Why I put myself through a month of self-deprivation

A road well-travelled

I came because my obesity was defeating me. I was locked into a spiral of constantly punishing myself for not winning the battle, and each failure only made the struggle worse. This made me both angry and depressed so that – in Ayurvedic terms – my Doshas were all out of balance. I sent an advance email to the doctors explaining what I wanted to achieve (I’d recommend anyone planning to come here to do the same,) and explaining that I felt confused, unstable, angry and unhappy. I wanted to find happiness in my lifestyle, which patently had the potential to be extremely fulfilling – living with a soul-mate in an idyllic location with huge opportunities to create a beautiful home. Well, it wasn’t quite that straightforward, but I knew that we had a great opportunity and I didn’t want to waste it for both of us.

Obesity is not a problem that hangs around the waistline; it exists primarily between the ears. Obesity, at least in my case, is the result of a mindset that has a deeply rooted belief that I am incapable of looking good. Consequently I have reinforced this belief by creating and maintaining superfluous body-fat. This then creates a barrier that protects me by ensuring that other people don’t get too close, which would challenge my core belief about being unlovable. The problem with all of this is that the answer is not to remove the excess weight, because the fat is the symptom, not the cause. The answer is to make drastic changes both to the mindset and to the lifestyle, which is, of course, much more difficult. As I just said, the problem is between the ears.

And part of the reason it’s tough is that when a fat person becomes slim it is deeply disturbing.

Several years ago I shed a large amount of weight through a determined programme of diet and exercise and the help of a kind and supportive dietician. I lost more than 40kg and was left with an apron of excess skin that I then had surgically removed, resulting in a dramatically different profile from the chest down. And then the weight crept back on. This was probably due at least in some part to the decision of my wonderful dietician to relocate to the West Country, which my mind foolishly, but understandably, interpreted as rejection and desertion. But the more significant reason was that I couldn’t identify with the different person that I saw in the mirror. When I see personalities who have famously changed their physique – politician Nigel Lawson and the TV personality Stephen Fry spring to mind immediately, I always sense that I can see an insecurity and fear in their eyes as they fight their demons in that same battle of coming to terms with an appearance which they strain to accept,and with which they struggle to identify.

So this time I am going home with a visibly changed physique and a different lifestyle that incorporates exercise, both out and about in the open air, and in solitary yoga. It also demands a dramatic reduction in the amounts of food and alcohol that I ingest. It’s a lot to ask.

How will the old man cope with the new man? I don’t know. What I do know is that right now I am happy and contented, and I believe that the time ahead will not slide back into the painful experiences of the past.

The biggest lesson that I have learned in my time here has been to accept myself as being OK – Lord knows I’ve struggled with that one for decades. It’s nothing to do with waistline or a general lack of athleticism, it’s about accepting myself for who I am, not for what I look like.

The biggest decision I am taking away from here with me is that having decided to accept myself, I now won’t let anyone tell me that I’m not OK. It sounds a bit like a Gay Pride anthem “I am who I am” and all that, but that’s just how it feels, - and that’s OK, too.

If you want to kick a habit, or just get away and reassess who you are and what you’re doing with your life, there’s nowhere I know that would provide a better opportunity. Just bear one thing in mind:-

Expect to change.

Thanks for following my ramblings over the past month; it’s been a wonderful experience and recording it has helped to share it and hold on to the day-to-day memories.

It's not about weight loss, but by the 23rd day on the programme, I had lost 16.8kg = 37lbs.

This is when it all begins...!

So... to sum it all up

OK, enough of this philosophy and religion; but since the final week of treatment was enemas and laxatives I didn’t think you’d want anything descriptive about my day-by-day activities for that period. Let’s take a moment to try and sum up what staying here is all about.

The main building

To start with, it’s not a spa. There’s no luxury, no pampering and no sense of being gently cosseted and surrounded by the glitterati in sequined bath- robes,(though the lady with the high-heeled sling-backs does make an effort.) It’s not a clinic. The doctors and therapists are experts and they’re purists, but all they can do is make suggestions and recommendations. They don’t enforce the rules, and it’s up to you if you prefer to ignore them, but if you do your own thing, you shouldn’t expect the best results.

Soren and Ali

It’s a rare mix of personalities. Thank goodness I had Søren and Steini (Holland and Iceland) next door. A couple of guys slightly younger than me who were on the same flight from Dubai. We arrived together and no we’re staying at the same hotel in Calicut before flying back to Europe. Then there was Ali, the water engineer from Oman, who was another great bloke to spend time with. The three of us often chatted and compared notes, which was refreshing in an 80% female environment. That’s the sort of gender ration that you just have to face up to if you’re a man and you do this sort of whacky semi-spiritual stuff. If I hadn’t met up with these three guys, my month would have been very hard work.

The location is not in itself a holiday destination. With typical Indian entrepreneurial spirit, the website and literature explain that trips to the Game Reserve and the city of Mysore can be arranged – and the staff will do so willingly and ensure you enjoy your day out. But those are not mainstream activities. You will probably have to rearrange your treatment schedule (which consumes most of every typical day here.) And if you do go out for the day you still need to think about your diet and medication. If you want to do the sights it would make more sense to do them as a separate part of your trip, before or after coming to AYV. On the other hand, when there’s a religious festival locally, the staff will rearrange everything to involve the AYV guests and personnel so that everyone feels part of the local community. A local festival is scheduled a couple of days after my departure, and they’d arranged white clothing for everyone, made-to-measure at a nominal cost of €5 per person. Everyone would join in the local procession carrying brass trays decked with flowers. That would have been a truly unique opportunity to experience something you don’t get with any tour operator.

On the other hand, the location is one I found totally seductive. AYV is undeniably in the middle of nowhere. There are tiny jungle stores in walking distance where schoolchildren can buy sweets and families can buy rice, dried pulses and other essentials, and if you walk along the river bank to the rope-drawn ferry across to Kuvula Island, there’s a little stall selling bottles of soft drinks and sticky cakes (which you won’t buy if you’re following doctor’s orders, but the location is very photogenic!) Apart from that, it’s a half-hour drive to Katikulam where you can find plumbers and ironmongers, agricultural suppliers, a juice bar, fabric shops and even an internet café with a slow web connection.

