Four months I have stayed in India (interrupted by a little two-week side trip to Thailand with my good old Markus). It was not the time to cycle for me, but I will get to that. I have visited Hampi, Gokarna, Patnem, Bombay, Dehli, Rishikesh, Daramshala, Jaipur, Pushkar,…beautiful, colourful places, even though sometimes dirty, many of them very, very shanti!

I did not cycle much, but there was things more interesting than cycling. India is the continent of enlightenment and of love.  

Detachment

Illumination feels almost graspable. However, it is the early bird who catches the worm. 5:45am the alarm breaks the closely embraced. Ashtanga Yoga from 6:30 to 8:00 and then after a veg superpower breakfast with scooty through the Indian traffic down the holy river Ganga into the arms of Guru Mooji.

2000 attentive listeners are crammed into the hall. The pre-show of Mooji’s mostly non-Indian disciples’ is Florence-and-the-machine-like love-angels singing mantras on a jambe setting the base. The stage for our beloved beating heart of wisdom: the small and fat Maui-looking Mooji Baba who has always enjoyed dipping deep into the honey pot and has the power rub you tears of love into the eyes.

On this last day of ‘Satsang’ the word is taken by souls who draw their life energy from light of Mooji’s radiating eyes, who suffer from the approaching end of his words of wisdom. He tries to convince them from the opposite of their belief into his person. Only the ego beliefs, wants to belief. What he teaches may not be unheard of, but he teaches it good. With humour and beauty of argument, analogy, and expression he turns despite, fear, and uncomfortable silence into enlightened well feeling of lightness. The mind freed from ego dissolves itself, dissolves in the experiencence of the moment. Love is the light that guides, the rest comes by itself. Problems are only where we make them ourselves: in the future, in our mind’s picture of the future, in our mind; just spectres summoned in our mind. It is our ego that fears loss of possession. Detach from your ego and you loose the fear from loss of possession, possession of the future…

Some people are overwhelmed by his teachings. Unfortunately, they don’t manage to detach themselves from the experience and they have to tell you over and over in the weeks to come…“In Rishikesh people don’t walk on the ground, they float a metre above it.” As Sabine from Heidelberg states with Badensish dry humor.

Love

And what about love? Detach from your ego when it comes to love? A Ukrainian friend once complained about her Indian lover: that he was so detached that when she asked if he would like to have sex, he replied: “Maybe, sure, if you like?”. Wrong answer!

Sure, love should not be possessive. But isn’t that incredibly hard to achieve in the first place? 

I get to experience first hand. Love can be so easy and yet so complicated at the same time when you are on the road. I learned a lot about love and detachment.

I was spoiled with a love that came from a fully open heart; I let it go.

I loved with a heart that was quite open; I was rejected.

I loved a surreal love that felt like in a dream; it has yet to become real.

I do excuse at this point, anymore details fall may into the realm of a privacy that is not mine to disclose.

Instead I will shut up and feed you off with pictures of India.

Yes, life is strong in India. It is like colour TV, while life is black-and-white in the western countries. I cannot get enough of it. And I cannot escape it. — Slim but healthy looking packs of dogs rule the beaches of Goa. When the sun is up they populate the shadows of beach chairs. They are calm and open for caress. As she descends the places within the pack are challenged and the packs’ places are challenged. Soundfully. — Since I have arrived I sleep about four and a half hours per night.

But who needs sleep when you have just arrived in India? Life blurs like a flow in front of my eyes, into my nose, between my fingers and down into my throat. The tastes, the colours, the noise.

“India is life in 3D.” Milan, half German, half Indian, 9 years down here. India consultant for foreign enterprises and expanding Currywurstbuden-owner. “Yes, I think you can get addicted to it.” Sina, something like 2 years here. Goethe-Institute, first trainee, now managing trainees. There is Rohid, a blessed Indian humour flanked with a machiavelli-joker-laughter, ohh, I instantly fall in love with his lough. Also Pavi Lustig, son of a famous german environmentalist who was preaching from his trailer in the woods, joins the lively round that animates the beach shag next door. I follow the familiar german voices from my lonely tend and they warmly accept me into their circle. 

The taste of the first banana. It is so intense, it reminds me a little of artificial banana flavour. Masala chai, too thick, too aromatic, too sweet, too spicy, too good. Watermelon juice, coconut lassi, mango curry. I eat my first dal tadka, the taste explodes with relentless spiciness in my mouth. I close my eyes and get goose bumps all over my body. Yes, I FEEL I am in India.

