Undoing it in Kerala, India. Eco on the beach.

Marari Beach: CGH Earth Experience        

      There is a cow grazing outside of my door with a calf on her teet. The cows have been grazing all day with a slight tinkle to their bells, giving that bucolic sound so sweet for a nap. 

The fan spins and blows the air in my room, and I can still hear the crickets outside. It reminds me of my childhood summer holidays on the south coast of Alabama, where the day began and ended with telling stories. In between, we caught crabs for making gumbo and enjoyed long stretches of white sand beaches. We loved the heaviness of the humid air. It helped us to relax and made cutting into a watermelon that much more inviting.

Here in south India of all places, I have found a slice of the good life, like something from my childhood. A place that gives me simplicity, authenticity, good food, and the solitude I need without being totally alone. I wanted to write, commit to a meditation practice, and be near the water. And so I fell into the arms of a CGH Earth Experience, not knowing what I would find.

I found, first of all, a warm greeting and a detailed description of what I would find and what I wouldn’t. The things I would not find were a relief. CGH Earth is not your average resort hotel. Just ask the guests, of which 80 percent of them return every year.

I was taken to my thatch-roofed bungalow, complete with an open-air, yet private, shower and toilet. There are many ways to be one with nature here—it's at your fingertips at all times. 

At least where I come from in the United States, the idea of green architecture, operating with sustainability in mind—recycling, organics, and so forth—was a concept developed only 30 years ago. Here, it has naturally been a way of life. Taking those ideas into a resort setting—bringing consciousness to water consumption and the unnecessary washing of sheets and towels, creating shopping bags out of recycled newspaper—fits hand in hand with the local profile of keeping Mararikalum (Malayalam for “Marari Beach”) unspoiled. Here, you will find no beach umbrellas, just a fishing boat or two, and the occasional fisherman eyeing a catch with his finely tuned intuition and skill of how to read the water.

What goes on behind the scenes is even more impressive. The entire property is sustainable. From bio-gas produced from kitchen leftovers, to recycled waste water, these practices put back what nature has given us and continues to cycle. Nothing gained (wasted) and nothing lost (re-used).

Here, signs quietly speak to me wherever I go. When I'm in the bathroom a sign might say, “If you need more amenities, tell us and we will bring them straightaway. We are trying to avoid plastic. “ Or, “we don’t spray for bugs or mosquitoes, but we do bring around ‘church smoke’, which smells quite good (frankincense). We prefer not to use chemicals.” The more exotic trees are named in English and Latin.

Only the most valiant eco-warriors in America are able to preach and practice these methods, and most people think they are extreme. To find this in a business setting is encouraging. The need to pay attention to this way of life is imperative, especially in the public sector. Our oceans are suffering immensely due to unhealthy trawling practices that wreck our reefs to the point of no return and the amount of garbage that makes it’s way to the sea is making a cesspool in the pacific. “The nature of our future depends on the future of our nature.“ This is the first sign that greets you as you walk to your bungalow. It made me stop and think, a heightened sense of awareness and appreciation arose knowing that these practices are in place.

CGH Earth holds hands with the local culture and integrates it well. Most of the staff originate from no further than 50 miles away. They call on the locals for guides and transportation and sightseeing, even though they could offer it themselves.

Sanity breathes in and out on the property. Nothing is static. A smile and a greeting by name is on every meeting. “We treat our guests like a god.” It was not necessary to tell me, as I felt it was also natural. I’m convinced the Malayali are like that: soft, gentile and sweet as jaggery. Even the breeze is gentle and the sea, warm. All was elementally ambient. 

I took a cooking class in the organic outdoor kitchen garden. Young Chef Rinto took me through the garden. He was playful and delighted in quizzing me on things that he thought that I wouldn’t know, even though I surprised him with a few. I found his questions engaging. As the night noises grew louder and darkness fell, someone came around with the ‘church smoke’ and set us up for the evening. It works, I tell you and I was grateful.  It was wonderful to get my hands on the food, as well as eat a splendid meal. 

