SPIRITED & SPIRITUAL
ON THE COAST OF SOUTH INDIA BEACH-BOUND TOURISTS MIX WITH HINDU PILGRIMS
The Boston Globe
(photos by Caleb Kenna: www.calebkenna.com)
>Author: By Ethan Gilsdorf, Globe Correspondent
>Date: 11/09/2003 Page: M1 Section: Travel
>Ethan Gilsdorf is a writer and poet who lives in Paris
GOKARN, India The baby cow munching on our trip itinerary as Isabelle
nursed her foot and I jogged to find an auto-rickshaw was the final, karmic
coincidence that endeared me to Gokarn.
After all, hadn't someone smudged a red dot on the calf's forehead? Hadn't
it ambled over to offer us a blessing? To ensure a rapid recovery from
the sprain?
The Tuesday of Isabelle's injury was auspicious. We had spent the day
on beaches named Om and Paradise. We had seen wild monkeys and a pod of
dolphins. And, 10 days into India, we still had not gotten sick.
(continued below...)
Ever since arriving in Gokarn (also called Gokarna), one of India's holiest
Hindu pilgrimage towns, on the Arabian coast south of Goa, we had been
lulled into a reverential state of mind. We started to connect insignificant
details of our trip into meaningful patterns. The layers of nuts, muesli,
and yogurt in our morning cereal, the scrap of newspaper that wrapped
our jaggery-infused sweets, even the hurt foot seemed laden with hidden
purpose: to make us pause, reflect, take stock.
After spending several days here, who could blame us for seeking wisdom
in the ora cle of the calf? For Hindus, Gokarn is a place to be cleansed
of one's misdeeds and put back on the right path. For non-disciples, it
is a place to soak up some of the residual spirituality from a beach hut
hammock.
But who were we kidding. We were no followers of Shiva, Ganesh, or Vishnu.
The cow, indifferent to our caresses and spiritual questions, only wanted
food. Trying to tug the papers from its mouth, we watched as a chunk of
our travel plans went down its throat.
. . .
In early December, two months after the rainy season ended, my wife, Isabelle,
and I began a three-week trip to South India at the country's southernmost
tip, Thiruvananthapuram (also known as Trivandrum). About midway into
our rail, bus, and ferry journey up the western coast, we passed through
the state of Karnataka and stopped at Gokarn.
It is here that the elephant-headed god Ganesh is said to have tricked
the demon king Ravena, who had stolen a lingam, a black stone phallus
endowed with holy power. Ganesh offered to hold the lingam so Ravena could
pray. Ganesh cleverly plunked down the lingam and the gods quickly filled
it with the "weight of three worlds": heavy stuff. Ever since, the immovable
lingam has rested in Gokarn's Mahabaleshwar Temple. Repenting Hindus travel
here from thousands of miles away, for one glimpse of it is said to wash
away all sin.
In this respect, Gokarn resembles a small-scale Lourdes, full of faithful
transients hoping to be cleansed and souvenir vendors profiting from the
flurry of religious activity. Yet Gokarn remains a humble settlement.
With its mix of wooden, mud, and brick buildings with balconies and low-pitched
roofs lining the town's three streets, Isabelle likened it to a 19th-century
American Western frontier town. Withered, white-mustached men drive wooden-wheeled
ox carts. Stray dogs and cattle rummage through the gutters of the main
street, looking for trouble.
Only here, the shops don't sell chaps, ammunition, and hardtack, but bronze
idols, flower garlands, and masala dosas. And it's not cowboys and gunslingers
filling saloons, but Hindus thronging three ancient temples set within
a small maze of shaded streets.
Protected by coastal headlands and slightly complicated to get to, Gokarn
and its beaches are spared the massive tourist exploitation to which Goa
and its endless sands some 96 miles to the north have succumbed. No high-rise
resorts or thudding club music spoil this shoreline. Rather, half a dozen
basic hotels and guesthouses blend well into the ancient settlement, sparing
the main beach. At dusk, as snack carts begin frying up their evening
meals, children play makeshift cricket on the sand. Worshipers dip into
the waves under sunsets of smudged saffron and smoky eggplant.
Gokarn reveals its second, secular side to hardier travelers. Accessible
only by boat or an overland hike, a few secluded beaches attract small
bands of Brits, Germans, Australians, and Israelis. Each day, backpackers
amble down Main and Car streets as merchants beckon, selling yoga pants
and orange-colored fabrics. Competition is intense. One vendor was so
thrilled we bought a shirt and some cloth, he kissed the 300 rupees ($6.50)
loads of cash for many Indians who get by on 10 or 20 rupees a day. No
wonder they all call out, "Sir, good madam, just take a look!" and are
all smiles.