The smells of the street-food-stands, chai shops, incense sticks, Beedee-clover-puffs, cow shit, human urine, the composition is underlined by the ubiquitous smell of the tropic hemisphere; the smell I identify with holidays in the south seas since my first visit in Bali 16 years ago: the sharp smell of burned plastic.

The colours women wear in India. Wonderful, simply wonderful. They wear out shiny colours into the world and the planet becomes a happier place. The plethora of street signs, shops, food stands everywhere; when Indians decorate they like it shiny, a little too much is good. Even when Indians say something is “too much!”, they mean “very much”, there is not even a word for “too much”.

The children in India are maybe the most beautiful in the world. Character, love, hardship, yet a profound softness mirrors life on their faces. So beautiful — so hard to say no when they begging into your eyes.

And as a Westerner, I have to fight for every price. It annoys me to get ripped of. It is actually not the money. Compared to home I pay cheap, a blessing of globalised capitalism. It is not even the fact that I get ripped off by itself. What is annoying, is that I can’t stop wondering exactly how much I get ripped off; this nagging little judging thought…

And with eyes wide open, I see the poor, I see the crippled, I see the garbage, I see the filth, and I see the corruption. With money in India, “sub kuch milega” — “everything is available”. 

And with eyes wide open I see so much more smiles than in Europe. And so much more life around me. People selling, kids playing cricket, cars horning, scooters, dogs, monkeys, coconut trees, birds, and anywhere a random cow…

But without money you can still get a waggle and a wide white smile from the Indians that your heart is warm. What I have not seen so far on my journey is any correlation between wealth and joy.

India has as much to offer as you are willing to digest; be well prepared for diarrhoea if you want to have a big bite.

I leave the shuttle bus to the airplane for Goa. “Sir, Sir, wait! Here is your wallet and passport.” I humbly thank the Air India steward with all my heart and take another two steps towards the plane, along the beautiful Dubai-Indian woman I met in the shuttle bus. She is clouding my senses.

“Sir, Sir, wait! Here is you iPhone.” “Oh shit, you guys are wonderful! Thank you, thank you so, so, so much.”

I blush and ask myself “Where is my mind?” I look beside me and I know where it is. She smiles at me and says: “Uhh, you have good karma. Things are coming back to you. I like that.” And I like her. Usually, you sit beside a very fat man that naturally blocks one of you arm rests and leaves you with a tilted back position throughout the flight — to make things worse, the fat man is usually  disgustingly nice and and you cannot even be angry at him — This time I get the airplane seat beside the exotic, beautiful, intelligent, and deep woman right in my age. She shoves the free 2nd round of flight beers into my bag, I am at her feet. Unfortunately, destiny separates us abruptly the next day. Without a final word, without a final look in the eyes…but at least India has welcomed me with a big hug and kisses.

“How much was the bicycle?” asks the Goan customs officer. No my friend: you want money, you have to listen to a long story first. — I arrive at 4:30am at the airport of Goa. I have 20 hours of rush behind me: saying goodbyes, arranging my stuff, cycling 25km through Dubai, putting Vega in a box. Unboxing and rearranging everything again at Dubai airport while hearing four times in a row “You cannot fly Sir. Your luggage is too heavy. It is too late.” Topped off by the beautiful flight companion in the shuttle bus. I feel like in a movie (a feeling that will take a couple of days to vanish). As I see myself sleepwalking through the airport I am filled by the peaceful serenity of fatigue. —

“His name Vega, we very good friends. Vega and me cycling for 10.000km. No, I have no receipt for Vega! Why should I carry receipt while cycling 8 months? All way from Germany to Iran. Vega is good bicycle, but Vega is very much used now…” the officer shrugs and lets me continue, realizing that there is no easy money to get from me at this hour…

I step outside the airport, somebody pushes me away from my trolley, pushes it 10m to the taxi counter and then 15m to the taxi. He wants 5$. I give him 1$. He is not happy. I crave to rip the 1$ note out of his hand again. 15min later in the taxi I share the flight beers with the driver and he  offers me all the drugs I could potentially wish for. At least he starts with a cute story: on a glorious Sunday morning a certain Mr. Hofman takes a ride on his bicycle…Good morning Goa.

December 30th I arrive in Goa, new year madness is hitting me like a punch in the face amidst the final throws of the black money crisis. ATM’s spit out no more than 30euros per day, a tiny droplet on the big hot stone of party hunger, especially with prices skyrocketing around new years eve like the bazillions of fire works along the endless beaches of Goa.