This is Kerala and it’s nature in the wild. At night-time you can hear the scrabble of the monkeys on the roof, or even the trumpeting of an elephant in the woods, and if you choose the right day to walk upstream, you’ll find the crocodile basking in the sun on a mud-flat.

AYV is not a luxury resort, and the amenities are relatively undeveloped or minimal. In the relaxation area by the main gate you can unwind to the constant splash, ripple and babble of the river below – but the loungers are falling apart and you can rip your clothes on a loose nail or spear your finger with a splinter from the rustic bamboo. The only other seating area is up on the dining-room balcony, but that’s primarily a dining area – not a relaxation area. Consequently you have only your verandah, which is cool and shaded (both plusses and minuses on that score ) and it can be solitary if you’re not located in a part of the estate where other guests are likely to stop by for a chat.

The accommodation is basic, almost to the point of being primitive. It’s certainly spacious – my room is something like 9m x 7m but it is dark-panelled with bamboo ply, it has a dark red tiled floor and is lit by a few low-energy bulbs on un-shaded lamp-holders that are fixed to the walls. This makes for a rather dingy environment. There are no coat-hangers because there is no hanging-space anyway, and it is almost impossible to see things on the shelving that is provided for storing clothing. The bed is large, and the thin mattress makes it not just firm, it’s relatively hard – but this is a gift to anyone with a weak back who has suffered (as I have) from too many soft, overstuffed hotel beds. There’s a western-style loo, and a shower that is usually powerful, plentiful and hot. There’s a small mirror over the hand-basin which is (as they ALWAYS are) fixed below eye level so any full-sized male has to stoop to shave. I can handle most of this, but the bed-linen is awful: a lumpy duvet that seems to be stuffed with kapok and is covered with multi-coloured floral patterns, giving a sad reflection of a distinct lack of attention to important details.

I am being deliberately critical to ensure that readers are not totally seduced by my overall enthusiasm because none of the above negatives was a real problem for me. The over-riding positive factor about being here is the staff. Nothing is too much trouble, from the gardeners and cleaners to the treatment staff and the front desk, and the doctors and yoga-master: everyone is smiles and helpfulness. In the kitchen, the two women who prepare the food take enormous pride in their work, whether it’s the minimalist meals on the Weight Management programme, or the traditional spread for Sunday lunch. Yes, of course it’s different, but it’s fresh and varied, and if you have a catholic palate and are open to tasting new flavours, you will discover some delicious new tastes.

You might just come here just because you’re enthusiastic about yoga, you might be curious about Ayurveda, or you might have a definite objective. I came here for a purpose, and it was not to visit a spa, resort or holiday destination. Nor was it to poke around dusty shops or watch the monkeys in the jungle, though these have been added bonuses.  If you think about coming here, you need to ask yourself two related questions, and be quite clear about your answers:

Why do I want to come here, and what do I want to achieve?

One last stroll down the lane

No more vomiting, no more stomach ache and diarrhoea. 

One final stroll down the lane in the early morning light, then off to Calicut after breakfast.

I sorted out the packing and I think I'll sneak in under the weight limit and I gave away some of my old clothes to the staff.

A fortnight ago I could barely stumble to the fork in the road, a couple of hundred metres down the track, but this morning I was barely thinking about walking, it was easy and relaxed as I strode along.

It was around 6.30 and people were just starting to stir. In many homes the front door was open and I could glimpse through to the television early morning show flickering on the set in the sitting room. 

Farmer with his milk

Milk collection point

The clerk at the dairy depot was waiting for the early-rising farmers to bring in the yield from their treasured one or two cows, and everyone had a cheery good-morning for the big Englishman with his hiking poles and camera.

It was still misty as I followed the track across the irrigated fields past the stand-pipe with its designer tap... 

Driving his home-made car
 

Designer bathroom fittings

...past the boy with his home-made car and 

...past the lily-pond with the exquisite lotus flowers.

Lotus flowers

The jungle on either side constantly revealed new treasures,

...a glimpse of pale pink flowers framed by banana trees and palms, 

then a rubber plantation, silent and mysterious in the mist, with the collection tins nailed to the trees waiting for the new season’s tapping

Rubber plantation in the morning mist

I climbed up the slope to the estate and looked back now that the mist had cleared and knew this was a view I would remember – and that I would also know that early morning walks are a great way to clear the head and plan the day, one of the guiding principles of Ayurveda.

Looking back from the estate down the lane I followed

Rejuvenation therapy

Three great guys - the massage therapists

These guys know my body pretty well by now. They have seen it lying on their massage table every day for three and a half weeks and they’ve done their best to reshape it. They know how to beat my back and stomach so the bruises don’t show – one of those techniques said to be taught by the North Korean secret police to Third World security forces around the globe. 

I am joking, of course, just joking, but only just! 

Sometimes I lay there thinking “- what in heaven’s name am I doing here...?” while they persuaded me to eat or drink some vile concoction or lie still, breathing deeply while they injected me from the rear. Today was said to be luxurious relaxation, but it wasn’t long before I began to wonder if it was all some sort of charade that they staged for their amusement.

They sat me down on a stool and started to attack my head. It could have been a massage, but it incorporated some pretty hefty blows to the skull and full-bodied side-swipes. Smiling all the while, the therapists then took handfuls of warm, gritty mud and started to massage it into my scalp. After a couple of minutes I looked like the butt of the joke in some scene of slapstick clowning, and while I waited for the doctor to burst through the door with a custard pie in each hand, the second therapist produced a large banana leaf and a ribbon of tape and proceeded to shape this into a crown which he tied around my head. Fortunately there are no mirrors in the treatment room.