Menu:

Raw papaya and basil soup

(We picked the papaya and the basil.)

Plantain curry in a yogurt sauce

(Plantains were growing also.)

Whitefish with a ginger, green chili, coconut paste cooked on a banana leaf

(Just caught fish from the morning, green chili, coconut.)

Red spinach and cabbage thenga with grated coconut

(We picked the red spinach and cabbage, and grated the coconut. We did not however, climb the coconut tree to get the leaves.)

A steamed rice flour dumpling with jaggery and grated coconut inside, called Kozhukatta was for dessert.

It was simply delicious and not even hours old. This meal is indicative of how specialized a stay in Marari Beach can be and a good way to start my self-imposed Ayurvedic diet.

For the next five days, I surrendered to Ayurveda. There is a time and place for everything and the moment for me was now. With a traditional Ayurvedic center located just two steps from my bungalow, I raised the white flag. After eating my way through North India with a group of ten, and half of the South by myself, my body was telling me to take it easy. Here at Marari, I could unplug.

For a change, I could focus on my own mind and body. I set up a meditation alter and made a commitment to get up and practice everyday before dawn. I would do yoga, write, take walks on the beach and take a series of Ayurvedic massage treatments, and go to bed early.

What a relief. Even with a restricted diet, no meat or alcohol, coffee or black tea, I welcomed the change. I could have green tea, local Kerala rice, and a piece of steamed fish in the evenings as well as several vegetarian curries. I even forfeited the fish. A glass of freshly pressed pineapple juice came with every meal for digestion. I could eat three tablespoons of something and feel full. It was if my digestion was on holiday too. I seriously had no appetite at all, so I asked for smaller portions. When they brought me my meal they would laugh and say, “Here is your pussycat meal,” with big pearly smiles. A sense of humor goes a long way. After five days, my dosha (body type and tendencies) felt more balanced and restored. So did my appetite.

From swimming every day, walking, eating well and getting amazing ayurvedic spa treatments, my body-mind started to shift. My mind loosened up and I began losing weight naturally. It was a pleasure to meet the girls in the center everyday. Their warm smiles and hands were alchemical, and melted away hidden blues I wasn’t even aware that I had.

Before each full body treatment came a sitting-up head massage with their special oils, which I found to be as valuable as the main treatment. The head is the gatekeeper of stress and first this commander must be disarmed. In a treatment room that opened directly onto the garden, I was cared for like a baby.

The treatments are designed to bring relief to joints, nourish the skin, and eliminate toxins and stress. Their massage strokes worked up and down the body, increasing circulation to bring new blood flow to regenerate the cells. A few of the treatments included the “steam box,” which was my personal favorite. My body drank the moisture and the oils. My skin never had it so good. And then I was washed with a special plant scrub, my hair shampooed and then patted dry in a fluffy towel. The girls' bright smiles lovingly sent me on my way, and as an adult, I have never felt so young and rejuvenated. I felt radiant.

It will be hard to have other Ayurvedic treatments in other places, now that I know “the real deal.” I have already decided to come back. A lover of natural and alternative medicines to begin with, the value of this gentle way to rebalance, blows away all western reasoning that we should be filling ourselves with senseless synthetic medicines and mood stabilizers. Not only does Marari Beach grow their own food, they grow their own medicinal plants. Growing, brewing, and using the plant infused oils from the premises increases the energetic benefit. 

Most age-old systems will tell you that sickness comes from being out of balance. Treating a symptom does not get to the root. Therefore, popping pills and not changing one’s diet or lifestyle drives the problem deeper. Our organism wants to be healthy, but it needs our help.

What a good idea it would be to bring my daughter here with my two grandchildren, I thought to myself. They would have a wonderful time. I could be with them while my daughter took treatments. The staff seemed to love children, making them feel at home and giving them the ultimate positive cultural exchange. I want to bring other friends too. My sisters would benefit from this special touch. The affection and warmth of the Malayali people is healing in itself.