The first 72 hours is psi-trans party madness around me; 72 hours UTS-UTS-UTS at no less than 120 BPM, constantly. No sleep till Brooklyn, neither in my tent: the fabric shows an evident lack of sound insulation. But no problem, when the morning sun shoves me out the tent, I just walk 100m down the beach into Fresh, a deluxe open air beach club. A little dip into the sea and let’s celebrate Goa’s freedom and the new year by dancing a Sunday-morning-Berghain dance amongst shiny people that better wear sunglasses at night…

The following days random encounters line up like pearls on a chain. And there is always a cow. I meet a tall boyish Indian of 22 years, a sharp cut face, eyes wide awake. He likes me and invites me for drinks and dinner. He is a businessman from Gujarat and sells t-shirts of his designs to supermarket chains. 20 people work for him. He is self-made; I wonder, charming as he may be, how he got there at this young age.

“It is simple, I got the markets to sign a buying agreement and with that I went to the banks and got the money to hire workers.” His eyes look innocent, they look warm. I am not convinced by the simplicity. He continues with a tricksy smile. “What I sell, hundreds are selling the same thing. There is only ONE REASON why he buys from me: because I am his friend.” His charming smile widens, his eyes shine an open look directly into mine. “From the first moment, I try to be THE BEST FRIEND HE EVER HAD with all I can give. But the only thing I want, is him to sign the contract.” I realise in this moment, I would stand the slightest chance. If he would have wanted me to love him, I would have loved him. I realise in this moment that in India, to be the number one you don’t need elbows. You need to walk over people. India may be the continent of the heart, but many Indians wear the wallet directly on the heart.

“Benno, I am the devil.” Jack speaks out loudly into my face. It is the moment I trust him. He is the owner of the “Cool Place”, the beach shag I planted my tent before. The formerly rasta-party-animal has now a one year old son. At touristic places, it feels good to trust somebody. However nice and shanti touristic places are, they are lanterns for easy-money-moths. And when people come for easy money, they tend to take easy money. So as long as you are in touristic places in India: the things that are dear to you, keep them close. Jack is the first person I fully trust in India — as far as I can throw him. I can trust him 100% that nothing gets stolen from my tent. But I can also trust him 100% that if we go party together, he be a good socialist, my money be our money, and he be a generous person…

After new year madness the Indian tourists leave. Morjim beach becomes a quite beach, it also becomes a Russian beach again. For the first time since Bulgaria I see Cyrillic on the street signs and the menus. And so many stunningly beautiful Russian women, beside not as beautiful Russian men. — I have also met very cool and also good looking Russian guys, and made very good friends among them, don’t get me wrong. But I find that nowhere else in the world you see so many couples of fairy-tale beauties along seemingly brutish (but often very rich) men.

Arambol is probably the most interesting city in Goa’s north. A wonderful crazy hippie energy rules here. Drum circles and a hippie market on the sunset beach. And don’t forget the Hare Krishna guys. I decide to join them, I am in India and why should I take myself serious? I get slowly washed into the centre and I face the leading Hare Krishna preacher. For a brief moment of ecstatic chant, our eyes meet and blank insanity stares at me. I get goose bumps. I wonder how close insanity and genius are. In this moment they seem to me two faces of a coin.

I return to the german guy watching over my bag. He is in Arambol for the Tantra convention. He exchanges a soft touch with a bypassing Tantra heart mate. He wants to win India with love. If you do everything with love everything will be good. He pays the hippie dear for his chakra-oils (the heart-chakra oils are the most expensive ones). You can pay the oil-selling hippie with credit card, right on the beach 15m away from the water. India will take his love and India will take his money. I convince him that it is not possible to drive the Royal Enfield motorbike he has bought without a drivers licence back to Germany. I wonder if the craziest people in Arambol are the ones who don’t take drugs…

Until now I spoke about the cycling, the lands and the people. I feel it is time to speak about me. How I feel and how the travelling has maybe changed me. And speaking of change, a friend told me I look different now. I guess it is time for a little self-portrait series so you can judge yourself if, besides a tan and blonder hair, my looks have changed. I feel it is hard for me to post this now, but in the end, isn’t a blog always about self-portrayal?