I eyed the two guys with suspicion and expected one of them to crack up with the Hindi or Malayalam equivalent of “Got You! April Fool!” but their expressions remained serious and stern. When I asked what happened next they explained that I would now have a full body massage, and the liquid used would be a smooth puree of rice that had been cooked in milk for 48 hours with 5 different herbs. Could I still take them seriously? Smothered in herbal rice pudding and have it massaged into most – if not all – of my crevices...?

So I climbed onto the massage table and they set to, stimulating an indescribably uncomfortable sensation as the sticky, slimy liquid was smoothed over my entire body and pummelled in with herbal bags for half an hour. Later I found out they were absolutely right, this slushy liquid did do wonders for my skin but even when they rinsed it off and left me lying on a dangerously slippery massage table, I still wondered if they were having me on.

Then I realised that if they left the banana leaf on my head, then it was probably a joke, but when they removed it and gently shampooed the mud out of my hair, I realised that this really had been their genuine rejuvenation treatment.

So now you know. 

Not sure if I look or feel any younger, though.

Negative attitudes and positive thinking

The river in the early morning mist

Day Four of the 5-day enema programme. 

I was in an angry mood this morning, and I think it started with my camera. A few years ago I bought a high quality Nikon digital SLR as I felt it was time to graduate from my beloved Pentax 35mm. But I find the Nikon infuriating. All its supposed manual options are so complicated to invoke that it is obviously the work of engineers trying to see how much technology they can cram into a camera, rather than the work of enthusiasts producing equipment that will respond with intuitive flexibility. What I hate most is that I now have a creeping sense of senile incompetence. I love photography and in 1965 I was a prizewinner in the Pentax World Photographic competition. I want to shoot more prize-worthy pictures, but technology is defeating me. Most of the photos in this blog have been shot on my Nokia phone because it’s so unobtrusive and convenient. I’m very tempted to sell the SLR and go for something much smaller and with simpler controls. 

We’ll see.

Looking downstream

I spent an hour this morning fumbling with the camera, trying to get the right photo of the river in the early morning mist, then I stomped into breakfast in full a Victor Meldrew Grumpy Old Man mood and sat down with the newspaper at the “Silent Table.” As I mentioned earlier, Ayurveda teaches the importance of meals both in terms of content and in terms of the dining process, as part of the treatment and I studiously avoid the giggling gaggle of loud women (and their male acolytes) who take over part of the dining-room balcony both physically and vocally at every mealtime. They were all there this morning- but I’ll delete the descriptions rather than receive hate-mail in a week or two. So, Botox Brunette, Alpine Technologist and Fearsome Fashionista, you shall all remain anonymous and your idiosyncrasies shall be kept secret.

I sat with the newspaper folded to the Sudoku and fumed silently at all the things that were annoying me about many of the other guests. The critics who insisted that the food on their tray couldn’t possibly be healthy or appropriate to their condition, the self-diagnosers who exchanged their herbal hot water for coffee; the moaners who complained about the bitter medicines, the whingers who couldn’t possibly face the prospect of vomiting as part of the treatment, and the whiners who similarly challenged the need for medicinal enemas. And the beds were too hard, and there was nowhere to sit, and the paths hadn’t been paved properly, and there weren’t any shops, and, and, and... So it went on, waves of discontented discussion that were getting to me and depressing me.

Later, after my morning massage, I had my daily consultation with the doctor who asked the question I didn’t want to hear: 

“So how is your mood today...?”  

I pondered for a moment and then let rip with a passionate denunciaton of my fellow guests. This junior doctor has a charming way of getting to the bottom of things and she smiled warmly. 

“You are right and you are doing fine, and you shouldn’t let them influence you. You are letting their negative energy overwhelm your positivity.”

Simple, obvious and clearly the right answer. She continued, 

“Just go and sit by the river, or write your blog, or read a book. Don’t concern yourself with what other people are doing, focus on your own treatment and your own cure and you’ll be fine.” 

So, duly chastened by her magisterial tone, I put my camera away; I relaxed in the armchair on the verandah, took my laptop and found peace in the pleasure of writing.

What I’ve been learning here has been about all aspects of life, and this new awareness is worth even more than what the experience has been doing to my body. In the doctor’s paraphrased words of wisdom: 

“The world is very negative, and a positive attitude is very vulnerable in a negative world. The slightest whiff of negative energy can throw you off balance. Don’t let it affect you, focus on your own positive thoughts.”

I now remember the controversial advice someone once gave me:

What other people think of you is none of your business.

Equally, I must be consistent and add that what I think of them is my stuff, and totally my own stuff. Except that to accept this would verge on tolerance – which, as my children will endorse, is not one of my obvious traits. 

It’s been a tough few days; it’s tiring and there’s more to come. At the end of it, I hope I can climb out of this mood.

So, what is Ayurveda...?

Yes, you’re quite right, this piece ought to have appeared a month ago so that you’d not be wondering what this blog was all about, and then the posts would follow in a nice orderly, logical sequence like well-planned chapters of a book. Well, I wanted to get my head round it myself, and today I had the added benefit of a long chat with the yoga master. And he’s an interesting chap: trained as a conventional pharmacist then drawn into yoga initially through curiosity and a bit of family background (he’s a Brahmin – the caste of the priesthood.) Then he went to an Ashram to study yoga and now spends some of his working day quietly balanced on his head.

The Ayurveda texts – the Vedas – are written in Sanskrit, a language where nouns and verbs can carry intensely complex nuances of interpretation, making it difficult for anyone not a Sanskrit scholar even to begin to study Ayurveda. The word itself comes from Ayur - Life, and Veda – Knowledge, so the phrase the science of life gives a pretty good steer as to what Ayurveda is all about. It’s not a branch of medicine, and it’s not a religion. The best description would be that Ayurveda is a treatise on how to live. Its origins are, predictably, shrouded in the mists of time. The artists’ impressions that illustrate the stories of the history of Ayurveda show Indian gurus meeting blue-faced strangers at a sort of convention in the foothills of the Himalayas, five thousand years ago. This is manna from heaven for New-Age hippies like me, [- They came down to Earth to visit us and share their wisdom.] For the sceptics, the short answer is that nobody knows how the gurus gained access to this knowledge, and the fact that modern scientific knowledge is showing more and more of Ayurvedic concepts to be right on the money, makes the whole thing another of those spooky mysteries.

