Welcome to India

[I did not post this when I first arrived, giving India time and space to "sink in" to my being.  Now that it's time to go, let's go back 3.5 months]

Welcome to India.  Sitting in this crumbling dirty hotel room with mosquito nets (thank G-d!), beaten up walls, dirty curtains and complimentary water with miss-matched bottle caps; it is hard to know where to start.  The on-going conversation of the traffic outside, incessant beeping and the occasional screaming is the background, noise to my musings.  The fan overhead is kicking up a small whirlwind in the room as it spins and bobbles, threatening to escape its fixture any second.  The pillows have numerous hairs scattered about as part of the décor, and I’ve yet to examine the sheets.  The furniture is falling apart.  There are stains on the walls.  The shower does not work and two buckets sit under the faucet as permanent back-up.  I sit tired, dirty and motionless, realizing the futility of cleaning myself here, unable to move due to sheer disgust.  The thought of one more day here is not pleasant, let alone a few months of travel.   

Though I’ve read a lot and have been told a lot, it is very different to experience it with my own eyes.  Last night, for just $12 more dollars I slept in an immaculate room, with the latest facilities, freshness, and style in Singapore.  It was one of the nicest hotels I’ve ever been to.  Today is different.  The hotel arranged a pick up that never showed up.  After sitting outside for half hour in the arrivals enclose, turning into more lucrative bait to both mosquitoes and hollering cab drivers, I decided to go to the cab desk (another wave of gratitude here) to pre-arrange a fare.  This was easy enough, $4 later I had a slip in my hand with a cab number and my destination.  Venturing out of the enclosed “safe space” in the airport was also not as scary as imagined.  Simply rolling my cart past different cabs and people sleeping on the ground, I found cab 0991, much to my surprise.  He was ready to go, and thought seemingly more interested in how much I paid for the hotel and whether I arranged it online, than where it is actually located.  Merging, screaming and honking through traffic filled with cars, auto rickshaws, bicycles, people and dogs, I was surprised that we actually saw the neon red letters with “Host Inn” on top of a 20 story building. 

 [Fast forward]

When I wrote this post 3.5 months back, I was on the verge of tears.  I was defeated, having not even stepped foot outside of the hotel room, and horrified to do so.  Since then, I’ve extended my time here not once, but twice.  Now, re-reading these words, it actually does not sound so bad at all!  Eh, just a regular hotel room.  Ignore the hairs and dirt, spread out my trusty travel sheet (or sleeping condom, as Nick calls it), bucket-shower away the dirt, write and sleep.  In hind site, that was likely the worst hotel experience of the whole trip, thought I will never know whether it was by perception or reality.

I end my trip exactly where I started, full circle.  Oddly enough, though I fly domestically, mine is a connecting flight and so I arrive at Chatrapati Shivaji International.  The décor does not look faded, the people are not strange.  It’s all normal.  The fact that it’s almost midnight does not phase me in the slightest.  I don’t wait for hotel pick-ups and don’t even arrange one out o the fear of the unknown.  Easily proceeding to the outside prepaid taxi stand (the line is shorter!), making sure no one cuts in front of me (thus gaining their smiles and respect) I get a cab to Whoorly, Mumbai.  The traffic, thought ever present, is not so bad!  I don’t see the crazy throngs of dogs and people, don’t notice the crazy noise, and the sewer smell that sharply bites my nose from time to time does not surprise me.

I know exactly where I am going and what to expect.  One of the most stylish buildings in Mumbai, the coziest of apartments, the kindest of people.  N and V have housed, fed, nurtured and acclimated me to India shortly after my arrival; post the crazy hotels, cabs and traffic.  Whether through kind words or amazing home-made food, clean shower or simple tips to get around the city, a helping hand to cross the crazy traffic or a cab to the airport, the peace and wisdom that just flows effortlessly from their beings.  Though they are away, friends make all the arrangements for me to arrive and be comfortable.

My first morning in India I woke to the same sound of traffic, not sure whether I would last two weeks in the country or have to make my escape.  My last morning, I wake up to the sound of the Arabian sea and birds, musing about my return to this multifaceted colorful country.  It doesn’t feel like the end of a journey, just the beginning. 