I found out a lot about myself. For example, that I am actually shy (what?). Yes, I am. Most of you would probably disagree and argue that I approach all kinds of people and talk a lot with them. I realised that while I walking streets up and down for half an hour before just asking people around me where to go (also, thank you Klaus for making me aware). Usually, I need people to make the first move. It does not need to be much, one sentence, a brief smile, even a quick look into my eyes may be enough and then I am ready to tell my story, and, more important, to listen to theirs. I like to trust people even if their stories are pretty wild, at least for the time of our conversation. However, what I think the next day is written on another page…

Something funny, I start to like order. Strangest thing, but the more I am changing places, the more I like to keep things in order. Chaos costs too much energy…when I arrive at a hotel, I like to unpack my luggage and put my shirts on hangers. Shirts, me, on hangers?!? I fold my clothes before putting them into the bags and I sew buttons back on my shirts when they take off. But don’t worry, I still loose stuff. I loose plenty of things, yes, but I don’t care so much. Even when my favourite ‘Ice Breaker’ shirt is gone, I shrug and accept (ok, the accepting part maybe takes a couple of moments…).

I have become more calm. If I was a man of few worries before, I am a pretty happy man now. The most valuable gift on this journey was the Shirazi mantra “Slowly. Don’t worry. No Problem.” I don’t run after things, things come to me if only I slowly but steadily move towards them with an open heart. How far this mindset is applicable also in western societies I don’t know…but in India it is the only way to go.

The boy is getting more and more lazy. The boy doesn’t write anymore, the boy doesn’t cycle anymore (the last three months I cycled maybe worth two weeks…). That is true. I found out something quite amusing: I am not a cyclist. I am a traveller. For me cycling is not my passion, I just like it and it is my favourite means of transportation, no more. I realise this when I meet Tariq from Sweden in Mumbai. He did about the same distance as me in half the time. And he likes it a lot. And he does not seem tired. Me, whenever I arrive in a city I prefer to put Vega into the corner and don’t touch him until I continue on my journey.

It is not really that I get bored from cycling. A cycling day feels so full, I have the impression that I see so much. Every evening I think back and wonder “was it really just this morning when…”.

But I have done enough of that in the first couple of months of my journey. After a while the experiences remain often somewhat superficial. And in this sense I get a little bored. Nowadays, I like to stay at places for a week or two (and often I would like to stay much longer) and dive into the local life, with openness, without prejudices. I go deep down the rabbit hole of some peoples lives and India has some pretty deep rabbit holes, trust me on that…

“You know, I ate two chocolate muffins this morning. I wanna be vegan, but I just cannot do without eggs and stuff, I feel sooooo bad.” I am speechless. But the beautiful young woman relentlessly continues gibbering meaningsless platitudes to her vegan-yoga-detox-friend at the neighbouring table for hours. Why do you come to India? You don’t have to fly around the planet(!) to have your detox yoga taught by a western teacher at some western-priced shala with veg food and adolescent-finding-holistic-morals-in-the-face-of-climate-change-and-deforestation-discussions, you can have that at home! Ok, maybe the fresh fruit juice are better here and ok, the beach is beautiful.

In this moment I realise that I have to find the passage back from this hotel california of pretty, pretty people with pretty, pretty bodies and pretty, pretty morals that softly call each other friends, and are soooooooo boring. In this moment I realise that I am drawn to the darkness. The less I judge, the more I like people that have a good relation to their shadow, that do not hide their dark side but live it out openly. They are just so much more interesting than people who hide their thoughts behind indisputable morals and their lust behind kindergarten sins.

As I see these changes in myself I have more and more problems writing the blog. I feel more and more uncertain whether the things that interest me also interest my fellow Badensers…the more east I come, the more spiritual my journey appears to me, the more ‘crazy’ my thoughts must appear from a german point of view. But as long as you don’t pay me tons of money, I write what I want. ;)

In consequence, I feel compelled to change the style of the blog. Up to now, I kept pretty close to the truth. I spoke about how I was here and there and how it was beautiful and added my blabla-analysis. I will still do that, but now, I want the blog to become more “Shantaram”-style. Shantaram is a book about a prison breaker who dives into the underworld of Bombay. I really recommend it if you wanna get a scent of India! Even though it appears auto-biographic I don’t think the author sticks too close to the truth. Yet, the book is written incredibly colourful and in a certain sense it describes India more realistic than any dry story of objective truth could.

To sum it up, here in India I want to have fun and I want to add some Bollywood-Siddartha-Shantaram elements into the observant quantum-physicists blog. I hope your coffee is still hot and that you manage to believe what you read, only for the brief moment you read it. Relax and enjoy the show. Maybe a couple of maggots as well…