So, if it’s not a health-care philosophy, why do people come here to Kerala in search of  – for want of a better word – a cure? The answer is that the central principle of Ayurveda is that healthy life comes from achieving a balance between the three Doshas or universal elements of life. These are firstly Kapha [Water & Earth] – the physical body, secondly there’s Vata [Air & Space] – to move and transport, and thirdly there’s Pitta [Fire] - to digest and convert into energy. Ayurveda teaches that life goes along smoothly when these three elements are in balance and that all kinds of illnesses are signs that they are not in balance.
Yoga fits into Ayurveda naturally because of its emphasis on breathing and balance, and the clear parallel between physical balance and mental balance. So, in short, people come here to clean it all out and get some equilibrium back into their lives.
Another teaching is that there are three levels of human awareness. The lowest is closed and seeing nothing; the middle level is active, busy and preoccupied; the highest level is attentiveness, seeing things as they really are and not being drawn into being so busy that you don’t get the bigger picture. People often move up the scale in the course of their lives, gradually becoming more aware. In simple terms, to use a phrase I learned on one of my Personal Development courses – it’s the difference between a Human Being and a Human Doing. Many of us spend most of our lives as Human Doings... and never realise our potential as Human Beings.

For anyone who wants to explore Ayurveda there is a great deal to learn. There are detailed teachings about interpreting the workings of the body (the doctors here demand graphic details of my bowel movements every day.) Then there are relationships. Ayurveda considers a solitary existence to be abnormal and places a heavy emphasis on achieving emotional stability through a settled relationship with a long-term partner.

While some of the methods may seem whacky, obscure or even downright ridiculous, the results are there to experience. As an example, I’ve had one minor medical problem for years, and my doctors both in Kent and in Italy have shrugged their shoulders in ignorance and told me I’d have to live with it. Here in Kerala, it took less than 10 days for the problem to be eradicated – hopefully once and for all.

The best diet uses fresh, local produce

What happens next...?

Of course, it’s one thing to follow a truly healthy routine here in rural Kerala, but it will be a challenge to create something similar that will effectively continue the treatment back home in Italy. Fortunately, diet will not be a major problem as the doctors were lecturing on this last week and explained that every country has developed a national diet that is appropriate to its climate and agricultural potential. Vegetarianism is appropriate to Kerala, it may well not be appropriate in many parts of Europe. Curries with rice and chapattis are not compulsory; they are the local version of combining carbohydrate with vitamins and protein. Every cuisine has its local variation, so pasta can replace rice for carbohydrates, and olives replace coconuts for oil. At home, fruit and vegetables are trucked up from the South every Sunday to the local market, so everything is seasonal and delicious. As far as meat and fish are concerned, I was getting to dislike the tasteless battery chickens, and look forward to experimenting with more Adriatic fish on the menu as well as the chick-peas and beans for which the region is famous.

But what shall I do about coffee? At home in Italy I have grown to love my caffe corretto dark, black, strong and laced with a dash of Grappa all for the sum of just one Euro. Well, one a day won’t be excessive and – as the vedic texts insist – what’s important is to keep everything in balance.

Three heads, four Hail Marys and prayers five times a day

All things bright and beautiful

I mentioned the devotional dedication to be found on every Ayurvedic prescription, and that may well have grated with some readers who don’t want to read about what they consider superstitious nonsense, but I think it’s something worth exploring for the light it casts on Hinduism and ordinary human attitudes to life, values and morals. The Hindu religion is crowded with a host of major and minor deities, gods-with-a-small-g. The first time I was exposed to this, I found it all very weird, the multiple limbs and heads, the anthropomorphic snakes and elephants, and the faces with skin tones of a lurid shade of blue. My home upbringing was church-going, through Sunday School and confirmation classes. Then, with proselytising zeal, I became quite involved with evangelical Christianity in my teenage years. Later this mellowed into a broader spirituality, but I still warm to Protestant Christianity. The peace and splendour of Lincoln Cathedral – next door to which I lived and worked many happy years – still holds a special place in my heart today.

I have continued to investigate and embrace different aspects of spirituality, and my recent studies have been as a member of a group that focuses on aspects of psychic communication. Part of our learning has revolved around the gods of the Egyptians, Greeks and Romans, who were similar but in no way identical to the Hindu deities. The more I investigated this, the more I came to terms with the idea that these were not so much divine creators in the Old Testament tradition of God Almighty, but rather archetypes or idealised concepts that each related to particular area of life. Moving on from the basic tenets of this analysis, it then makes perfect sense to venerate an ideal or to appreciate the particular area of perfection that is embodied in a particular so-called god. In many ways it is not dissimilar to the Catholic concept of particular saints taking on areas of specialisation and responsibility – Saint Christopher as the patron saint of travellers, for example.

It also follows that these gods-with-a-small-g become like conventional thetrical characters – the hero, the villain, the heroine, the innocent, the wise man, the fool - and so forth. In my mind they and their adventures are often representations of an ideal, and familiar reminders of different human traits, qualities or, for that matter, human failings. I apologise to those who know more about Hinduism for this gross over-simplification, but I don’t like my beliefs to be too complicated, and I can handle this basic idea, so I hope it helps others to whom it’s all rather confusing.

The lovable, friendly, jumbo-god Ganesha

Given this premise, I feel no sense of alienation from the ubiquitous pictures and statuettes of all manner of gods that are to be found everywhere around India, but on the other hand, I abhor the crucifixes that are to be found (by law) in every school, post office and government building back in Italy. The happy, smiling elephant-god Ganesha is a character whom I always find welcoming and cheerful – I can’t say the same for representations of the Roman instrument for inflicting a slow and painful death that has been adopted as the universal symbol of Christianity.