About my Husband

While traveling in India, I’ve become comfortable and patient with many things that used to puzzle, frustrate and bewilder me before my trip.  For instance, the question of marriage.  In the US, we are supposed to hold on to our freedom as long as possible, never settle for anything other than the most perfect best, and wait for our Mr. Wonderful patiently and purposefully while entertaining Mr. Right-now to avoid feeling lonely. In India, much like everything else that Westerners tend to hold on to, the concept of dating, choosing your mate and waiting for the “right one” is slowly making in-roads in big cities such as Mumbai and Delhi, but often in secret from the rest of the family, or in “non-traditional” and “modern” families.  The mere fact that the label "love marriage" versus "arranged marriage" exist and are given by the Indian people themselves leads me to believe that the Western approach to marriage is not the norm. 

Instead, on my first bus journey by myself I got the questions: “Are you lonely?  Are you married?” They came from an oversized man squeezed in next to me in the back row of the government (read: cheap, local) bus which I hoped would be empty.  As we continued with our journey, I became aware that I was the only woman not traveling with a man.  While not always the case in the South, where I later enjoyed the same questions again from men invariably wanting to seat themselves next to me, in the North I rarely saw women traveling by themselves, unless they were Western. 

Remembering the one-off stories from friends and blogs about being felt up on a bus, I decided to start the epic of my dear husband in hopes that being another man’s wife may prove to be a deterrent for unwanted advances.  My wedding ring, a gorgeous rose gold band with high quality zirconium, a farewell gift from my Mother, was slipped to the ring finger of my left hand and I began to discuss my one and only:

The man I married, being a very responsible provider, is working hard back home in the US so that we may have enough money to soon have children (thus anticipating the burning question of “where are your children?”).  He just started a company, so he is very very busy and cannot travel with me.  However, he is incredibly fond of Indian food and Yoga, and therefore he sent me all the way to India to learn both before we start a family.  Wise man, that husband of mine turned out to be.  A great provider with a vast network of friends all over India, I wrapped my husband’s tale snugly around me like a protective cloak which came in handy on almost every single long bus ride alone.

The road to Rishikesh alone proved to be laden with lots of questions from my very inquisitive and respectful back-seat companions.  “Where is your bag from?  How much does it cost?”

“I don’t know really, my husband bought it.”  I shrugged my shoulders helplessly.  My sturdy REI travel companion that I carefully picked out before the trip was not the cheapest thing when converted to rupees and I did not want to engage in a lengthy comparison conversation of how much money things cost in the US versus India for the next 8 hours. 

However, my travel mates were of a different opinion: “How much is your watch?  How much is your phone?  Where did you buy it? How much was your hotel in Delhi?” they continued, each one of the group of 4 asking the one English speaker seated next to me to translate.   

“You know, my husband really does not want me to worry about these things.  When I need something, he simply gives me a gift.  As far as my hotels, he has friends all over India who arrange things nicely.”  I realized that was perhaps not the most welcoming answer but discussing the price of everything relevant to my travel and possessions was not the most ideal way to spend the long bus ride. 

After about half an hour, the merits of my husband, the Great Provider grew exponentially as price and origin of the contents of my bag (everything that I would reach for or touch) was questioned and finally exhausted.  A discussion of politics, yoga, culture, music, anything really other than the “story of stuff” would have been welcome, but my inquisitive companions seemed to be stuck on the financial aspects of my travel and belonging, one of the few things I did not with to discuss in detail.  For the very first time in my life I entered the role of the “clueless wife” that I could never fathom, and even began to appreciate some its merits.

 By the time we arrived in Rishikesh, my husband was a polished epic hero whose tale I would continue to carry with me throughout my trip, gaining more comfort and ease with every new “Are you married” question from random male shop owners, hotel clerks, rickshaw and taxi drivers, as well as numerous male bus companions.

 At times the tale of marriage may have distanced me from those who would have otherwise wanted to get a lot closer.  Perhaps it closed the door to interactions and cultural exchanges that would have been very interesting for both sides.  However, contrary to the constant play on words in India, which turned “Are you traveling alone” into “Are you lonely,” I was not.  I was truly enjoying my own company.  I did not need Mr. or Ms. Right-now.  The more I became comfortable uttering the unfamiliar and hitherto scary word “my husband,” the more I was enjoying my own ability and power to take care of myself on the road.  

One day, thought, I will return with Mr. Right, and show him my India.     

