Out on a Limb with Mother India

Out on a Limb with Mother India

The letter announced its delivery, hitting vinyl-flooring with a loud thud; my instinct told me it harbored bad news. Tightness and anxiety flooded my body. A single tare ripped it open, bold black letters stated, I needed to leave Ukraine. Recoiling in shock I read on. Words like visa and passport restrictions jumped at me. Pacing my living room, I began ringing various immigration departments, it proved fruitless.

As hard as I might, to find a way around this situation, it remained undebatable. I had to leave. I told my wife the shocking news, she did not want to live without me. There was one other problem, I’m British my partner is Ukrainian, very few countries offered Ukrainians long-term visas. Therefore, we pursued every Avenue to find a country that gave longer-term permissions to my wife’s country. India allowed prolonged visas with financial checks; this country would allow us to remain together and time to reapply for a new visa. A visit to Kyiv became our next step.  

Sat in the Indian embassy in Kyiv felt traumatic. Tensions rode high as the smartly attired officer checked our finances. Finally, after a protracted silence, he muttered “four months,” and stamped our passports. One month longer than we needed. Relief became replaced with anxiety. Did we have the funds, would we fit in with Goa life, will we contract a tropical disease, what if we run out of money? Relieved and nervous, we went to an Internet café to search for flights and accommodation.

After surfing countless pages, a cheap flight to Mumbai flagged up. Unfortunately, its duration was fifteen hours, with a ten-hour wait at Dubai Airport. Having no option, our card details sealed our fate.

On reaching our home, my wife sat like a hacker, raking through countless offers displayed by every cheap hotel in Mumbai. After six hours Tibetan Palace booking page and our name displayed booked. We had a week to get ready, to save money a small gas stove, and packets of dried pasta, muesli, and porridge, would be our staple diet. Unaware of the Indian climate, stupidly jeans and thick jumpers got crammed into our cases along with jars of produce.

Our home's distance from Kyiv required an overnight train, to save money “Plaz-Cart” would be our traveling arrangement. “Plaz-Cart” is the cheapest method of travel on Ukraine Railways and the worse, simply put, six people to open cabins with no privacy.

A group of friends had come to see us off, we drank, played music, and sang traditional Ukrainian folk songs, after hugs, kisses, with moist eyes, heavy cases scrouged through metallic Gabel doors.  Entering the “Plaz-Cart” carriage at Kryvyi rig Station, many Ukrainians stared at a British man using the cheapest transport their country's railway provided. Working men stared in disbelief as I slung our cases under open bunks. Outside the windows, my wife’s musician friends played a fan-fare as the sleeper train clunked into the night.  

 We sat down on a vinyl red bench, which later would be transformed into a single bed. A tall train guard shouted there was an opportunity to upgrade to a private carriage for the cost of about twenty dollars. Needless to say, we grabbed this opportunity.

Our private accommodation turned out to be the guard’s cabin. It was private but Spartan, nevertheless; it was better than an open bed surrounded by workers who looked at me like a zoo exhibit. I hoped this was the first sign the gods had started to weave their magic. Sharing a bunk with my partner, we cuddled sending thank you, vibratory messages to higher-beings. who had provided us with better accommodation than we had previously booked? 

After ten minutes, the fine was settled, however, it dented our savings and affected the budget for Goa. Before leaving the office my partner and the officer locked in a stare. I tactfully led her away through customs. She mumbled under her breath. “If he wants to keep living, he’d better not visit our city!”

The flight to Dubai was uneventful, nevertheless. A prospect of a ten-hour wait stretched in front of us. To kill time, we went to Indian immigration to register our arrival. The polite receptionist asked us for our return flight tickets. We hadn’t booked them; worse passengers could not enter India without presenting evidence of a return flight. Our plan included us buying return tickets from India as my contract payment wouldn’t clear until the end of the month. My partner is resilient, intuitive, and steadfast to say the least. She started to ring a friend who owned a travel company, after a lot of skullduggeries, a return flight ticket appeared on her phone.             

After a short stay that my wife described as hell in Mumbai, we took a sleeper bus to Goa. Our plan was to stay in Anjuna. Arriving at Panaji, we booked a Tug-Tug, to Anjuna, where we booked a chalet overlooking the sea. It wasn’t as ideal as the Internet picture. Unfortunately, it was near to the market, thus every time we ventured outside, we were bombarded with Indian gangsters touting drugs, or shop vendors trying to ply us with ornaments, T-Shirts, and various holiday accouterments not needed by us. Within a few days, we decided to visit Arambol, due to its reputation of being hippy and laid back.

Hiring a motorcycle, we set off to Arambol, however, driving through the jungle a large snake sped across the road in Infront of us. We narrowly missed it, (was this a sign?) we were shocked to be so close to dangerous wildlife. After about three-quarters of an hour, a large hill that overlooked miles of blue ocean ushered our entrance to Arambol. After driving around, taking in the sites and amenities, which included yoga halls, bamboo bars, and a great market selling fresh produce, a unanimous vote to move spurred an effort to find accommodation.

By pure luck or karma, we found a cheap residence close to the sea. Without hesitation, we booked the studio apartment, drove back to Anjuna, and returned with our cases in a taxi. We decided to go for a swim. I loved the experience, my wife did not. I could not believe she did not appreciate the wonderful weather and a bath warm sea. Angrily I asked what is wrong? Then she dropped the bombshell.

“We don’t have enough money to buy tickets back to Ukraine. What do you mean? (she began crying) because, we have moved too many times, and the fine has tipped the balance. We can live, but not return home. I don’t think it’s a problem I can teach English.

She burst into tears,

“Where can you teach English? On the way to Arambol, I saw a jungle school. I am sure they will want an international journalist and native speaker.”

She looked at me like I was insane.

“You, are going to go to a school and ask them if they want a teacher? No, we are going to ask them if they want a teacher. How far is it? About three kilometers. We’re going to walk in plus 35! Yes, what option do we have?”

We bought water and got directions to the school. It turned out to be four kilometers, nevertheless, with my wife still crying, and me harboring a lot of anger towards her attitude our epic journey along the beach and through dense jungle began. Walking along the beach can be described in one word-laborious, with the exception of the jungle, which was as near to hell as one could imagine. Fly’s, strange creatures, snakes, and humid heat, after about an hour and a half in the distance we could hear children playing.

Nearing an assortment of open-walled huts with drawings and posters on them, my partner remarked they’re Russian speaking. A little girl ran up to us and told us her name, within minutes a crowd of inquisitive learners had left their respective classrooms and surrounded us firing questions at me in English along with my wife. A tall skinny blond man holding an air of authority approached us, I held out my hand, we shook I began speaking in English to him, to my surprise he understood.

“I’m an English teacher, wow that’s amazing! Our English teacher had to leave us, she left yesterday. You’ll be needing a new teacher.”

My wife and Vitally began wage negotiations while I talked to the children who were amazed to be able to speak to an English person. We began teaching the next day. It was hard as we had no money for transport, we told the other teachers we loved to walk, within a month through being frugal, our return plane journey had been paid, in the following weeks eating out became possible, after a couple of months hiring a motorbike was affordable.

The time flew by. Mother India’s love filtered through every day. She introduced amazing people to us from Gurus to business people. On leaving India for Ukraine having experienced India and her Gods, both of us understood it would be impossible to return to our old selves.