It’s both humbling and heart-warming to see the way the religions co-exist in Kerala. Here on the estate, early one morning, long before dawn, the priest conducted Puja (prayers) on the open area designated for meetings and ceremonies. This followed a complex ritual around an open hearth piled with flaming timbers, and the whole area was decorated with flower petals and rushes.

On the road to town there’s a large Roman Catholic convent, and further on a teaching hospital also run under Catholic auspices, while the poster across the road from the hospital calls people to come and try the Pentecostal church. No more than a couple of miles further and there’s a large mosque with a school attached. Despite the history of the partition, and separation of Pakistan at the time of Independence, India today really does promote and project its multi-faith creed. Furthermore, in a population of a billion, sectarianism is not a simple demarcation into major faiths because loyalties and associations splinter into hundreds of local bonds, tribal affiliations and caste connections. This probably helps to limit the effectiveness of religious squabbles because there can rarely be just one, simple, black and white differentiation with so many diverse motives involved.

By and large, life in India is well-integrated and harmonious with only occasional, isolated flare-ups. Furthermore, there is one substantial benefit to having so many religions freely following their practices:  -  with so many religions there are so-o-o many extra religious holidays to celebrate!

You’re going to put it WHERE ?

Panchakarma is one of the eight disciplines of Ayurvedic medicine. Others include geriatrics, paediatrics, ENT, gynaecology and so forth. To the Western mind, Panchakarma is the odd one out that we don’t see in Western medicine, because it means cleansing. Panchakarma incorporates the Hindi word for 5 – panch – because Panchakarma consists of five cleansing procedures.

AYV (AyurvedaYogaVillas.com) is one of the few establishments that offer the real thing. Elsewhere throughout Kerala, Indian hoteliers are not stupid, and if tourists want to sample an exotic massage or a short course of treatment then they are not going to turn away trade. Consequently centres offering Ayurvedic treatments appear everywhere, and most resorts and hotels in Kerala offer programmes from single sessions to a 1-week programme or longer. But an Ayurvedic treatment isn’t like a massage at the Beauty Spa of the Taj Hotel in Bombay, nor is it like a massage in the back streets of Bangkok, and nor is it like a muscle massage by the physio’ at the local Sports Centre. In Ayurvedic terms, a massage is just one element in a complex course and should not be taken out of context or used in isolation. So, since most people wouldn’t want to invest 28 days in a serious course of unconventional treatment, very few of those who sample a taste of Ayurveda actually experience a true Panchakarma.

Through doctor's window

The first treatment in classic Panchakarma builds up to the vomiting therapy. The second treatment combines medicines administered through nasal drops with different types of massage and the liquid drip across the forehead. My final treatment – next weekend - will be a powerful laxative after which I will enjoy a couple of days of relaxing “rejuvenation therapy.” While my personal interpretation of such therapy would almost certainly involve peeled grapes and dusky maidens, I fear that here at AYV it will probably incorporate more of the disgusting herbal potions that the doctors here like to prescribe.

So what of phases 3 & 4, you may be wondering? The doctor explained that these steps would continue to work on breaking down the fat cells in my stomach and back areas by two methods. One would be a vigorous massage being pounded with muslin pads stuffed with a herbal mixture and heated in a wok on the hob. As I now know, the therapists don’t hold back with this and I’m surprised I’m not covered in bruises. The other method, he explained, would be the application of very powerful decoctions that would get straight into the digestive system through the wall of the large intestine. I could see that this latter procedure made wonderful sense; I could envisage it as a sort of internal liposuction process, and I warmed to the idea of my stomach gently melting away without any further effort on my part.

Until I asked how this process worked.

“By enema. We introduce the decoction through the anal region.”

Stunned silence.

“You’re going to put it WHERE?” I asked, timidly. (Yes, I can do timid.)

And in his gentle inimitable way the doctor explained that I would have soft, manipulative stomach massages, then on Days 1, 3 and 5 I would have a small enema of oil, and on days 2 and 4 the enema would be a up to three quarters of a litre (heck! -that’s a full bottle of wine!) of heavily medicated solution incorporating mustard, pepper.... but you just don’t want to know, do you? It’s too much information, just too much information....

That’s quite enough blogging about medical processes, the starvation, the painful yoga and the sour, bitter, disgusting medicines. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can knock out a piece on something harmless like traditional Kerala dance, or the houseboats on the inland waterways, or harvesting peppercorns and other spices. I’ll find a topic that’s a bit less graphic. I apologise, dear readers, for even thinking about describing this part of Panchakarma

It was totally thoughtless of me; - I mean NOBODY would go on holiday to have, well, you know...  

Don’t talk while you’re eating!

The soil on the farmland surrounding us, and here in the gardens, is dark and crumbly - the finest soft loam. What I would give for soil like this!... I could weep when I think of the solid clay in our garden in Italy. Local farmers in Kerala produce superb vegetables and one can understand how the diet has evolved without any need for animal products. But of course, it’s more than that and is linked to the recognition of a special relationship between people, their nourishment and their environment.

The attitude to food in the Ayurvedic lifestyle reminds me of the time when I – as a 19 year-old student – had to give a talk at a monastery about the voluntary work I’d been doing in Africa. The meal was almost a ritual, eaten in humility and gratitude and in total silence. Here in the dining room at the Centre, the Northern Europeans congregate together over meals, laughing, joking, gossiping and totally ignoring the carefully worded laminated card that the AYV team have thoughtfully placed on each table. This card explains that mealtimes are an important element of the treatment programme and that the food has been carefully chosen to balance the precise bodily requirements over the period of each week. It also suggests that one “should not talk or laugh when consuming food,” which is hardly the sort of proposition that is likely to be taken up by people away from home and taking a vacation. It goes further with the idea that one should: “consider eating like a vedic fire ritual and that you are making offerings to the internal fire who is god.” Not a familiar concept to people used to grazing, fast-food and snacks. Most people here treat meals with other guests as an opportunity to catch up on the latest news from emails back home. Consequently most people ignore everything on the card and eat as they would do at home, refusing unfamiliar flavours, and far more interested in conversation than in nourishment. As the doctor said to me at my morning consultation “All we can do is explain things to people, we cannot force them to do things our way.”Ayurveda teaches that the food, and the way it is consumed are just as important as the medicines, treatments, therapies and yoga sessions that are all elements of the programme.

