Behind the Albergue Door: Inspiration Agony Adventure on the Camino de Santiago

is really more like Pam Anderson’s cleavage.
    We truly loved our time in Varkala even though, when all was said and done, we hardly spent any actual time on the beach. We usually started our days with a leisurely breakfast on the roof of the hotel gazing out upon Life in a Fishing Village, watching wiry little guys climb thirty to forty metres up branchless palm trees with nothing but a short piece of rope and a machete, long lines of men hauling fishing nets in tug o’ war style from hundreds of metres out to sea as all the while majestic crows squawk, tussle and drop shining globs of white feces on hot tin roofs. So, really, it was little surprise that we ended up extending our time there indefinitely (we were waiting for just the right moment to break it to Goa) deciding that there was nothing a fifteen hour train ride away that we couldn’t already get in Varkala – great scenery, an easy going vibe (“sossegado”, they call it), a good variety of beaches, tons of food options, a plentiful range of hotels and tourists who, as a group, have undoubtedly the worst posture and strangest breasts to be found anywhere in the northern hemisphere. Maybe the reason for this abnormal demographic of turtlebacks and cone breasts is Varkala’s fame as an Ayuverdic Healing Centre (to the best of my knowledge Ayurveda is the practice of healing through excessive body waxing while casually flicking extremities with your finger). Or maybe they come for the yoga, which is everywhere, manifesting itself in a seemingly endless number of yoga teachers, groups, retreats and comfortable, yet suitably Indian-esque, garb. Morning and sunset are by far the most popular times, when everywhere you look are duly focused people with self-satisfied smiles, colourful rubber mats and sweat stains on their inner thighs reminiscent of an early bird flea market.
    Now for our:
    Big List of Indian Firsts!
    Head Wobble
    While checking out some tiny cabins isolated on a bluff overlooking the beach. The ancient - and presumably tanked - manager was able to give us a confusing and pointless tour of the grounds despite his head waving around at the end of his skinny little neck like he had lost seven vertebrae on his way to victory in an inane smile contest and had simply reattached his cranium with a length of wiry brown string, superglue and some used tissue.
    Swim
    Short and refreshing. Quite warm, not so salty, rough enough to get your attention. Hey, now that I think about it that is almost exactly what my Craigslist personal ad says…
    Indian Man in Skinny Jeans
    This wasn’t actually on the list to start with but for all future visitors to India….it should be. I did a cartoonish double take (whaaa???) when I realized that those awful ill-fitting tapered jeans, designed to look so trendily repulsive when wrapped around the meaty thighs and drooping asses of Europeans and those kids who think simply carrying a skateboard around is cool enough, take on a whole new meaning when draped loosely over an Indian man’s hairy narrow femurs. Think MC Hammer, only in denim. U can’t touch this, indeed.
    Along that same line…
    Stared at by Male Gawkers on the Beach
    Less than fifty steps onto the sand, our meagre beach attire suddenly turning heads, eyes widening in surprise, then admiration, then leering, murmurs of “have a look at those legs”, “I bet you could barely get your hand around those calves” and “do you think he dyes the hair that colour?” Laynni wavers between relief and indignation by pursing her lips.
    Spicy Food Causes Nose to Run
    Night three, me, and that most typical of spicy Indian dishes – penne arrabiata. Bring on the curry!
    Rickshaw Ride
    These noisy, gaudy three-wheeled contraptions can be found all over the world now, but when it comes to rickshaws, and traveller’s diarrhea, the magic all started in India. Our very first journey in one took us across town to our hotel. So? you ask. I agree.
    Met our first “Apu”
    We rented an umbrella from him on the beach, offhandedly suggested we may be interested in renting a boogie board at some vaguely indeterminate point in the future we casually referred to as “later” and next thing you know we found ourselves being tenaciously urged and cajoled to choose colours, set appointment times, engage in blood oaths to not deal with other boogie board pushers, eventually making intimate dinner plans and, I believe, promising to hold the foreskin at his youngest