlaw Way (theoutlawway.com), and that's a method that made the best of the best in Budapest raise his eyebrows and exhale: "that is awesome programming!"

Will this system of training reap the desired results?

It is early days and for the moment I feel amazing. I get excited about the work and I love being at the box. It might be too early to say if the additional work is having an impact, but I am inclined to think that it will only boost what we are already doing. A recent video on the Barbell Shrugged blog (not super keen on references to Ayn Rand, but they know their lifting) revealed that brute strength is the key to success in competitive exercise.


So I/we have a long way to go if regionals are a dream one is even remotely entertaining. But, as Fernando Pessoa noted in the Book of Disquiet, "We live through action, that is, through the will. Those of us - be we geniuses or beggars - who do not know how to want are brothers in our shared impotence."

I may not ever participate in serious CrossFit competition, but I know that I want to get stronger and that this inspires me to search for the "tried and tested" methods for doing so. Why do I want to get stronger? That is a question for another time. But for now, I want to work. I want to train and to feel the effort and exhaustion shake me out of thought and reflection. I want to feel myself pushed to the limit and know that this is existence and that there is creativity, achievement and growth in all things.

Through these misunderstandings between myself and the world, I want to feel alive.

Waking Up

It has been a long time between posts and not for lack of things to share. I have been ruminating extensively over the role of writing in my life. Its function and demands. Journalling is something I have always done, though to varying degrees of intensity, and blogging was more survival technique than habit when I travelled through India and parts of Europe in 2008. After that, my desire to describe my life in psuedo-metaphysical language gradually tapered off. When I came back to India is 2012, I was optimistic that new surroundings would provide new inspiration. And inspire it did, but not in the ways I anticipated.

Ask the musician Scott Walker what he has been doing in the lengthy periods between recordings and he will answer simply: "I have lived". And perhaps that is as specific as one needs to be. The process of decision making is an odd one, and I rarely understand why I do anything. But when I look back at the story of my life, everything seems to fit together. Even those moments when I really thought I was making a mess of it, retroactively turn into glistening sign posts that marked the way. Anxiety and fear can overwhelm and consume us as we negotiate the schisms between who we are, what we feel and where we think we should be. But even though I might have been tearing myself apart in side, there are few regrets that I carry with me. As one of Tolstoy's charismatic protagonists reflects in War and Peace, "I have lived well, but thought badly." And in similar moments of romantic solitude, one might almost feel the influence of some spiritual navigation system. A voice deep within, whispering directions as we stagger blind among the scattered debris. Call it intuition, spider senses or simply "the heart" - retrospectively, we can convince ourselves that all the time we were being tossed this way and that on confusing tides of consciousness, we unconsciously knew exactly where we were going.

And, if I am honest about it, most of the big changes in my life have required very little conscious thought. They seemed to emerge suddenly and without effort, and always at the right time.

For example, ask me a month ago what I was planning to do this year and I would have told you a story about a 30 something male who has spent over two years living in Bangalore and now feels it is time to start preparing for the next adventure. The next place. Somewhere new and abundant with possibilities. Funny how things change so suddenly. I am now thinking about staying for another two to three years, completing my masters in education, and immersing myself in the local fitness scene. And none of this would have made any sense (and perhaps still doesn't) until two weeks ago when I first walked in to a CrossFit Box in Indra Nagar.

The slow road...

Those who have known me a long time may recall that as a child I was one of the least physically gifted students in my school. Awkward and uncoordinated, my enforced participation in team sports was routinely preceded by the crushing experience of being chosen dead last by whichever team captain drew the shorter straw. In a combined class of almost sixty students, this public display of sporting/social status was a slow and tedious process that brought ones' willingness to participate into bleak alignment with a quietly deteriorating belief in ones' ability. The result: I hated sport.