New City Loneliness

“Whenever you get to a new city, there are the initial few days, 3 or 4 at least, when you feel sad, depressed, lost.  I call it ‘The New City Loneliness,’” said Yelena, a striking Canadian blond of Serbian origin.  At 23, post a masters in Philosophy, she was traveling Asia as a break between school and work.  It was not her first trip to the continent and a third time in India.  We met at a yoga class that was part of a teacher’s training that she was doing for a month in Mysore, and having been in town for a week, she had her bearings, her friends, and her routine.  I, however, was off to a slow start. 

“In front of us is Loyal World, the supermarket when you’ll get anything you need.  If you go to the right and then make the third right, you’ll find Green Leaf restaurant which is good.  Thali for 50 at lunch.  There is also Cups restaurant and the Italian coffee places before you make a turn for Green Leaf.”  She was explaining the lay of the land and I was attempting to take it in.

My first few days in Myscore were not as smooth as other towns.   I was already on day 5 and things were coming together but with a bit more pain than usual.  The teacher I came to study with did not work out, and the search for another one was taking time.  The “foreigner” community in the suburb of Gokulum is very yoga focused, and social interactions revolve around one’s yoga shala.  Since I did not have one, I was on the outside and was getting glimpses of the happy yoga cliques here and there, but not fitting in.

The pain of discovery and settling in was not new, and remembering this was a major comfort.  Knowing that Yelena (love those popular Eastern European names) has had the same experience was also re-assuring.  Same, same, as they say in Asia. 

Extended travel is like a microcosm for life, only on speed.  When one is traveling for more than two weeks or a month, there is the opportunity to get a glimpse of how a town really works, to get to know some people through their work and repeated encounters, to take a glimpse inside their homes, their problems, and their grocery store. The easiest way in is through engagement on either the volunteer/work or student level.  Jumping into a formed or forming community of people with the same goal, meeting them day after day and sharing problems unlocks the gates of any city.    

However, in India, chance plays a very powerful role as well.  Exactly a week into my stay in Gokulum and I had company for every meal.  Breakfast was spent with a Birgit, a girl who overheard my search for a yoga studio the week before and took me to her teacher.  The teacher turned out to be quite amazing and I’ve been practicing at Yoga India ever since.  Lunch was an invitation from a foreigner couple (British/Hong Kong) who actually live in Mysore.  I met them at a yoga anatomy class the day before, and they planned out my last week in India with their local expertise and western sensibility, then cooked me an amazing healthy Chinese meal on the terrace of their gorgeous home.  Later that day, laden with veggies for a quiet night in, I bumped into an Indian couple as I was passing them on the road.  They chatted me up, invited me for chai, and over later for free lunch at their work (a hotel buffet) and dinner at their house.  While I politely declined more meal invitations for the day, feeling over-socialized, they instructed me on how to cook the strange vegetables I just purchased, and said they will call me the next day for lunch and dinner.  As I finally continued on my way home, a Russian-speaking student for Kazhastan, whom I met the night before at a restaurant called me for dinner.  With gratitude, I offered “another night.” 

As I look back on the last 2 months of solo travel and transition, the New City Loneliness seems to be the ever-present welcoming committee in every new town.  However, the biggest constant in life is change, and everything does, when given enough of time.  One of the values of travel is perhaps experiencing some of life’s transitions and mapping out the patters.   

Domesticating in Mysore, a parallel travel universe

[This is not to be read in sequence with previous posts, as I am constantly adding and writing.  This is a mere glimpse into life and travel in India]

The laundry machine is humming and splashing (the water pipe is not completely attached to the wall), the fan in whirling, the curtains are blowing in the created cool breeze, the oatmeal is steaming, and the pots and pans are soaking in the sink.   The chocolate cake from my Honey is chilling in the fridge, along with curd (yogurt cousin-brother) fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, apples, mandarins and bananas.  A new pack of giner-lemon green tea is sitting on the counter along with a huge jug of drinking and cooking water.  The shopping bags unpacked, each box and carton in it’s proper place. 

Wait, where am I???

The parallel universe of the Gokulum suburb of Mysore, India, welcomes foreigners with open arms full of comforts, fully set up for foreigners to live for months without a care (more on this later).