To have a center of this quality along with the other amenities makes me feel like I can have my cake and eat it too. Freedom to wander, spend time with others, and, most of all, not feel like a patient. I am a person choosing to have a purposeful vacation of tuning in, instead of just sitting with a relaxing drink in my hand. I can take the time to take care of myself in a different way, a way that will have lasting results.

I wanted to do everything listed on the activity list: take a country boat ride down the lagoons, getting a good look at local life. A sunset cruise would have been stunning. Never in my life have I seen sunsets like I have here over the Arabian Sea. A bike ride would have been terrific. But I couldn’t make it out of the hammock. What I want to say, is that I didn’t want to leave the property. There was enough to do here for me. I thoroughly dropped in to myself.

As a cook, what I look for is to find a balance of what is “not too much, not too little.” CGH Earth Marari Beach has offered just the right amount of something and nothing. It is a sanctuary, not only for birds and other creatures—but for all of us. We are safe here. The feeling is, we are more than welcomed and we belong in balance with nature. There is a resonance when nature recognizes itself. When there is no fear, there is nothing to be afraid of. 
 

At one point, I wanted to make a daily flower offering to my altar, but I was shy to take a flower off the tree, so I didn’t. But when I left the room for breakfast and came back, there was a new flower in my bowl. The girl looking after my room understood right away that she could also refresh the altar. This sensitivity and attention to detail is unique. 

Sunset on the beach is a party for sand crabs and spindly-legged sand pipers. There is life, movement and rhythm as the waves roll gently up on the beach.

The sun sinks behind the horizon leaving me with a rare sense of equanimity. Peace is more precious than pearls and the moment is to be savored. 

http://www.cghearth.com/marari-beach

Join us in Spain this October!

Spain: Granada and the Alpujarras Mountains

October 20-28, 2012

October 19-27, 2013

In this distinct region of southern Spain, we will find almond groves and lush valleys bearing figs, pomegranates, kakis and apricots. As we drive from the city of Malaga, higher in the Alpujarras, we will look down on to green gorges, gushing streams, and the white dots of villages.
Near to our home away from home, the small village of Ferreirola, we will find the fuenta, the ancient fountains that let us know we are truly off the beaten path.

Here we will breathe the freshest air and taste the countryside. 
 

The Alpujarras region is known to be a different kind of Spain. Muslim-influenced, it was occupied by the Moors for 700 years. Even after the Moors were expelled from Granada in 1492, they fled to these then-inaccessible hills, and remained hidden in their last stronghold for a further 70 years.

It was the Moors who introduced many of the ingredients that are central to Mediterranean cooking: almonds, oranges, rice, aubergines, quinces, pomegranates, artichokes and spinach. The local cuisine is uncomplicated and delicious. 

In October, we will take full advantage of the harvest. 

 

Program includes:

- Cozy accommodations in the mountain village of Ferreirola, and in the city of Granada.

- Group transportation between Malaga, the Alpujarras, and Granada.

- All cooking classes and most meals & beverages.

- Visits to local artisans, producers, bodegas and restaurants.

- Exploration of the famed Al Hambra Palace in Granada.

- Recipes, poems, conversation, and inspiration. 

Email us or call our booking coordinator, Merete, directly at 303-910-0897 for more information or to reserve your room.

Spain: Morning in the Alpujarras Mountains.

Peggy and Kim Schiffer explore the mountains around Ferreirola.