And I still don't especially like sport. Or sporting culture for that matter. But I am hopelessly obsessed with exercise, and have been a serial monogamist with different physical disciplines since my late teens. Weight lifting, basketball, juggling, fire twirling, acrobatics, trapeze, physical theatre, dance, yoga, etc. I even trained as a massage therapist way back when I first graduated from high school. One can conclude that he has a certain, almost spiritual fascination with movement and the body. And this fascination has now settled into regular attendance as a CrossFit gym (or "box") in Bangalore. I was doing my own version of CrossFit for the last nine months at a regular gym in Frazer Town. But since moving to a certified venue with certified trainers, where I am participating in structured (near ritualisitic) workouts with like minded devotees, my life has changed. Dramatically.

There is a popular adage, parodying the initiations in David Fincher's Fight Club, doing the rounds on fitness related social networks: "The first rule of CrossFit, never shut up about CrossFit." Similarly, an image of a woman crumbling in what appears to be a nervous breakdown laments: "Accidentally asked a CrossFit person about CrossFit. Lost 45 minutes of my day." I have seen the eye rolls that CrossFit discussion inspires in those with no personal connection to the activity, and so have done my best to remain mute about it when in social settings. But these amusing memes seem to reflect a certain hostility towards the form. And, perhaps understandably, the rise of CrossFit has triggered a lot of critical debate about the sport's pros and cons. Indeed, many remain reluctant to acknowledge it as a sport at all. But, say what you will, CrossFit has tapped into philosophies and behaviours in a creative way that strongly appeals to and reflects the values of the current Western Zeitgeist.

However, I have no desire to enter into the various debates that surround CrossFit here. Let's leave that for the fitness journalists, sports critics and exercise ambassadors. What I can say with certainty is that I have felt a profound sense of peace since I started participating in this multi-facted, dynamic and extremely intense form of exercise. It is a peace that has eluded me for many years, and I have only known momentarily and in specific contexts. I felt it while trekking in Nepal, and I have had glimpses of it while attending butoh dance classes or when on stage with Chotto Matte. But this calm in exertion is a slippery fish, and has never lasted very long. When it happens, I feel like I am present and love can flow through me. Whatever that means.

But it seems oxymoronic to suggest that a discipline that is so demanding, so overwhelming, so all consuming in its moment of action, can induce a profound sort of inner tranquility. Take a look at the images of army personnel pasted all over the Cross Fit website (www.crossfit.com), or consider the "go hard or go home" attitude that has become synonymous with the method, and inner peace may sound like an unlikely bi-product. But, oddly enough, this is what I have found. An almost spiritual connection with "the moment" through the performance of extreme physical exertion. Actually... to me that makes perfect sense.

In Waking Up, Sam Harris observes:

Most of us spend our time seeking happiness and security without acknowledging the underlying purpose of our search. Each of us is looking for a path back to the present: We are trying to find good enough reasons to be satisfied now.

Acknowledging that this is the structure of the game we are playing allows us to play it differently. How we pay attention to the present moment largely determines the character of our experience and, therefore, the quality of our lives.

For me, this echoes the belief that presence - a full and electrifying immersion in "the now" - is essential if we are to live full and authentic lives. No matter what the medium, we all seek a connection to the present moment, whether it be through art, song, writing, meditation, dance or travel. We all want to feel alive now. And perhaps the medium changes as we pass from one age to the next. I can think of no one for whom a single "something" is "everything" all the time. But for me, right now, CrossFit has become that medium. The vehicle through which I have been able to transcend fear and doubt and become completely and utterly present. Left lying on the floor, drenched in sweat, my heart thudding desperate in my ears, I forget about "I" and the self conscious stories that orbit that foggy illusion. Attending absolutely to the specifics of the workout, I feel peace and quiet. An ecstatic calm emerges that is perhaps only possible when the obstacles one faces are immediate and measurable. In this state of accelerated crisis, the luxuries of fear and anxiety fade. One must simply cope with the all out and uncompromising demands of the present.

