Friday, 1 March 2013

Mr. Stamina @ Arambol Sunset Drum Circle

the sun glows crimson as it sinks into the Sea of Arabia.  a swath of shimmering reflection streaks horizon to sand orange pink..  the wet sand reflects and mirrors a second red globe.  12 people pound drums, 3 shake rattles and shakers, 1 old, gray-haired, gray-bearded hippie plays a wooden flute, the melody of "Caravan" whispering above the primal drumming.  old hippies, neo-hippies, freaks, alternative types, a whole lot of vacationing Russians, and a few Indians writhe, shake, shimmy, jump, hop and skip, churning the silken sand under their feet to a cool gray powder.  dreadlocks fly, babies run naked through the crowd, parents twirl children in wide arcs.

next to the drum circle, crafts people display their hand-made jewelry, clothes, and other goods on sarongs laid on the sand.  Jugglers juggle.  poi twirlers twirl.  partners balance in acrobatic yoga.  other yoga practitioners view the sun upside down in headstands.  and of course, no sunset celebration would be complete without the requisite fire dancers.

a bare-chested young man in khaki-colored knee-length shorts and a tie-dyed shawl draped around his neck walks around near where i'm seated, looking in the sand, and muttering: "Where are my shoes?"

at one point, he looks down at me and says: "Stamina."

i hold his eyes and wait for more to come but he only repeats this one word.


he resumes his search for his shoes, then turns back to me.

"Stamina," he repeats. "Do you know what that means?"

Yes," i answer.

"Stamina," he says for the forth time.

"Yes?" i ask wondering where this one word mantra is headed.

"Stamina," he asserts, "I've got it."

"Good for you," i say.

he finds his shoes, tosses his colorful scarf around his neck.  it waves behind him in the sea breeze as he makes his way along the beach and a band of scarlet forms where the sky meets the sea.

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