Upon arrival in Mysore, a 10 minute rickshaw ride transported me into a quiet suburb the likes of Berkeley, CA where seeing white skin and foreign English accent is not uncommon.  Within minutes, an American girl was spotted on the street (one of the first in India outside of Goa) who took me to the only place I knew about, the Patabi Jois Ashtanga Yoga Shala.  At the front, after stating that I just arrived, I was directed to Shiva who lives a few doors down, by the friendly and energetic gray haired man who seems to be the permanent welcoming committee outside the Yoga shala.  Within 20 minutes (one has to wait at least a little bit for everything in India), I was on the back of the bike of one of Shiva’s boys and transported a few blocks down to see an apartment that one of the local families “rents to yoga students only” as the numerous signs around town explain.    

  Here, I am the maharani of my own 2 bedroom 2 baths.  With the flatmate gone and the foreigner season almost over, I have the whole place, along with a living room and dining room all to myself.  There is a closet in each room! 

  My few items of clothing have spread them out luxuriously in the closet, some resting on the numerous shelves, others hanging on the hangers, exercising their egos and wrinkles.  The backpack, which normally occupies all the available empty space in my various rooms for the past 3 months is lost on the floor.

All that space was appropriated well in no time at all.  The living room, with a gorgeous tree painting on the main wall is now my yoga studio.  

 There is enough room for pilates leg circles and more!  The dining room, complete with a large square low table, couch and cushions became a reading and writing room (the television ignored, as always).   

The washing machine and laundry room lines were filled with the colorful contents of my backpack. 

My first and only stable meal from “my” kitchen (first time in 3 months!) was spiced oatmeal.  Yes, my dreams have come true in India, they make oatmeal specifically for people like me, already pre-mixed with masala and cashews.  They only suggest I add the curd for creaminess, as though reading my mind and indulging my old habits!  I went a step further, and added tomatoes and onions (roasted) and it became a heavenly concoction and a delightful dinner or breakfast.

Wanting to go home in the evening, what a concept?  Sitting down on the couch to read  book or eat a home made meal!  No need for hand sanitizer because my sink has soap, no need to have the “which country?” conversation, or any conversation at all, if so desired.  Just quiet.  In India!  Hmmm of the fan at night, chirping of the birds and Muslim call to prayer in the morning.  Beeping of the traffic, always, though it no longer registers.

Body shuts down.  In all this convenience and comfort, I become ravenous in the evening, knowing that there is food to eat after the restaurant closes (what a concept!).  After yet another home-made fruit lassie or bowl of fresh fruit, curd and musli I pass out.  Sitting on the couch with a laptop or a book, on the bed, wherever in the 4 room maze I might be, fully clothed, un-brushed teeth, out like a light until the middle of the night.  Without external stimulation that happens everywhere in this country, the body seems to go into conservation mode.  I keep having fantasies of watching one of my numerous movies, collected from fellow travelers.  Writing, responding to emails, calling… As soon as I sit down, the next thing I know, it is one or two am.  I drag myself to the bathroom, alternating between the two so no one feels left out, and then surrender into the comfort of clean sheets.

PPH Misfits

Our band of misfits roamed the halls of Swami Vivekananda Yoga Anusandhana Samsthana or S-VYAS, a Yoga University on a quest. Coby, a fellow yoga teacher’s training student from Australia and I were looking for advanced pranayama (yogic breathing and energy manipulation) techniques.  Tal, a Chinese Medicine Doctor from Israel, was looking for instruction and guidance to perform the last of the yogic purifying techniques.   We all came for a yoga intensive, but were triaged into the Promotion of Positive Health (PPH) group, admitted into therapy.

The first day we filled out forms, waited, were piled into a bus for a very short 2 hours from Bangalore, waited, filled out questionnaires, waited, were weighed, measured and fed. 

At the introduction assembly, we knew were close to our answers.

“Uncontrolled speed is the disease,” esteemed Dr. H R Nagendra said in her address.  “Reduce speed on all levels.  Rest.  Yoga is the skull to calm down the mind.  Slowing down trick is yoga,” she continued.  In her address she went over how cancer was sent into remission through yogic breathing techniques developed at SVYASA University.  Depressions and OCD were not diseases, according to her: “Be angry, be depressed, but slowly,” she explained.  “Then you have space between two thoughts and you can see what is.  OCD is a supernormal condition, also not a disease but hyper speed.  There is a great capacity for super focus that is present.  Only difference is it is not focused on the right place.”  Dr. Nagedra assured that through yogic breathing and asana techniques, as well as rest, cure has been attained.  Bliss was near. 