Like I said earlier, I have been a serial monogamist with physical disciplines, and CrossFit may sooner or later become another abandoned vehicle, rusting by the roadside. But for right now, it is working for me. And, if I am to trust that this thing has emerged at the right time and that my heart or spirit or whatever has brought me here for a "reason", then I guess I should immerse myself in it fully. I have even started running CrossFit workouts at the school. We also have a blog: siscrossfit.blogspot.com. And after those sessions with my students, I feel my entire being buzzing with optimism. So, while it may have been a long time since last I published, know that I have been living and that it has been a tumultous dance through a hazardous labyrinth. But one way or another, the heart finds the way.   

Take care, and thanks for reading.

Run Just Run.

I am on holidays and have been for what must be 5 weeks by now. Without the formal structure imposed by work place routine, time seems to mumble by with an anxious lethargy. One wakes later than normal. Potters about. Listens to something. Watches something. Reads something. House work is done when circumstance necessitates. Efficiency is compromised. Productivity declines. And the days blur into weeks and it goes so quickly. Like sand slipping between the fingers. And perhaps this is all part of some greater cycle of energy accumulation and expenditure. Within the teaching field a simple program of rest and recover during the holidays, followed by terms of effort and work.

But I think there is more to it than that.

I often speak to my Drama students about the importance of being "present" when on stage, as well as while performing the most mundane tasks that daily life demands. Writ alone, this sentiment rarely inspires more than silent nodding and blank stares. But if we insist on further discussion, the value of "presence" on stage and what it has to teach us about how to live becomes apparent. The performed moment is a demanding one. Suddenly thrust before an audience, actor-students find themselves carrying the burden of delivering a story, from memory, using only their bodies, voice, the space and objects provided, often while working with other individuals. It is a terrible risk. Mistakes happen. Lines are forgotten. In the heat of the moment, actors over exert themselves and things fall apart. And audiences are hard to please. To ensure that a performance is interesting for an audience (though there is no guarantee), actors must be focused. They must listen to each other and themselves with the utmost attention. When watching sand run through his/her fingers, or gazing into the empty sockets of a human skull, the actor must engage with those lifeless shapes as though each were the most important thing in the world. To really invite an audience in; to make them believe in the power of the moment, an actor must be completely present in the performance of his or her art.

But how is this relevant for understanding how we might learn to live "better"? Michel Foucault has famously observed that each individual should consider their own life a "work of art". He writes:

"What strikes me is the fact that in our society, art has become something which is related only to objects and not to individuals, or to life. That art is something which is specialized or which is done by experts who are artists. But couldn't everyone's life become a work of art? Why should the lamp or the house be an art object, but not our life?"

In a similar vein, the Japanese Butoh dancer Kazuo Ohno believed that we should see our daily lives as a dance. He claimed that between the dance one performs on stage and the dance one performs in the kitchen, there is no distinction to be made. That is, in each moment of our lives, whether on stage or walking down the street, contemplating suicide or brewing a pot of tea, we must have life coming out of us. If we conceive each moment, with or without an audience, as a dance (or work of art), then we are present, engaged, and alive. We make it our own, and we do it on our own terms. Of course, students are usually quick to identify the difficulty in sustaining such a high level of "presence" day in day out. How exactly does one dance sleep? And sometimes when you've been at school/work all day, all you want to do is flop in front of the television and vague out. Being "present" can be hard and to do it all the time can seem impossible. I agree with the students on this point. Quiet time is essential. But there is rest and there is rest. Meditation is relaxing and rejuvenating, as can be a walk by the sea or sitting in the garden. Introspection and aloneness are essential to maintaining balance and wellbeing. But if we meditate with intent, or wander the streets with our eyes open, then we do so with presence.