If Westerners are politely if incessantly targeted by shopkeepers, none
of the attention is meant to make them feel unwelcome among the generally
tolerant and curious South Indians. Though 90 percent of the tourists
are Hindus on religious holiday, the region is known for its mix of Muslims,
Christians, Buddhist, and Jains. Even enclaves of Jews and Zoroastrians
exist.
Although some foreigners dress like bare-chested "pujaris" (pilgrim-guiding
priests), non-Hindus are still not allowed in the temples (because of
incidents of disrespectful behavior). By treating us differently in this
one respect, the town reflects its tacit goal of guarding its sacred side
from exploitation. To our eyes, Gokarn was a safe and worshipful place
and the locals seem committed to keep it, first and foremost, a pilgrim
site. Scantily-clad sunbathers, especially on the town beach, are not
tolerated. On a police registration form, tourists are reminded to "Look
Smart in Full Dress."
Despite its restricted religious sites, Gokarn still offers the outsider
plenty. The action in front of the main temples, Mahabaleshwar, which
houses the lingam, and the two others, Mahaganapati and Veukatarama, is
a show in itself. Bundles of incense burn into the air, flowers litter
the ground, and cows bellow as if in protest, their moans a cross between
a bullfrog and a burp. Two massive wooden raths, or ceremonial chariots,
are parked on Car Street; during religious festivals, these tall, cylindrical
towers on wheels are installed with the appropriate gods and hauled with
thick ropes down the street by men wearing nothing but orange "dhotis"
(cloth wraps).
The narrow streets around the temples lead to residential quarters of
traditional homes framed in massive timber. Grannies sweep the dust with
stubby brooms, and wash the doorsteps with cow dung and water. Families
scrawl ephemeral designs in white chalk on the street to show the household
is devout for when deities pass by. But foot, animal, and vehicular traffic
quickly wear the symbols away and the markings are replaced the next day.
In this contemplative neighborhood is the huge "koorti teertha," or temple
tank, where Brahmins perform their daily ablutions in the murky water.
People descend the "ghats," or steps, leading into the water, where "dhobi-wallahs,"
or laundry washers, smack their clothes on the rocks. At the foot of a
nearby shrine under a rain tree stand dozens of stone cobra idols, said
to bestow fertility to childless couples (if a woman gives birth, the
baby's name and birth date are marked beside the idol).
The day of Isabelle's foot injury, we see a sign beside the temple tank
"Yoga and spiritual consult" hoisted halfway up a palm tree. We go around
back to a shady courtyard and are directed into a coconut and banana grove,
where we are told we will find the yogi's home. We knock on the door frame.
A skinny man fulfilling the "yogi" stereotype scraggly beard, barefoot,
loose cotton clothes descends a ladder from the loft (our image thrown
off only by his horn-rimmed glasses). He hands us his brochure: "Adopt
YO GA for Utmost Material & Spiritual Happiness of Healthy Long Life span."
He's also an astrologist and physiognomist (face-reader). He goes on to
explain, in halting English, that his teachings will " `elevate' any childhood
troubles, boyhood troubles." Bingo. I wouldn't mind a long life of happiness,
but Yogananda Govinda Swamy only takes on students for one-week stints.
Alas, our schedule doesn't allow it.
. . .
There's very little to do in Gokarn. But that's its main attraction. We
quickly fall into a routine. By 9 or 10 p.m,, after dinner (for us, always
at the restaurant Prema, our twice-a-day habit), the town shuts down.
More disciplined pilgrims might tuck in early. In the Hotel Gokarna International,
we stay up till 1 a.m. watching "X-Men" and "Look Who's Talking 2" on
Star TV. In the morning, we creak open the room's slatted shades and take
in the balcony view: palms, telephone wires, and the glint of the Arabian
Sea. After a breakfast of papaya porridge, we buy water and a snack for
lunch, then hike out to the lesser-known beaches.
The 20-minute walk through the rust-red, volcanic landscape on the way
to the first beach, Kootlee (Kudle), is hot. Under the sole shade tree,
you are likely to meet beggar children one sadly outfitted as a monkey
king, with ears, tail, and scepter singing hymns and playing a harmonium
for a few spare rupees. Grizzled guru-types carrying staffs and greeting
you with a sincere "namaste" (the traditional Indian salutation that translates
roughly to "I bow to the divine within you") also make the trek.
At Kootlee, the atmosphere changes, as does the demographic. Here, the
sunbathers are nine-tenths Western, not counting the odd long-horned bull.
College-aged young people roll out prayer mats and bust out lotus moves
at sunset. The beaches have their share, too, of single, middle-aged men,
seemingly working through midlife crises while lounging under palm-frond
canopies. They all stay at several clusters of rustic bamboo- or cement-walled
huts, each with its cafe invariably named Gandhi or Nirvana.