Yoga citta vriti nirodha, we head again Patanjali’s shlokah from the sutras.  Yoga is to gain mastery over the modifications of the mind.  It is in our mind where a lot of dis-ease resided.

“Are you satisfied?” Harish, our therapist and group leader asked us the following day.  We have just completed the second session of the day with special technique.  It was much like the first, slow movements, half poses, sleepy yoga of a parallel universe.  “I know you are not,” he learned to read our face.

Harish hard at work crafting his Positive Health group

After 2 weeks of nearly 2 dynamic vinyasa classes per day, therapy was not the order.  Coby and I came for knowledge, and lack thereof along with lack of movement as we practiced it was torture.  The answers were there, we just didn’t know if they were coming to us.  Yoga therapy was mind management technique, and we needed to manage our mind and expectations because we were being turned from students into patients. 

All around were people who seemed to be ecstatic.  Many older people had come for treatment and health management.  There was a very cheerful young boy, of Indian descent from Canada, with severe limp as he walked and a scar at his throat.  He was smiles, and his mother was in pure joy at the place.  “They have a program here, and I have come here especially for my son.  He has many problems and this place makes him feel better.”  I could see the pain in the mother’s eyes and the magic that it was for her child. 

However, thankfully, my problems were different.  The thirst for knowledge thankfully has no physical side effects other than restlessness, irritation and business of the mind.  The state of being close to the source, hearing the water, but without a clear path to the spring had to be resolved. 

Meeting with the famous Dr. Nagendra the very first evening and explaining the “yoga intensive situation” gave us all hope.  She confirmed, much to our Harish’s surprise, that there is in fact a track for people to come for intensive practice and knowledge.  However, it was off the beaten path, which is usually an incredibly uncomfortable road in the land of rules and traditions.  She wrote out our prescription: meeting with different professors to study philosophy, a teacher assigned directly to us for advanced pranayama practice.  Harish, our therapist and section leader, was left with the task of making it happen, and like a traditional Indian man he had a hard time going outside of his section’s Promotion of Positive Health track for the therapy misfits like us. 

By the third day, most of the program was still not in place.  Though we had begun to meet with professors in their holmes  and attending a lecture here and there, things were not set, and most importantly, there was no pranayama. 

“I told you, it is not so easy.  I must coordinate the professor’s schedules, find you a time when they are free, to know who is free.  Of course, Dr. Nagendra can write, but to make it happen is another matter.  Look, why don’t you come for your section’s sessions.  You will learn something, Just you try!” Harish was kindly promoting Positive Health therapy down our gagging throats. 

Tal, Coby and I would vent our frustrations to one another in between breaks, sharing the pain of going against the institutional grain.  Almost as though by magic, the times that our conversations would reach a heated crescendo nearing anger, patient Upma would show up, as thought right on cue.

“You are so blessed to be in this place!  In all of India, in the whole world, there is nothing like it!  Do you understand how lucky you are?” she would look at us seriously, searching our faces for gratitude. 

The first time she appeared, Coby remarked that she heard from someone that this woman was not well.  The second time, the coincidence was just getting to be a bit much.

“Everyone in this world is so concerned with getting and taking and getting and taking.  We are all given what we need.” Upma walked into the Positive Health section room where our band of misfits gathered to gripe.  “If a child is told, ‘Therefore zebra,’ he would not understand, he would fail the test.  The child must start from the beginning, understand the problem, and the solution should be revealed in time.”

Starting to feel like mental health patients, we decided it was time to take matters into our own hands.  The good old advice from my taxi driver the very first day in Mumbai surfaced again:

“Asking, it’s good for us.”

So, at every meeting, during every meal, and whenever anyone asked how I was, I would relate the advanced pranayama technique and yoga intensive quest. Coby and I were starting to formulate alternative plans.  Should we go to Mysore to study with a teacher she knew?  Can we create a 7 day intensive to get the kind of knowledge before we have to leave India?   Should we risk the time it takes to travel and settle in a new place, leaving the dwindling possibility of reaching the goal for the uncertainly of the unknown? 

Towards the afternoon of the third day, Coby and I met yet another professor with nearly dwindling hope.  Tal did not come this time as he was defeated by an earlier morning incident of a cancelled cleansing technique session.  The manner of this professor was different.  He fussed around us like we were esteemed guests, offering us tea, handing each one of us presents in form of apples.  