These ideas are bound up with the awareness of life's finitude. As I have said to my older students, though we know not when or how, we are all going to die. And everyone we have ever met, known, kissed, punched or had a drink with is going to die. Though we banish it from conscious though, it is the cruel reality of the human condition. And it is what makes life sacred. It is why we must strive to make each moment count. It is why we must insist on being present. Just before he passed away, the co-founder of Butoh, Tatsumi Hijikata, summoned his friends to the hospital. When they had congregated around his bed, he told them that he knew that he was going to die and that he was going to do so very soon. As they stood by the walls and in the door way, he struggled up out of his bed and danced for them. He danced and he danced until eventually he collapsed onto the floor and died.  He danced his own death, and in doing so he took ownership of it. Until the breath left his body and his heart stopped beating, he was completely alive. Completely present. This was his gift to his closest friends. This was his final teaching.

I'm aware that all of this stuff about death and presence might seem a bit morbid for a high school classroom. The finitude of life is rarely the conscious topic of dinner time conversation, and usually something we would prefer to ignore. But should we not at least try to be aware of the bigger picture? That death will happen and that without it life would become meaningless? Does this not provide the necessary perspective for living a life free(er) of unnecessary stress and anxiety, and for being able to really feel the beauty and the poetry of our experiences? We have to use our imagination to do so, but that sounds to me like an effective use of the creative mind. Is that not the real point of education? To be able to think, to reason, and to see things from multiple perspectives. To not be eternally trapped in our own narcissistic bubble, convinced that the peak hour traffic, jammed photocopier, screaming children and cockroaches are all part of some elaborate scheme to frustrate and inconvenience "us". To help students to see the sacred in physics, the dance of math, the science of language... phenomena that exist in an unforgiving world that continues to turn with magnificent disinterest in the worries of a species so small and insignificant. To infuse this world and these things with poetry and humour, music and movement... that is our power. That is what it means to think creatively.

Speaking less formally now, all of these ideas have sort of been blurted out onto the screen without my meaning them to. When I started writing, I thought I was setting the scene to discuss my recent experiences as a road runner in Bangalore. And of course, there is much to be said on that. I love to run in the rain, and have a regular circuit through the winding streets of Cooke Town. Noisy traffic and beautiful tree-lined roads, peppered with rubbish piles and children playing. Today I decided to take a longer run along the train line and through parts of Bangalore that feel almost rural. Cows scratch their shoulders against rusty pipes while old men smoke beadies on the step of their mud-brick homes. It is a cool, monsoonal Friday afternoon and perfect for getting soaked while soaking up the heady aromas seeping from Hindu temples and Indian kitchens. I wanted to stop and walk, but pushed myself to keep running. A truck stopped to offer me a ride, which I declined. School children waved and offered high fives, which I accepted.

Exhausted and happy, I have no idea how I will spend my evening. It is raining heavily so perhaps a quiet one at home. Whatever I do, I will endeavour to be present.

The stillness of the body

The following entry is an excerpt from an email sent to my mum only a short time ago:

Hi mum, it is 1pm here, so I'm guessing it must be 9.30pm there... Or something like that. Zanzibar has a gentle, lulling rhythm. It has rained every morning, and on most days this has given way to deep blue skies over tranquil, turquoise shallows. Today is a grey and gradual emptiness, stretching white sand into coral green before dissolving back into the paper white lines of surf that can't be heard. I cannot see the reef, but I can see where it must be. The ocean breaks so far out, and all between here and there is sand so soft it is like cake between your toes. Women wrapped in brilliant colour find their way between the jagged stones with bundles of seaweed born upon their heads. Since our arrival, we have cooked fish over hot coals by moonlight on the beach. We have heard the noontime call to prayer while waist deep in an African sea. We have drunk our coffee while lightning shoots like ripples creasing cross the sky.

In short, it is beautiful here. Yesterday we drove to Stone Town (about 45 minutes away). It is a bit of a tourist Mecca, though we are lucky enough to be here out of season. The Zanzibar coffee house would make the ideal setting for reading Bolano and Rimbaud (I came good on one of these), and the labyrinthine streets remind me of Barcelona. The Barrie Gothic, only tropical. And African. And very, very poor... And the art is in the street and no sign of Picasso or Goya. And the old men and the veils... and the monkey huddled in the Rasta's crooked arm. 