Having run restaurants for 15 years, I know the annoyance I have felt on occasions when people just gobble down food without really tasting or appreciating the work that has gone into creating each dish. Without wishing to turn mealtimes into a total ritual, I still think the monks were onto something with their tradition of a silent refectory.

My lunch last Thursday (- that's a teaspoon!)

For 6 days of the week I have very little opportunity to sample the food as the weight management menu is stripped to the absolute minimum. Consider my lunch on Thursday:

•         1 Chapati
•          1 heaped tablespoon of onion and cucumber Raita (in yoghurt/buttermilk)
•          1 heaped tablespoon chopped vegetables with grated fresh coconut
•          1 heaped tablespoon chopped carrot, onion and green pepper dressed with a squeeze of lime
•          1 cup of warm herbal tea

The ridiculous thing about this dietary regime is that I have never yet felt hungry, and have on occasions felt almost bloated.

And then there’s Sunday. They make Sunday lunch special so that guests (those who are not on the introductory diet of plain rice) can enjoy a traditional Kerala meal. This is partly to give guests a treat, and partly to wake up the digestive system. The meal is served in the traditional way on a big banana leaf and eaten with the fingers, though spoons are available for those of a nervous disposition. The doctor explained that the fare on offer is not a random selection of dishes that taste nice, but is carefully chosen to constitute a complete, balanced meal that provides nourishment for all the senses, hot, cold, sweet, spicy, salty, mild, etc. The doctor played music to my ears when he advised me to: “...eat as much as you want from all the vegetable dishes, just don’t overdo the rice.”

Sunday lunch - Kerala style

But of course, my stomach has shrunk significantly, so there was no way I could gorge myself even had I wanted to. It was delicious, and full of subtle flavours and totally healthy. Today, of course, I’m back on my minimal rations, and the results are continuing to show almost daily.

In less than three weeks on this regime my weight decreased by 11.6kg. (not a typo....eleven point six kilos!)

Four legs good : Two legs bad

For centuries children have played with kites; diamond-shaped, paper-covered frames with long tails, tossed into the air and flown ever higher at the tug of a string. Just one string. You couldn’t steer or direct such kites but they were inexpensive and great fun; kite-flying was, and is exhilarating.

It all changed in the 1970s, when an Englishman called Peter Powell replaced the single string with two strings and a kite became instantly controllable. It could be commanded to twist and turn; it would even skim across the hedge-tops horizontally, parallel to the ground. Amazingly, Powell was granted a patent for his invention, because in all the thousands of years that kites had been flown on fields and sea-shores around the world, nobody had ever come up with the idea of two strings. Today almost every kite you can buy in the toyshop has two strings and two little handles that make the kite totally controllable and so much more fun to fly.

There are many aspects of life in which two are better than one. Like walking sticks – or to be more precise, alpine stocks. The Alpenstock was as essential as the digital camera is today for every serious tourist back in the 19^th century, when intrepid Brits started to conquer the Swiss Alps, (that the locals had more or less ignored their entire lives, according to Zurich’s Museum of Tourism.) This was a sturdy walking stick with a spike for slippery surfaces and a shaft of seasoned ash onto which little medals could be nailed, commemorating the peaks and villages that the well-travelled tourist had conquered. And then, no more than a generation ago, one keen walker realised the advantages to speed and stability that would ensue if a person held something like Alpenstock in each hand. And hiking poles were born.

The point about walking in open country is that it’s partly about stamina and partly about balance. While one foot is in the air, the body is unstable because there is only one point of anchorage. Add a pair of hiking poles and there are always 3 feet on the ground. Which is why mountain goats don’t fall over. And similarly, with my German-engineered hiking poles, neither do I. As George Orwell says in Animal Farm: Four legs good : Two legs bad.

When we discussed exercise in my first consultation, the doctor had a wry smile on his face. “We want you to exercise and build up your muscles, but we don’t want you to put unnecessary strain on that worn hip-joint.” A bit of a Catch 22, really, and then he added: “It’s important that you walk on smooth paths and not on rocky roads, because if you are walking on uneven surfaces then you will be struggling to keep your balance and that will put additional strain on your hip.” But there are few smooth roads around here; it’s all farmland and forest.

My hiking poles lying on a typical farm track

With a smile and a flourish, I produced my hiking poles, which would both limit the strain on my hip joint and improve my ability to keep my balance on the rough roads.

But this has not been an immediate solution, as I had forgotten the doctor’s words at the outset, namely that with Ayurvedic treatments, the condition will worsen before it improves. One of this week’s newly arrived patients is giving up and going home, the treatments simply too severe and distressing for her to handle. That’s not wimpish cowardice; it’s a fact that the initial reactions are very difficult to handle. After a few days I found the stairs in the main building almost impossible to climb and was hauling myself up on the hand-rail. Some mornings my walk down the road was no more than a shuffle, handicapped by a sense of complete exhaustion.

It’s taken the best part of three weeks to get back to some semblance of myself in terms of mental and physical energy, but the price has been well worth paying, and yesterday my exercise was – in both senses – just “a stroll in the park.”

Now each morning and afternoon, I pull on my sandals, grab my hiking poles and stride out confidently and securely as I head through the forest to the amused shouts of a group of local children. What I interpret as cheerful friendly greetings are probably derisory cries of something like “Oy Mister!- where’s your skis?”

Tomorrow, a new course of treatment starts and continues for the next 5 days. You’d never guess....