The first thing I do when I wake up in the Alpujarras mountains at the foot of the Sierra Nevada is put on my shoes. The earlier the better, even with a brisk chill in the air. I head happily through the village and down the trail to the fuentes (natural spring). I know that the more I drink of this water, the better I will feel upon leaving. Lightly frizzante, the taste from these ancient fountains is cleaner than wine and even more delicious than...water. The tiles on the fuenta have been in place for hundreds of years. It's a place of pilgrimage, and I often feel like a pilgrim when in the Alpujarras, staying at Casa Ana. The worn pathway that cuts through the village to the spring passes olive trees, wild figs, old stone walls full of wild edibles that peep out to be picked. The sound of sheep and their bells flowing down the hills is nothing less than bucolic. Gathering water for drinking and cooking becomes a job I look forward to. It's my way to commune with the chestnut tree, the "era," the old threshing grounds, to offer prayers to the low-lying clouds. Whether day or night, this walk is magic. I am never afraid. And when I return, there is always something welcoming in the kitchen. I can smell the casuela cooking; the smoke rises from the chimney. My partner in Spain, Kim Schiffer, has the home fires burning with a smile on her face. Something sumptuous is always simmering in her clay pot. Five days in these hills cooking, tasting, hiking and learning is restorative. Landing in Malaga, drinking cafe con leche and shopping at the covered market for our weeks supplies is colorful to say the least. After our five days in the hills, Granada gives us grandeur, a step back into Spain's elegant past, while we taste delicious sherry, local olives, cheese and chocolate. Getting a feel for remote southern Spain is an off-the-beaten-path adventure to be savored. As culinary pilgrims, we can wander into the kitchen for a brief stay, knowing that we will find friendship, hospitality, some ancient transmission, at least something good to eat. It's good for the soul. With love, Peggy

Becoming Mothers

"Well here's to you.. Mrs. Robin..son. Jesus love you more than you will know.. "

Where does the instinct to mother come from? A mother robin builds a fine nest in a bird feeder, quite smartly with windows on three sides and a safe opening. She will sit there most of the time waiting for her little blue eggs to hatch, unless she needs to fly away to feed herself occasionally or perhaps sip water from the stream. I'm curious about natural inclination.

As I watch my 6 year old granddaughter grow, I am struck by her female core of emotion. When her 4 year old younger brother is sad or crying, she sings sweet songs to him. She has just enough of a melancholic strain that she seems genuinely feels the suffering of the world.

Just the other day her mother and father both had the flu. I told her we needed to make them some chicken soup. She ran and got her apron. Makena is not a big eater and certainly not adventurous, but she is curious and likes to do things. I was surprised that she took to chopping vegetables with a cumbersome knife so quickly and willingly. I showed her how to hold the knife steadily, how to bend her non chopping hand a certain way to keep her fingertips back and hold her vegetable firm, so it wouldn't slip around when she was chopping. She first started with a small knife, which made sense, but was not really getting the job done. So, we graduated to a larger more serious one that at least sliced. A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one of you don't know what you are doing. She impressed me with her attention and skill. I was not overprotective and enjoyed watching her. She chopped and talked as if she had done it all her sweet life.

As she chopped she said, "Grandma,  I like to focus when I'm making medicine. "

Ode to Okra

Candlelight graces a table on our houseboat in Kerala. Tears well and fall down my cheeks at the taste of okra. The cook comes in, "Ma'am are you alright ? Was the food too spicy for you?" I smile and nod subtly sideways, the Indian way that says, no, yes, maybe.

"Her father died two years ago," my friend tells him. The cook's bright smile closes as he says, “I'm sorry.” He didn't question why tears should be falling from something that happened a long time ago. In India, crying is normal.

Meanwhile, I sat there feeling the tears roll down my face fresh as rain, moisture on dry thirsty skin. I was not at the table in my mind, but found myself clear as the early morning in a memory of being in the family garden with my father.

Peppers were all hot and ready for pickling, the tomatoes were heavy on the vine, pole beans were falling from the trellis and the okra was sticking straight up, tips to the sky.