No... I guess it is not so much like Barcelona. Only a labyrinth of shops and art and smells like spices cooking and cafes. "You turn your head away. Oh the new love! You turn your head back. Oh the new love!" And I remember Hemingway's utterance about blunting the pencil while wondering the world, so that new illuminations may be written once back in the chambers of familiarity and the mundane. But this place inspires and seduces, and it is easy to imagine never having lived anywhere else and to never leave again. And still my heart peers anxiously to a world remembered, made accessible through the burdened blessings of technology.

The tide is coming in. It rises like blood or milk flowing into the heart. Tiny boats now bobbing gently, that until an hour ago sat lifeless on awkward pillars of stone. Flies are dancing on my food. Without meaning to do so, I have used this email as a rehearsal for a blog entry. Sorry for that. But I am comfortable, well fed and well rested. And I am in a beautiful part of the world.

I hope that you are well. I love you all.

Floating face down on seas of delectable bliss

I have not yet found my voice. Though it would seem that I have found my feet. And while my feet wander free, it is not often that I feel the looseness drift up into the throat that I might share stories of my time here. There are reasons for this, but this is not the place. Suffice to say that whenever I sit down to share (not write, for the private writer knows little inhibition), a self consciousness seizes me. What the hell do I think I am doing? Publishing random bits of information about my poorly arranged life? What audacity! To think that anyone should read these unimportant stories about some lost stooge who has thrown himself into the vaguely unfamiliar, hoping that his life might rediscover some aromatic wind of adventure. Forgive me if you're reading this. I shall do my best to stick to details, external to myself, that might somehow amuse the reader:

Taking up the challenge from the hipstamatic posters...

In my quest for good local places to eat buttery dosas and thalis,  I recently discovered an excellent blog published by a Bangalorean woman: 

http://aturquoisecloud.wordpress.com/2011/04/13/the-great-bangalore-breakfast-specials/

Unfortunately my apartment complex is about 12kms north of Central Bangalore, and I don't like the idea of travelling too far for breakfast. But I've recently been getting out on the local buses, and this added to the excitement of going on a quest for food. Not to mention that on weekends my alternative is to spend the whole time lolling about in my apartment, which will make a brother crazy.

So with a list of potential venues in the Malleswaram suburb (and a few traditional music schools to inquire at) scribbled into my diary, I set out on a bus that looked like it had been an air-conditioned, luxury vehicle in a previous life. As proud as I was of travelling on the bus, with the locals (working faces not necessarily pleased to see a foreigner on their early commute), it took bloody ages for me to get to my destination. As in most parts of the world, buses don't run so regularly on weekends, and my chosen route was an obscure one. But my efforts did not go unrewarded.

The rickety bus hurtled past one of the venues on my list. The exterior of Veena Stores boasted a crowd that would rival the Boxing day opportunists moments before sale time, so I decided to catch the next stop and try my luck at Central Tiffin Rooms. From the outside, CTN appeared to be crawling with people in a manner not unlike the hordes of ants that laboriously dissect the carcasses of recently deceased spiders in summer time. My appetite won out over the waves of anxiety and I elbowed my way into the sweet smelling darkness. It appeared that finding a table would be like trying to locate a contact lens in a spa bath. I pushed my way to the back of the cafe, parried a series of startled looks, experienced an intense moment of self doubt before hustling my way back to the entry. The person in charge of collecting money from patrons gave me a curious look, then pointed to a table that had one seat free in the furthermost corner. One of the waiters took it upon himself to lead me there, wipe my seat then ask me what I wanted. Do (2) idli and eck (1) butter dosa, I blurted and he folded back into the heaving darkness. My neighbours made little effort to conceal their interest as I munched on my idlis and dosa.