Exquisite torture

The peace and calm of the Ganesha shrine and the river down below

After the Powder Massage, my next 5-day course of treatment was to be one that had been my absolute favourite on previous trips to Kerala: lying on the massage table while a thin stream of liquid flows gently to and fro across my forehead. I should have known that Ayurveda-Yoga-Villas would be more meticulous with this treatment – as they are with all – and that my body’s reaction might be different.

To begin with, the doctor had talked me through the objectives of the various treatments. The first treatments had been to clean me out, then the powder massage worked on breaking down the fat around my middle and back. This had all been very successful and had reduced my weight by 9kg in just 13 days...! But treating obesity is not about eliminating the symptoms; it’s about attacking the causes. Why did I overeat? One effect of my excesses had been to push up my blood pressure, which had been worryingly high at 190/110 when I had arrived. This meant that the circulatory system needed attention and, more importantly, the emotions that stimulate it, to try and establish where the problem lay. I was credulous that using a particular massage treatment could identify the emotional factors that had pushed up my blood pressure but, as I said, this was my all-time favourite treatment, so I had no fears when I stretched out on the massage table while the assistants put the equipment in place.

The apparatus used is a tall wooden gallows structure that serves to suspend a large bowl over the patient’s forehead. There’s a hole in the bowl which is partly blocked by a thick wick, so that the liquid in the bowl can flow out slowly and steadily. That much I was familiar with; the new variation for me was the 10cm-wide cylinder of something resembling Play-Dough that the assistant was moulding in his hands. Once I lay down, he positioned this cylinder on my left chest, over my heart, as if he were marking me up for target practice. While I unwound and relaxed, wondering what this was all about, he warmed some oil and then dribbled this into this Play-Dough ring on my chest, so that the oil warmed the skin above my heart, gently massaging the oil in as he did so.

Next he fixed a cloth across my eyebrows so that no liquid would run into my eyes, put cotton pads on my eyes and plugged my ears with more cotton wool. Then he massaged liquid into my scalp as if it was a shampoo. The liquid in this treatment varies from patient to patient, as does the temperature of the liquid and the decoction that they mix in with it. The liquid I am being treated with is buttermilk, sometimes icy cold, and sometimes hot and turned an unappetising grey colour from the medications that have been added to it.

So now, my hair wrung out by the muscular hands of my handsome young man, I lay and waited for the main treatment to begin. Then I felt the liquid hit the spot the gurus call the third eye, in the centre of the forehead, midway between the eyes. The assistant gently swung the bowl to and fro, from left to right, so that there was a constant sensation of the liquid caressing the brow. And so it continued for the best part of half an hour.

How marvellous! -you might think; how relaxing that must be! Indeed, I have tended to drift in and out of consciousness when I have had this treatment elsewhere in Kerala, but the consequences on this occasion were more sinister. The effect of the process as it is carried out here is to open up all sorts of emotions that have been buried over the years. Every night, my neighbour in the adjacent villa next-door has been dreaming a constant newsreel of incidents and relationships from years back; another guest here spent the afternoon after this treatment shut in the room and in floods of tears. My reaction was to walk out of the treatment room as if I was stoned out of my mind: dizzy, disoriented, confused and having difficulty standing straight or thinking straight.

Fortunately I went straight from the treatment to my daily doctor’s appointment. The doctor explained that the medication used in this treatment brings up issues from the past that patients have buried at the back of their minds, and he emphasised the importance of now taking time to sit quietly by the river and re-examine things that troubled me, and to write it all down so I could keep coming back and progressing my thinking.  We are so often encouraged to forget about the past and bury it, but I found that with my mind focused after the treatment, I was put in a position to re-evaluate certain things in my life, quietly and dispassionately, and to come to terms with issues that I had been unable to resolve.

It wasn’t easy – and this particular process is a 5-day journey – but with the support of the simple diet, the natural beauty of the environment and the daily yoga there is a natural sense of balance being restored. 

Yeah....? A bucket of milk over your head....?Yes... it’s crazy, isn’t it? But it works for me and it seems to work for others here too, and as far as I’m concerned that, and the concise academic reasoning of all three doctors, is enough for me. The scientifically-minded junior doctor was writing out my medication instructions for me the other day, and across the top of the paper she wrote the phrase that they write on all such notes. Roughly translated it means something along the lines of:

“This treatment in the name of the goddess of Ayurveda, all praise and honour be unto her.”

 Yeah.... superstitious bunch of cranks...?

Of course, or, well.....

.... meanwhile my blood pressure dropped to 130/68. 

Just doing what I said I would do.

Big Cheery Bloke replaces Fat Miserable Bloke

After two weeks Fat Miserable Bloke is looking a bit more like Big Cheery Bloke. It's been hard work and it's not going to stop being hard work for quite some time. I'm grateful for some of the things I've learnt in recent years that have helped with the challenge.

Ten years ago I took a number of self-development courses. My earnings were high at the time, and I could write off all these activities against tax (- well, that’s what I did, and they never checked!) I attended several advanced courses and I helped to run courses in South Africa, California, Scotland, and Tennessee as well as all over England, and it was a rich and fulfilling experience. The courses had a common element which centred on being true to yourself, of doing what you said you were going to do just because you owed that much to yourself. After all, if you couldn’t trust yourself, who could you trust? The basic course used an exercise that involved accepting and committing to a set of personal disciplines. Some were obviously appropriate – not talking during sessions, others helpful – raising your hand if you couldn’t hear, some seemingly petty – an absolute adherence to timings. The point was that these were not rules laid down by another authority; they were personal disciplines that you accepted and took on as your own.

It’s a concept that has held me in good stead on many occasions, and it is highly appropriate at this time in Kerala, where the programme is not imposed nor even strictly enforced, it relies on guests exercising their own personal discipline. Nobody checks if you rise at six in the morning – there are no alarm calls, and nobody checks if you do actually take that brisk early-morning walk. Nobody challenges you if you insist on getting the kitchen to bring you different food from the menu that the doctors have prescribed for you, and nobody checks if you take your medicines. Well, why would they? We’re all adults aren’t we?