“Hmmm, so I think there is one woman who can help you.” He responded to our well-polished intensive search "presentation".  “She is a simple one, but she has amazing insight into pranayama!  These kind of people, when they go deep into a subject, it is beautiful!  I will phone her directly and find out when you can meet.  You and I will meet separately for Raj yoga philosophy”

Coby and I looked at each other in disbelief, but the professor was already on the phone, arranging the meeting. Just a few hours ago at breakfast, I sat at a table with American Yoga teacher trainers and shared my quest.  They let me know about their pranayama class at 4pm and said our group could join!  At 5am there was also a 2 hour teacher dynamic trainer’s yoga class.

Our schedule was starting to come together. 

Om Shut

“The Om meditation lady is very strict, you know, she shuts the door if you are 5 minutes late!” I was told by one of my fellow “patients”.

The following day I decided to wake up in time for the first program.  Om, after all, is quite powerful in terms of its vibration influence on the body, as I was told.  It wasn’t hard to wake up, as the scratching and banging on the doors next to mine was audible at before 5am.  Yet, somehow magically, despite the fact that I was awake before my alarm, my last glance at the clock as I was finally washed, dressed and on my way out revealed that it was 5:29am.  I locked my door and raced down to the meditation hall.  The university was wide awake with sounds of action from every corner.  Water splashing, gargling, doors opening, people rushing back and fourth.  

As I reached the meditation hall with its big neon electric OM sign, where the Torah would be in a synagogue, the screen door was open, but I saw or heard no hit of other patients.  I tried the door, and it was immobile.  It did not move even a centimeter, did not rattle in its lock, but was firmly immobile, like the OM mediators seated inside.  The hall was completely full, the session has begun.

Walking back to my room, I remembered that there was something about discipline in the opening address the day before that I must have blinked through after 15 hours on the bus.  Looking through my notes, I found a whole section:

“You have to get used to discipline and you will, because it is natural.  Discipline is health!”

Sitting in my blue yoga cell, I was wondering if I will be able to survive until next Friday.  My little cage with bars on the windows, a metal bed, a plastic chair, a wooden closet and cheery multicolored sheets was perhaps the most austere accommodations that I’ve ever experienced in a building format.   No reliable internet.  5am wake u.  No inspiring, dynamic yoga.  A yoga intensive with no intensity. 

The tools for learning were laid out in front of me. The books I needed neatly stacked on my marble table of near perfect height.  My new yoga was mat hanging above the clean blue tile floor, the open space just large enough for a careful practice.  The room was comfortably quiet 99% of the time.  Outside, good, clean satvic (pure) food was being cooked 3 times a day.  Walking trails wound their way around the campus like ribbons.  People engaged in rigorous yogic study or relaxation pursuits were already on their way to their goals and it was not even 6am yet. 

I wondered if I would find discipline in my nature or run away and spend my last few remaining days in the country scattered in tourist chaos.

Arambol, finally we meet

It is possible discover paradise, even amidst swarms of Russian rednecks, Israeli stoners, and International beach bunnies and trancers.  Especially after one hour of yoga at sunrise amidst the palms, a lovely breakfast with working (!) internet, 3 hour pranayama class, and another 1.5 hours of yoga and a gorgeous silent (!) sunset on top of a cliff amidst the palms.

 In the evening, a candle lit keyboard, earplugs to drown out the conversations all around, and just the deep sound of the ways, faint restaurant music and distant flickering lights of the main city.  Taking what I need, and leaving the rest.   

Arambol, as our time together is coming to an end, I am starting to discover your secrets and appreciate your beauty, letting the drunken dirty mess of vacationers fade to the background.  You are becoming a safe yet ambitious international seaside village. Turns out that while in one direction your sands stretch endlessly as far as the eye can see, in the other direction your cliffs open up to another, quieter beach, a forest, and a sweet-water lake that I have yet to discover.  While your salty sea is heavy with waves during the day, the sea of candles at night flickers lightly in the night breeze.  Your tasty “continental” cuisine side rivals that of many international cities, with options for every taste bud, if one can dig patiently.  Even Indian food is hiding off the road, behind a coconut stand, or a palm tree.   Seek and ye shall find, just know what you’re looking for.