Freedom of the Ashramites

Kanyakumari Day Trip

Freedom. Our first day out of the ashram, and we stumble onto the disco bus like kids out of school. Plush seats, coloured lights, a spinning disco ball, loud music, two young drivers grinning at the chaos they’ve invited aboard—and thirty wildly eager ashramites ready for adventure.

It’s only 6 a.m., but the bus is alive: dancing in the aisles, chatter bouncing from row to row, passing around snacks. Outside, the sun rises over the horizon as we speed along, sweeping around tight corners—no seat belts, just laughter and the rumble and rev of the bus through the morning air.

The world is waking as we race along. fishermen are casting their nets across still lakes, mist is curling around the mountains, tiny villages zip by in blurs. The scenery is rich and beautiful, but we’re almost too excited to sit still enough to watch it.

We eat dried plums and spit the seeds out the windows—until one rogue pip lands squarely on a stranger’s white shirt. Oops. Yikes. Haha we fall about in uncontrollable laughter.

It’s early. It’s wild. It’s freedom in motion.

First stop: the waterfall. Omg. We pile out of the bus in a soiree of sarongs, bathers, and barely-contained excitement.

And then—we’re in it.!!!

Under the cascade we go, fully dressed in our colourful modest ashram regalia, shrieking at the shock of cold. The water slams down with the force of a hundred falling coconuts—bam bam bam—an accidental deep-tissue massage that leaves us breathless and hysterical.

It’s intense. It’s wild. It’s so refreshing we can’t stop laughing long enough to speak. We are pummelled to the bones and every single Ayurveda cell is awakened.

Thirty ashramites, soaked, with no towels dripping and laughing hysterically with the backdrop of a crashing South Indian waterfall. Freedoms just another word for disco bus or waterfall.

Small pleasures give enormous excitement when you’ve been in an ashram for a week.

Dripping from the waterfall, we slosh our way into the nearest street market—all a parade of soggy, ashramites leaving puddles wherever we stand. The stalls are a cascade of colour: bangles, brass trinkets, jewellery , incense bundles, sarongs and scarves billowing like sails.

We stop to buy shawls— to dry ourselves, but also to fashion makeshift modest head coverings for the temples ahead. Completely unnecessary, but absolutely fun. We wrap ourselves up like pilgrims laughing at our ourselves and taking photos.

The air around the market stalls is thick with irresistible smells: chai bubbling in dented metal pots; fried potato sticks in hot oil; bananas deep fried and caramelised; boiled eggs! We devour everything, tasting foods we’ve sworn off since arriving in the Ashram, our first true rebellion, delicious.

Then, still damp, still giggling like school girls, still wrapped in our dripping sarongs , we stumble back onto the disco bus. Seats squeak beneath us, leaving small wet imprints. We don’t care.

Only two more hours until lunch.
Two hours of music, mountains, mist—and thirty soaked souls hurtling toward Kanyakumari.

By the time we pull into the lunch stop, we’re starving in that road-trip way—like we haven’t eaten in days, even though we’ve been snacking nonstop since sunrise.
In the restaurant, metal tables, plastic chairs, ceiling fans whirring and the scent of dosas , curries and chai assault the senses. We are in a noisy rush, ordering with wild enthusiasm, pointing at things we can’t pronounce but hoping it will be delicious, non the less.

Dosas arrive—giant, golden, crisp creations folded into triangles or rolled into long tubes. We tear them apart with our hands, dragging pieces through chutneys and sambar, each bite somehow more “YUMM” than the last. Plates of fried goodies appear: pakoras, bhajis, things we can’t identify ( well some of us) but happily in-jest . And, of course, chai—sweet, hot, fragrant, poured into steel tumblers.
Bellies over full, spirits high, we pile back in—the bus, chai still sloshing in our bellies. Let’s not talk about Indian toilets! Ahhhhhhh

We lose track of time—hours of laughter, dancing and chai-fuelled chaos—but finally, after what feels like another two hours, we arrive at the edge of Kanyakumari. The sea and sky stretch gray and overcast before us, and out on the water, stand the island temple and the towering Thiruvalluvar Statue, rising like something carved from mythology!!

The boat we board is… well, functional. More like a refugee boat than a tourist ferry—worn metal, peeling paint, and life jackets that look older than most of us ( that’s saying something). People pile in from every direction until there’s barely space to breathe. We join them, pressed shoulder to shoulder, gripping the railings and hoping they’re more secure than they appear.

Thankfully the ride is blissfully short. The engine coughs to life, and off we sputter across the waves, bobbing toward the statue and I’m thinking let’s just get there safely.
The Thiruvalluvar Statue grows larger with every bounce of the boat, a stone sentinel welcoming us with ancient calm. It’s massive. 133-foot tall monument dedicated to the Tamil poet and philosopher Thiruvalluvar.

Not long after we step off the boat onto the island, we barely make it around before it begins…

People stop. Stare. Whisper.
Then the brave ones approach us with bright smiles and phones at the ready.

“Photo? One photo please?”

Suddenly we’re celebrities— soggy, Aussie ashramites wrapped in colourful market shawls, looking absolutely nothing like the serene spiritual beings we imagine ourselves to be. Families gather around us like we’re rare wildlife. Kids pose with victory signs. Elderly aunties grip our hands. Teenagers dash in for selfies. Will we appear on someone’s Facebook, Insta, the front page of the local rag? I don’t know.
We laugh awkwardly, trying to look normal while being herded into shot after shot. Someone jokes that we should start charging. Someone suggests we have been confused for someone famous.
It’s crazy. It’s hilarious.
And in the middle of it all, the Thiruvalluvar Statue towers above us—calm, unmoving, I’m not sure he’d be impressed by our sudden fame.

We finally drag ourselves away from our new fan club, still laughing , ready to get back on the refugee boat to go explore the mainland markets and stalls.

The Thiruvalluvar Statue rises above us, standing guard where three great waters meet—the Bay of Bengal, the Arabian Sea, and the Indian Ocean all crashing together around us.

Just across the water sits the Vivekananda Rock Memorial. A glass bridge links this island to the statue and the memorial—crowded with people even in the rain.

Back on the mainland, the atmosphere shifts. Rows and rows of tourist stalls stretch as far as you can see—bright cloths, jangling jewellery, seashell trinkets, plastic toys, brass statues, spices, sunglasses, incense and snacks. Everything is being sold. Everything is being shouted about. It’s all happening.

And it is HOT.
Crowded.
Ultimate sensory overload.

We dart between stalls looking for shade, water, anything that smells like relief. Coconut water- yes please. Very hydrating.

We find a small group of gypsy style Indians —who beckon us with trays of anklets. Before we even understand what’s happening, we’re standing, feet out, and they are working with lightning speed. Anklets appear on BOTH our ankles like magic—elephants, beads, silver coils, sparkling chains, evil eyes. One after another. We look down and—oh oh. Angela and I are sucked in. Shaz walks on ahead aloof to it all.
We laugh, half in surprise, half in surrender . Our ankles and feet sparkle . The gypsies are triumphant, they have our money!

It’s fun
a little wild, a little unexpected, and a totally unforgettable experience!

Back on the bus late afternoon and back to our Ashram late late late at night (11 pm)! We fall into bed, 6 hours sleep before the bell rings again!!!Read more