But that’s not the way some people seem to see things. I don’t believe in cherry-picking an experience like this. I want to get the most out of it, so I’ll follow the doctors’ instructions as near to the letter as I can. Variations like going to the village for a sticky cake, or getting the kitchen to make me coffee seem to defeat the purpose of entering into this sort of rigorous regime in the first place. But the whingeing and whining goes on every mealtime, people who can’t eat this or don’t like that, and who choose to customise their days to suit their own preferences rather than accept what has been meticulously constructed to deliver a balanced and – above all – effective programme.

As the days go by I find that I accept and even enjoy some of the physical exertion, the early mornings and early nights, the daily rituals, the simple diet. I am confident that some of this will create new habits, and will be absorbed into my lifestyle when I go home. The whole purpose of Panchakarma is to change one’s lifestyle, not in terms of going home to sit cross-legged on the floor eating curried vegetables with my fingers, but in terms of living my Italian life in a different way. There is a deep sense of peace and acceptance, and I don’t think I could have achieved this if I had chosen to fight the system, ignored the activities and demanded different food.

I paid a fair sum of money and, even more significantly, I committed a substantial period of time and I want to get the best possible return on my investment. I just don’t understand people who do all that and then try to wheedle a way around the system. If you do that, then the only promise you break is the one you made to yourself.

All of this sounds very self-righteous, but there’s a big piece missing in my jig-saw. If I can be so smart about disciplines that other people find so easy to break, why do I have such a problem with disciplines that other people find perfectly acceptable? Why have I eaten too much and drunk too much for so long, and why do I find it so difficult to break that pattern? This is where my new course of treatment takes over – working on the mind and getting through to the emotions.

It gets to the point when life and all the emotions look and feel like an impenetrable jungle

I thought I would love the next therapy in my programme, as I have on previous visits to Kerala, but this time it’s proving a major struggle. More of that tomorrow.

Something my Grandmother taught me

The main building with first floor dining room

My maternal grandmother was a dead ringer for fairy-tale witch. She lived in a little terraced cottage with a coal fire in the kitchen. The fire was in a grate that incorporated an oven built to the side for baking and had an arm that swung round to carry a big, old-fashioned kettle. Behind the kitchen was the scullery with a wash-tub, and a frightening mangle that had huge wooden rollers to squeeze the water out of the hand-washed laundry. Her white hair was wound into a bun on the back of her head and she always – it seemed – wore long, black, shapeless shifts. Her eyes constantly twinkled, deep-set in a face that was as weathered and wrinkled as a new-season’s walnut.

My parents used to send me to stay with her sometimes in the school holidays. It was long before I was a teenager but my father, with his forceful expectations of me, picked me up at the end of term and put me on the Yorkshire Pullman on platform 8 at King’s Cross with a note of the number of the bus I had to catch from Hull Paragon Station, and the name of the stop from which I could walk to Granny’s house.

Those holidays in Granny’s house were my first exposure to seeds in cookery, because Granny King’s neighbour used to bake the most delicious Seed Cake, for which I must find – or reinvent – the recipe. Nowadays we take for granted the use of seeds and spices in cooking, but in those post-war years of the mid-fifties, spices were a mystery and appeared only in small cellophane packets to be added to the vinegar for pickling onions or making green tomato chutney. Here in Kerala pepper grows in vines along the roadside and a wide variety of different seeds and spices are used in the kitchen every day. And it’s not just in food, of course, because all the medicines here are made from herbs and spices, and many are produced right here on site.

In western medicine we have come to expect our potions to be bland and tasteless, but that’s a recent innovation since synthetic flavours have become available and affordable. The first medicine I remember as a child – probably for a cough or cold – had the strong and bitter flavour of liquorice, and since sweet-rationing was still in force, the flavour was unfamiliar. This medicine was a mysterious dark colour and I decided it tasted horrid. My mother encouraged me with the phrase that Granny King had always recited to her: “If it doesn’t taste bad it’s not going to do you any good!” And that is how it was for many years: medicines tasted truly disgusting until those dark-brown liquorice-flavoured liquids were replaced with bright pink medicines flavoured with a synthetic strawberry taste and then, in time, most bottles were replaced with pills and tablets.

In Ayurvedic medicine, medicines are still the real thing: disgusting colours, gritty, grainy textures, and flavours that surprise, shock and repel the senses. The doctors hand out little poly-bags filled with fine powders in varying shades of brown. Some are to be mixed into a paste with honey, some are to be taken in warm water and others in buttermilk. But these are not soluble powders. When I collect my early morning mug of buttermilk from the kitchen, I spoon in my brown powder and it floats on top. I stir, I whisk and beat until gradually little clumps of paste form and then they in turn can be broken down, so that the mixture achieves a slightly lumpy consistency rather like wallpaper-paste. It is so thick that I don’t know whether I drink it or eat it, but fortunately this early morning medicine is not totally repugnant. You just need to like the flavour of sugar, salt, chilli, pepper, garlic and something vaguely chocolatey.

I have 6 medicines to take. One of my little tablets has to be washed down with an infusion made of roasted cumin seeds and hot water. Such infusions are commonplace, and almost every guest here can be seen walking around with a thermos of herbal tea. No “tea” of course: just hot water that is tainted faintly green by the soggy, slimy leaves that are floating in it.

But Granny knew best, because these strange potions are having a remarkable restorative and curative effect on my whole system despite the range of unfamiliar flavours and unappealing tastes. And then there was a welcome surprise when my most recent medicine  was prescribed. Not a liquid, not a powder, but a shiny blister-pack of tiny pills, one to be taken daily, at bedtime. Just when I thought the assault on my taste-buds was over, I read the small print: “Not to be swallowed.” So the treatment was clear, just let the pill dissolve in the mouth and fall asleep with the flavour on the tongue, thinking of Granny King’s wise words: “If it doesn’t taste bad it’s not going to do you any good!”