I should point out that after eating in local joints for most of my time in India in 2008, and for the best part of my 3 weeks this time around, while I love the local fare, one can start to think that it is all of a similar quality. From one cafe to another, there seems little difference between vadas, dosas, chutneys, thalis. However, my perspective has received a necessary adjustment. The breakfast at the Central Tiffin Rooms was absolutely extraordinary. The dosa crackled and melted in my mouth as the corriander chutney simmered on my tongue. Amidst the grubby surrounds, barefoot wait staff and teeming crowd, I felt momentarily set adrift, floating face down on seas of delectable bliss.

I washed down the dosa with a chai and set out into the streets. An unexpected bonus to go with my breakfast: a festival in honor of Sri Ganesh is soon approaching, and to mark the occasion hundreds of women had set up in the street to create mandalas out of chalk, seeds, candles and earth. I wandered aimless among the myriad mandalas, gazing transfixed from one spiralling meditation unto the next. 

A young woman asked me how I had come to know about the event and was delighted when I told her it was an accidental discovery. It would seem I was the only foreigner fortunate to stumble through Margosa Road that morning.

Then there was more time waiting for and riding buses. Exercise at the gym and another delicious lunch served on a banana leaf just up the way from my apartment. Some colleagues and I met for dinner at the Sheraton (a valuable lesson: if the food is being served in an expensive hotel then chances are that it will be awful. The vegie burger at the Sheraton cost me $12. The lime soda was $5. Breakfast and lunch combined (with chai/coffee) was less than $3 all up. The burger was near inedible), then went to see a production of The Seussification of Romeo and Juliet (I did not know that this pantoesque adaptation existed until a few days ago), directed by a local dramatist (who I have replaced as Drama teacher at Stonehill International School). 

Despite the assorted satisfactions of yesterday's outings, I did not sleep well last night - this is how things have been for some weeks now - and woke feeling lethargic and deflated this morning. Being Eid, I knew that most of the shops and restaurants would be closed today. But, being Eid, I also knew that there would be something happening somewhere. And so I dragged myself out of the apartment and set off on the bus to the most famous Mosque in Bangalore, the Masjid E Khadriya. I had no idea what to expect as I made the corner approaching the mosque. What I found was a beautiful building bulging with men of many ages all adorned in white robes and taqiyah (prayer caps). Unable to approach the entry to the gardens, I was welcomed to join a man and his sons not far from the elaborately decorated gate. Recitations from the Quran bubbled and hissed through loud speakers with majestic intensity. The man stared into his hands and uttered prayer while his boys unashamedly stared at their anglo attendant. After a moment one of those nearby handed me a prayer cap of my own and I sat in stupefied reverence as a paparazziesque storm of camera phones hailed all about me. Insistant beggars tugged at my sleeve and the chanting thundered on. I caught glimpses of those glistening minarets. That wondrous onion dome. 

And then the chanting stopped. People staggered to their feet and handed back each others' shoes. The stream of human traffic haphazardously negotiated its way back up Miller's road, away from the Mosque, and into the wind.

I decided to walk back to the MG Road area (good bookshops, restaurants, easy passage home, etc.). A 4km wander through old Bangalore. I recall someone telling me back in January that Bangalore was a terrible place, full of American style shopping malls and commercial enterprise.

True. Bangalore is a thickening example of booming economy India. I have not talked about the skyscrapers of UB City or the various malls that pepper the city limits. They do not interest me, though they embody an extreme of irreconcilable social inequality.

But. If one ignores the well trod yellow line of Bangalore's main roads ("safe" main roads and commercial districts appear in yellow on road maps) in favor of the narrow lanes and destitute bazaars, there is a world to be discovered, rich in the twin polarities of life and death. Cows tussle over scraps udder deep in rubbish, while veiled women light candles at awkwardly stationed idols. Tiny shops pedalling all sorts of trinkets. Old men stooped over who knows what. I stopped for a chai and talked cricket (a point of reference) with two muslims.