I remember okra growing in my grandfather’s garden in the deep-southern terracotta colored dirt of Clay county, Alabama. That orange earth, particularly infused with minerals, never lacked for nutrients. Neither did we. The taste of corn, black-eyed peas and, of course, okra gave a a lasting flavor in the mouth of something you wanted more of. Long stems grew tall with subtle yellow flowers in springtime, before warm, sensual summer nights encouraged the nub of okra to swell almost overnight.

As my grandfather hoed around the plants one morning, he heard a squeak. He had come upon a bed of baby rabbits. He brought them to me with the eyes of surprise. I fed them a baby bottle. They didn’t make it. 

Picking okra is prickly business. A chance to wear papa’s worn-out long sleeved, red flannel shirts. I liked to wear his striped overalls as well, the older the better to play farmer. My sisters and I played in the old smoke house, hoed in the garden, drew water from the well and amused ourselves playing hide and seek in the corn patch.

Cutting okra was slimy. Putting it in a paper bag with cornmeal and shaking it was the way to take care of that. Dropping it in hot corn oil and watching it turn golden, is a visual memory that sticks, a fried delight that can’t be beat. With a rain of salt it gives a crunch of southern satisfaction.

Fried okra is a staple in the south with black-eyed peas and cornbread.  Not everyone’s friend, okra becomes triple unxious, seedy and slithery not unlike cooked snake, but less chewy, when boiled. I have eaten snake before, rattlesnake, that had been caught and killed in the hills of Tennessee and skinned for it's skin. I tried it. I can assure you it tastes like chicken, not boiled okra. I'm not saying that okra tastes anything like snake, just that if you wanted to make an obsequious Halloween dish, blindfolded, boiled okra would do it.

Those times are gone along with grandfather and my father. In the familiar heat of Kerala, on a houseboat, I had a conversation with childhood and a loving memory through the association of a vegetable. Visions come not only with psychedelics, but taste memory in bright living color.

Where The Wild Wind Sings

Leaving the long stretch of Sidi Kaouki’s endless camel colored coast, is always poignant. It’s a refuge. Unplugged. A village with a few stone houses and a camel or two. A few cheeky donkeys bray, and oblivious chickens squawk and peck. You can sit for breakfast outside on the patio and watch a few herds of goats pass by the open doorway with their 8 year old herder. A few minutes later, a lone Berber woman, covered head-to-toe in mismatched patterns, strolls by with her cow. The wind can be fierce. It can be gentle. You can spend the day feeling it pick up and die down. It mimics one’s slowed-down breath. More subtle feelings have space to arise, so often buried under the harrang of too much thinking. The eyes see things that never registered before. This place has always been like this. It eases the mind.

Time to go. The “blue and white ”Essouira taxi burns up the straight three hour trek back to Marrakech. It passes the one and only indigenous argan forest. It’s spiky branches so free form, abstract and full of tiny yellow nuts, so loved by nibbly goats that they levitate themselves right up onto the highest branches. This stretch of road always reminds me of the first time I came to Morocco with two close friends. We arrived late at night. It was 2 am when we left Marrakech, after a midnight supper of chicken tagine and hearty bread. 

We headed off into the night with a toothless driver in an old beat up blue and white taxi on what seemed like an endless stretch of road. My friends fell asleep and I was left with my own white thoughts about ‘what happens if’. Meanwhile, the stars were immense, shining down with little moonlight on shadows and silhouettes of distant palms, robed figures walking in the dark, vast flat plains with faint light coming from an occasional low earthen dwelling. We passed strips of town, long and narrow buildings with arches; a loggia of mystery.

There was a man rolling a barrel down the road at 3:30 am. We mistakingly hit a dog. At least the driver stopped. The dog was stunned, but not dead. My friends lay dreaming asleep, while I sat dreaming awake. Where am I? I was cold. I couldn’t get the driver to roll up his window, or it was broken. Something in me felt slightly unravelled. Fear of the unknown has that quality.

