MIA

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Hello all,

A significant amount of time has passed since my last entry and although Sarah and I have been busily lazing on the beaches of Goa, distraction has not been the reason for my absence.

We have been in Arambol about a week. I say "about" because I don't actually know how long it has been, nor do I particularly care to. Time has suddenly become a very novel concept. The sun rises and sets and that's about all one need know. In this week I have been searching my brain for an appropriate way to describe where I am. In my journal I have played with various literary devices, attacking India from all sides. It is putting up resistance. But it does not lash violently out at me; that would at least give me something to write about. Instead, like Ghandi, it sits crossed-legged in quiet defiance of my need to explain and at night it whispers words of truth and wisdom into my ever more receptive ears. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that I am not the right Canadian for this job. You can seek out Rohintin Mistry's blog instead.

I still have a problem on my hands though seeing as what I do is write. I wouldn't subject you to a kind of cut and dry repetition of our itinerary because it would simply go as such: we got up, showered, layed on the beach, read books, swam, met people from other countries, ate curry and went to sleep. Arambol is not a place for vigorous schedules. The only thing left for me to do is to tell you how India makes me feel. It doesn't hold much weight, but it will give me something to write about and you something to read. I don't promise that it will be good. Your money won't be refunded so no complaints, please. Ok, enough preambling procrastination. Here we go.

India is a juxtaposition. The sprawling sandy beaches are juxtaposed by the masses of litter everywhere. The famous and rich Russian musician who is knocking back Kingfishers is offset by the three year old boy begging for food in the streets by putting his hand to his mouth to signify his hunger. Opposites live side by side and subsequently, I feel myself swing from one extreme to the next. One morning I will contemplate not taking my malaria pill so that I might get sick and have an excuse to come home, (Don't worry mum, it's never a serious thought. I take my malaria pills very diligently.) and by the time I have finished my breakfast I catch myself devising ways to stay another few months. My pasty white body, swathed in Ombrelle, lays each day on Arambol beach. I wear my Billibong bikini, knock-off Vuitton sunglasses and listen to my iPod. My wallet holds more rupees today than the waiter who served me breakfast will make in a month. I fit very easily into the tourist bracket, and for good reason. I am one. However, in case it isn't already blatantly obvious where I am leading with this, I too feel myself becoming a juxtaposition. Inside, instead of thinking about how much I could go for a big slab of beef, or a clean bathroom, I am watching. I am observing. In a week, or so, India has changed me indefinately.

I refer now to a paragraph from an email I recently sent my mum:

"Ok, let me tell you a little bit about what has been going on here. We are still in Arambol. It is on the northern Goan coast. Did you buy the India book yet? It's in there. I have been spending the past few days writing my thoughts down in my journal and it is taking me much longer to translate Goa into Carlie-ish than I thought. This place is beyond anything I've ever known. It is like my brain has bloomed for the first time and I am finally beginning to see life clearly. Gone are the distractions of urban living and what is left is a beach, an ocean, a sunset. It is the perfect palette on which to paint beliefs. Already I know that I am not the same person that I was before I left, I never will be again. I will be so much better for this trip and every discovery I make, every thought that I have I want to share with you. And with Dad, and Travis. I wish you could see what I am seeing. I think everyone goes to India in search of some kind of answers that they're not finding at home. I never thought the onslaught of thought and consciousness would be so intense. Answers aren't really what I'm finding though, just more questions. But then, that's the way it's supposed to be, isn't it"

That is Carlie at one extreme of her emotional spectrum, happy to have received lots of emails from the people that I love that night, talking unabashed truths with her mum, and drunk on the prospect of enlightenment. Sarah and I had walked the dark beach into town before I wrote that. The sky was moonless and darkness enveloped us as we walked. Sarah was three strides ahead of me and I could barely make out her silhouette. I purposely fell back two more strides, entirely into my own world. The wind whipped the silk cloth I had tied around my waist and tangled it within my legs as I walked. The red and yellow lights of Arambol lined the beach on my right, showing me the way to my destination. The waves of the Arabian Sea flanked me on my left, lapping at my bare feet. My legs carried me forward but I had a sense of staying stationary in the dark. My head began to fill with thoughts that felt too big, as it had done many times before. This time though, there was room enough to let them in. What were those thoughts? Some are too personal to share on online, some I have already disagreed with myself on. Most of them were about the future, as I suppose they should be considering the point I am at in life. It's not the content that is important, anyways. Thinking these thoughts made me feel, -there's that word, "feel"- clear-headed and purposeful.

On the other end of the spectrum, something entirely different awaits. And, as I've kept Sarah waiting long enough, that will have to be saved for later.
I miss you guys. Be safe and happy!

Love, Carlie

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Comments

[A. Karen]

Hi!!!! Okay I am really irritating myself. Twice I have typed something inspirational to you, and twice I have accidently pressed the wrong key and deleted them. Now I am all inspirationalized out, ( is that even a word) and at my age I can't recall what I typed. So, continue to enjoy your trip, and I will ask Uncle Adrian for a head massage so as to get my brain working again. Later, Love Auntie Karen