I felt that wind of adventure (tho I shudder to call it such) for a moment there. Faint. Despairing to be found. A fleeting awareness, embedded in the crumbling walls of a melancholy street. One of hundreds in a labyrinth of human perseverance. Audacious or no, this is one more story. Unimportant. Absurd. Lived. I thank the writer, the women who create their mandalas in the middle of the road, the man and his sons. In the shade of mega malls and soaring enterprise, there is music to be heard, dosas to be devoured.

I would go on. But I won't. There are classes to prepare and a dinner to be made.

Until next time the winds are calling. I thank you. For reading.

Early days

It has been a whirlwind few days since my arrival in Bangalore. And I have to keep reminding myself about the quantitative aspect of that sentence - a few DAYS - not weeks not months but days. Because it feels like I have been here a lot longer. It also feels like I have been here no time at all.

The arrival has been smooth. The good folk at Stonehill International School have gone to great ends to ensure that all of the new hire staff (17 in total) feel comfortable, well fed, prioritised. They value their staff and this shines through in the attention to detail. The size and facilities of my apartment far exceed my needs. After sharing with students, artists, academics and cafe staff for the best part of ten years, I now have a 13th floor apartment all to myself. Gym, swimming pool and tennis courts. The muslims that run the local grocery store stare at me with unexpected affection and ask questions that might be considered invasive in Western countries. It is novel to be a novel animal.

The school itself is remarkable. Large, open designed workspaces and optional outdoor learning environments for the primary years. The gardens are beautiful and security guards pepper the lawns. A bus collects the staff for delivery to the school each morning (a practice that shall be maintained until the end of the year - by which point we are expected to have our own transport - on these roads?). Upon arrival at the heavily fortified gate a guard checks the front of the bus for explosives - then gives us the ok to proceed.

The school has great facilities and employs a full-time snake catcher. Yesterday he caught a seven foot long cobra just out front of the admin building. Several staff members ran to his aid as he held the snake by the tail and warded off its coiling stabs with a short stick. He trapped its erratic movements before seizing its head while the body thrashed in opposition. A guard appeared with a fabric bag (apparently designed for the occasion) and our hero nonchalantly held the snake aloft while it bounded against his arm and shoulder. He popped it into the bag as though he were Santa delivering a sweet into a stocking, then carried it about, smiling while we marvelled at its contents. The school employs a great number of people to fulfil its many requirements.

Way back in January I was employed as an English teacher. When I arrived at the school on Monday morning I was introduced as the Drama teacher. This created some confusion. I will be teaching some English. But I am the new Drama teacher. Which spins me out a little.

Any of you who have followed my blog will know that I was, as a writer, at my most industrious when last I was travelling. I continued to write after I got back to Melbourne, but the spark had gone out of my pen - I had stopped journalling, and the occasions for publishing were separated by greater intervals. It was the desire to rediscover this spark that sat behind my decision to move overseas. I believed that working with motivated students in a foreign land might create the necessary context for reigniting that creative fire. But the subtle difference between being an English teacher and a Drama teacher makes me wonder if it might be a different set of coals that receive the stoking. I haven't written a scrap in my journal yet - and this first blog entry comes five days after my arrival - which might not sound unreasonable, but I had expected to be wilfully blogging by day two at the very latest. Perhaps it is because my arrival has been so carefully planned and catered for - I have yet to find the deep end. Perhaps it will be as simple as taking away a few ingredients, or adding a few. Or maybe a different skill set will need to be cultivated. I have only been here a few days. It has been an extremely busy few days. And it is way too soon to know.

From amid the whirling winds of Bangalore, thank you for reading.

dream

A cocoon left on a table special made new born cots and spinal correction beds. Weightless sinking into fire the corpse left beneath a bridge in late winter. I stand expectant as the military sky thunders all and quaking.

One wing strums and then another. Transparent and web formed glistening wet halogens. Struggling like a larvae

Waking.

Waking found a man not sure were it dreamt of being a butterfly? Were it now a butterfly dreaming of a man?