The outlying beaches of Om, Half-Moon, and Paradise are each reached via
coastal walks over grasslands parched in the dry season. On a hike our
second day, Isabelle suddenly calls out, "Look!" There is motion in the
trees. One huge monkey leaps down the hillside to a leafy vale. It hoots.
Another hoots back and explodes out of the trees to join its pal. Then
a third. At this moment we spot, below us in the water, the backs and
fins of cresting dolphins.
More adventuresome travelers find shady places along this shoreline to
hang their hammocks and set up tents. The prevailing laid-back vibe should
last hopefully a few more years before bigger roads, running water, and
sewerage are brought through the jungle to these far-flung beaches.
We pass three neo-hippie types who had been living in the bush for weeks.
Rather recklessly, they even drink water from a local stream. "Just watch
for snakes," they warn, and march off, barefoot, to Paradise: its small
arc of sand, its tilting palms, its terraced cafe built into the crumbly
rock clearly a shrine to one of the sun-worshiping, ganga-smoking deities
unknown to Hindus.
. . .
Our last night in Gokarn, heading back from Prema to our room, a slight
Brahmin man with big glasses and a jutting smile of black-edged teeth
walks up to us and asks, "Want see kali temple?" We wonder what kind of
scam this is. But it's no trick.
Despite being unable to comprehend most of what he's saying he speaks
in fragments of English, French, and Italian he leads us through the temple
gates. There, behind a meshwork grille, is the sacred lingam: a cylinder
of black stone about 3 feet high, knee-deep in spring water. The man flicks
his flashlight over it. "Very strong."
We are then led on a whirlwind, just-before-closing tour of hidden shrines
and white marble figurines. We are told how to bow down on bent knees,
which Sanskrit vedas (sacred scriptures) to chant as our hands are joined
in prayer, and how to ring the bells "like doorbell," he says. "God knows
you're home."
He smears our foreheads with vermilion powder called kumkum. Our worship,
or puja, complete, we are honorary Hindus, if only for the evening. "Respect,"
the man says. Then points to his heart: "Remember." We hand him some change,
and he's gone.
It all begins to add up. The yogi. Isabelle's foot that healed overnight.
Finally laying eyes on the forbidden lingam. That sacred cow ingesting
our itinerary of plane reservations, e-mail addresses, and associated
worries, that calf was an omen: Stay on in Gokarn, pilgrims.
SIDEBAR: IF YOU GO...
>How to get there
Dabolim Airport in the state of Goa is approximately 100 miles from Gokarn.
The lowest round-trip air fare from Boston to Goa available at press time
started at $1,489 on Air France in association with Air India and Jet
Airways, connecting through Paris and Bombay .
> What to do
Traditional sites and organized tourism in Gokarn are largely nonexistent
(though some guest houses offer yoga, massage, and Internet access). Westerners
are not permitted in the town's Hindu temples but may watch the proceedings
from outside. The major festival is Shivratri (Shiva's birthday), in February
or March, when the chariots (raths) are pulled through the streets. Aside
from the local color of the town itself, the beaches are the main attraction.
Guidebooks such as "The Rough Guide to South India" and "Lonely Planet
South India" contain rudimentary maps of the paths to Gokarn's five beaches,
about 20 minutes apart by foot. Alternately, a boat can be hired from
the town beach for about 200 rupees ($4) to take you around the headland.
Not far to the south of Gokarn (81 miles) is Jog Falls, the highest waterfall
in India . To the east is the ancient ruined city of Hampi (about a 10-hour
bus ride) and to the north is the low-key resort beach of Palolem (two
hours).
> Where to stay
Hotel Gokarn International
Main Road Gokarn, Kumta, Karnataka 011-91- 8386-56622 hotelgokarn@yahoo.com
www.geocities.com/hotelgokarn Gokarn's most modern and cleanest hotel,
at the entrance to town, with two restaurants. Balconies, TV, air conditioning
available. $5-$15.
Vaibhav Niwas Main Road 011-91- 8386-46714 Old-style, rustic guest house
with e-mail, restaurant. Most rooms with shared bath. $1-$3.
Other lodging
Tourists intent on roughing it stay at the handful of huts on the beaches,
more primitive the farther one travels from Kootlee Beach. Several Hindu
pilgrims' hostels in town also offer humble beds at rock-bottom prices.
>Where to eat
Gokarn has a number of cheap canteens and restaurants catering to a largely
Hindu, vegetarian clientele. Beach shacks also offer a surprising variety
of cold drinks and Indian and Chinese food.
Prema
West of Car Street, facing the Mahabaleshwar Temple Open for breakfast,
lunch, and dinner. South Indian specialties plus Western items like oatmeal,
fresh-baked desserts. $2-$4.
Pai Restaurant
Main Street Inexpensive vegetarian fare. $2-$3.
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