Sanctuary: Morjim, Goa is perfect for an Ashtanga yoga retreat

After 20-plus hours of flying, a five-hour layover and a 90-minute drive in the wee hours through dark and winding streets, we are, my husband and I, finally–finally!--here. Here being Morjim, Goa, a lush beach town parked along the Arabian sea. It is our first time in India. We are jet-lagged. We are giddy. We are gleeful.

And at the first sight of Ashtanga Yoga Morjim—the reason for our protracted pilgrimage—we are gobsmacked.

It sits, all cobblestoned roof and stately pillars, tucked amid coconut groves, surrounded by a riot of flora and fauna, shocking pink bougainvillea and palm trees, the works. Dozens of sandals, Birkenstocks and humble flip-flops line the steps, abandoned by their wearers. The message: This is a barefoot-only kind of place. We’re good with that.

Inside, the energy hums.

The shala—”house” in Sanskrit—is a dark and cavernous space, humid and hushed, crammed with silent, sweating, moving bodies. In the front of the room, a statue of the Hindu elephant god, Ganesha, looks on, big-bellied and beatific.

We are so many thousands of miles from home. And yet, we are instantly, inexplicably, at home.

We quickly decide this will be our yearly tradition. Come January, when cold settles in the bones and we’re in desperate need of a reset, it’s time for another marathon expedition to Morjim.

We go because we love yoga, specifically Ashtanga yoga, a vigorous practice that challenges the body and stills the mind, leaving the practitioner spent, sweaty and surfing a sea of bliss. We go because we love our teacher, Sharmila Desai, an Indian American woman who, looking at the political landscape of the U.S., decided she liked it not one bit—and grabbed her family and decamped from New York, building an oasis here.

We go because of the ritual: Sharmila teaches “Mysore-style” Ashtanga, as it’s taught in Mysore, India: You memorize a set series of poses and practice at your own pace while the anonymous body on the mat next to you does their thing, too. Sharmila, a tiny, powerful woman with a long, black braid, walks the room, tiptoeing around 60-or-so students, ever watchful. Don’t try to skate by, skip a pose or do anything out of sequence. Sharmila sees all.

Every day, I set out for class, fortified by strong green tea and a mango or two. Along the way, every morning, without fail, I meet up with a sweet local, a pooch who waits for me, wiggling and wagging, to escort me to class. I pop my AirPods in my ears—Brittany Howard’s “History Repeats” is a vibe—and we’re off. As I walk, I pass cows sauntering through traffic, dodge Russian tourists speeding by on scooters, smile at the uniformed school girls at recess, wave back at the barber beginning the day in his little open-air shop.

After class, there’s the obligatory stop at the produce stand where the proprietor grabs a machete, slicing upon a fresh coconut. She hands it to me with a straw and a smile. It is ambrosial.

The afternoons are for leisurely lunches on the beach. Or a quick jaunt on the scooter to check out a neighboring town. Or perhaps it’s a massage at the local ayurveda clinic… or hanging with fellow Ashtangis from Mexico, England, Italy, Mauritius, India, Guatemala….

We always rent an apartment when we’re there. But we always begin our trip at Sur La Mer—the better to recover from jetlag—at a swanky hotel/guest house where we dine alfresco and are extravagantly, often embarrassingly, spoiled by the staff. At night, we hang out by the pool, where the owner, Aneel, an aging, one-time Bollywood actor serves up drink after drink, telling tall tales. “You look more Indian than I do,” he tells me, frequently.

And that’s part of the appeal, being in a country of highly melanated people, surrounded by locals who embrace us and our melanin. It feels at once familiar and exotic. Here, we fit. And here we are welcome. This is the place where it feels like everybody knows our names.

We went in January 2019 and then again in January 2020, and we were looking forward to doing it again, in 2021 and 2022. Until, that is, Covid forced the world to stand still.

That’s okay. We are waiting, biding our time. We’ll be back. Bet on it.\

Teresa Wiltz is a senior editor at Politico Magazine.