By the time we reached Essaouira, the town was in a deep sleep. Yet, the nightwatchman from our hotel was there with his cart. We piled our luggage on, said goodbye to our driver, who smiled a toothless grin and we walked through the empty ‘place’, down dusty alleyways with the occasional dead fish, breathing in that familiar, wet, salty sea air. It’s now 4:30 am. The call to prayer comes over the loudspeaker in a loud and crackly “Allah o Akbar!” Glory be to God! I felt the same, happy to have arrived at this far away door.

Inside, all was orderly, white, calm, silent and peaceful. A chest of blue and white dishes greeted us. Roses, red and plentiful, were on all the tables. Our room, open, with a loft, beckoned us. I chose the small, cozy loft. My friends were chatty, and more than likely ready for tea. I, on the other hand was a corpse.

“Welcome to Morocco”, said the doorman. I fell quickly into bed to the sound of birdsong, sweet and melodic. At least birdsong is a universal language, I thought. The breaking light of day did not dissuade me from a potent sleep.

My first adventure to Essaouira was a memorable one. Not without love, discovery, magic,
a falling through the veil to another way of seeing the world. Leaving there was never easy.
Leaving the edge of something potent, a bit wild and untended takes discipline.

Once I saw the lines of separation~ between me, the tree and the earth~dissolve. It was a moment I will never forget. I was not on mind altering substances. It's just that my heart
had cracked open and like a thousand pedaled lotus, it bloomed and I could feel the various chambers that hold shadow, exposed. I was in a taxi going down a country road. I looked to my right and the tree ,the earth and the sky was lit up in outlines of color. It lasted a split second. Mother Africa winked at me.

Then there was the return of all returns that I will never forget. I was headed back to Marrakech yet once again in a blue and white taxi. It was September 11th, 2001. I pass the familiar landscapes, the argan forest, I see a small boy on his donkey high on the horizon. It's hot and there are people walking around in wool from head to toe. The windows are down and the wind is blowing my hair into my face, but I don't care. I'm steeped in this culture, infused like orange blossoms in water. I've hit the resonant note in myself that is  not alone, but in tune with everything. I am the air. The boy riding his donkey. A woman sitting in a taxi.

The cell phone rings. "Allo"? says the driver. He is animated and attentive as he listens, he shouts a bit, then hangs up the phone upset and says," Madame! Madame! Catastrophe in America! Catastrophe in America! Mafia! Mafia!"

Part one.
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India: Shahpura Bagh, Part One.

High over the mustard field tiny warblers jump from plant to plant. It early morning, but not for the jackals and peahens. A warm breakfast of freshly made yogurt from the dairy and poha, a puffed rice colored with turmeric and flavored with a masala blend of spices, mustard seeds, and red capsicum graces the clean white porcelain plate with color and appetizing aroma.

A barefoot priest in a dhoti, jacket and rather elaborate turban comes through the gate on his bike. He brings a piece of incense with him, lights it and says prayers at the doorway and leaves.

Poised for action, a hand holds rose pedals ready to drop on arriving guests. 

We make ourselves at home. 

A sunset drink at the family Fort gives the impression of a time gone by. Villagers come out to greet the great grandson of the Maharaja of Sharpura. Especially the old gatekeeper.

 He was a boy when the old palace was full of life. Now he is a grandfather himself.

 Daikon radish stick straight up. A garden harvest stuck on this villager's head to free her hands for proper sari etiquette.

 Young boys are the same all over the world. Who will they grow up to be? The youngest brother. A banker?

Coy and demure, her eyes, her posture, says it all.

A view not unlike the Serengeti, was a favorite hunting ground for tigers. They were plentiful then.
A noble daughter who shot her one and only tiger when she was a teen, who's  in her 70's now said, "It was a different time, a different story. Now they are outnumbered. " Not proud as the day it happened, her father beaming.

The rooms of the palace still hold mystery and charm. This was the bathing room.

 A balcony of repose.

The gatekeeper served us wine and we drank to the whispers coming from the tower walls.