Ayurveda Retreat: Some Pictures!

Ayurveda Retreat: A Hypochondriac’s Not Dry Dream Pt III

Britnie

My husband has labeled my a food bigot. After this jaunt, he can no longer say that (although I'm sure he still will). The only reason I am able to swallow this food is because I know it contains no animal products, so at least I know it is from nature... but so is the stink of the sulfuric mud pots in Yellowstone, so that's a moot point. I was very open minded the first several days, even eating chunky onion yogurt. I have tasted the onions ever since and probably will forever more. I was able to wash it down with what the other patients here call “hot river water.” The river water is so refreshing. Apparently it is some kind of herbal anti-oxidant water. I think it tastes like cheap chap-stick; Justin thinks it tastes like a Christmas candle. Admittedly, it has grown on me, but I often find myself longing after a cold bottle of water and something fresh to brush my teeth with... like Coke. Or a Slurpee.

Last night we ate something I decided to call “stove top stuffing” due to the unidentifiable assortment of shapes, colors, and textures. I closed my eyes and masticated. Believe me, I would rather have eaten anything from a turkey's hind-end than that crap. Pretty much I've resolved myself to put food on spoon, put spoon in mouth, chew chew chew, swallow, put down spoon, chase down with hot river water. Repeat. I will say that there are some good dishes. I've eaten a large amount of fresh pineapple, watermelon, mango, and grapes. I also enjoyed a pomegranate and bananas that I smuggled in before the retreat began. One night there was also a dish that tasted like caramel with bananas. I keep hoping they'll serve that again, but that might be an exercise in futility. In any case, now I know where the inspiration comes from for the food served at old folks homes, airplanes, and public schools.

Visit with the Doctor

Doctor: “Did you go to karali today?”

Justin & Britnie: “No.”

Doctor: “I will set an appointment for you.”

Justin: “You said that the past 3 days, but there is still no appointment, but we actually don't want to do it, so we can continue with this lip service charade if you want.”

Doctor: “That will not do, it is part of your treatment. You will report to the guru at 2 pm tomorrow.”

Justin

Karali is a bit like karate and bit like personal training. It consists of a slightly larger loin cloth than the massage room, learning some high kicks while a man with a stomach the size of a beer keg shouts things in a language you don't understand, with the promise that if you do this well, in 6 days time, you will be able to use the weapons.

The first day we did kalari, Britnie didn't wear a bra. This may sound like an odd choice, but she only packed 1 for the entire summer and the laundry here takes at least 3 days to get back because they don't have dryers and it is super humid and quite cold. We also think they do the laundry by banging them on rocks down in the muddy river. But I digress. The guru kept asking Britnie and me to do random kicks and jumps and lap runs. I was fine doing this and was actually quite enjoying the workout. However, Britnie was not interested in anything that involved her ample bosom jiggling up, down, around, or upside down. The guru kept yelling at her to jump and work harder, but Britnie is not one to ask “how high” when told to jump. She folded her arms on her chest, looked him straight in the eye, gave him that stern teacher look I have come to laugh nervously at, and said, “no.” I'm sure the language barrier was not a problem, but the cultural barrier went into effect. I'm not sure that many people, especially the ones with bosoms, tell a guru man “no.” Needless to say, Britnie has not returned to kalari lessons since.

I, on the other hand, have gone about every day. I have learned some wicked-cool ways to strain my hamstrings and cause bruising on my ankles. I even did an exercise that made my pecs spasm so bad that I couldn't feed myself at dinner. Thankfully the dinner doesn't much appeal to me so it wasn't a huge loss. I have joined in with a few other of the, how should I call them, “patients” at the retreat. I consider myself a customer, but I think maybe “patient” is more likely. I have been having an educational time with my new British and Russian friends watching the skirt-clad guru do strange jumps in which his scrotum comes flying out of his skirt. It is difficult to not laugh hysterically when this happens, but one stern look from the guru and a swift karate chop within millimeters of my nose stifle the laughter.

The Town

Thank the heavens for the town 40 minutes away. We were able to find regular bottled water and Kit Kats. This is proof that Jesus only forsakes you for a short time, but always pulls through in the end. For more information, visit www.mormon.org :)

Ayurveda Retreat: A Hypochondriac’s Not Dry Dream Pt II

Britnie

It wouldn't be way off base for people to call me prudish, but I wouldn't call myself that. If you look at my fashion sense, you can see I keep myself covered in many layers. So imagine my surprise when I walk into a room and 3 Indian women look at me and say, “Madam, take off all your clothes.” And while it's still quite hot in India, I still wear the layers, so that took some doing. They then proceed to dress me in a flimsy little lion cloth. I think to myself, well good, if at least my you-know-what and boobs are covered, I'll be okay. But alas, the girls are not covered and I am left with only the loin cloth.

The treatment begins with hair pulling. They start pounding my head and I am sure I'm gonna get a subdural hematoma. They classify this as head massage. I am then invited to mount the massage bed, which is actually a hard slab of wood, and lay in 99% of my glory. There are 3 people in the room, but only 2 actually help me. The third just stands around and I often find myself peeking one eye open to make sure she isn't taking pictures. I lay on my back, they bring out their freshest pot of vegetable oil and they generously apply and swish it all over my body. Apparently this is an ayurvedic massage. I'm pretty sure I am being prepared for some kind of feast.. They claim to be vegetarians, but I'm poised to be dropped into a deep fryer at any moment. The table is now so full of oil that I can't control where I move to. I slosh from side to side in the wooden bed. I am being tenderized like last week's pork chop.

This brings me to “Knife Fingers.” I'm not sure what extra joint exists in this lady's hand, but this protrusion is the bane of my existence. No matter how she touches me, it hurts, and she's only assigned to my left side, so day after day my left side is sliced and slashed. This is meant to be relaxing. Seeing as one lady keeps yelling out “Relax, madam, relax!” I guess I have not quite mastered the art of peaceful masochism.

The therapists notice that I have some nasal congestion and they decide to remedy that for me. They lay me on my back, plug a nostril while dumping hot oil into the other and telling me to breathe it in. Then they do the same with the other side. Then I sit up, loin cloth only half covering the downtown, and they light some kind of incense and hold it under a nostril while plugging the other. I have to breathe the smoke up one nasal passage and out the other. Rinse and repeat. This burns something fierce.

Justin

Have you ever been dressed in a patch of cloth, lain onto a wooden table, and been rubbed with hot oils until you are as slippery as a greased pig at an inbred rodeo? No? Then you're totally missing out! Not to mention that after the serendipitous rubdown, you get to ingest an assortment of garbanzo bean and lentil entrees with accompanying hot basil water and glutenous rice ball. Don't forget the cup of buttermilk ghee to wash down the medicine that makes green olive juice seem absolutely dripping in sweetness.

My treatment is similar to Britnie's but includes getting pounded with bags of herbs and trying to keep my junk covered while a middle-aged, overly smiley man named Baby gently dabs the sweat from my brow and says, “lubadubalubadubalubadubalubaduba” (tongue flapping like it's the Fourth of July ) and then he giggles like a nymphomaniac. Once the dab-giggle-nympho-fest is over, another therapist gives me a nasal treatment and the only thought I have is, “Why on earth would I want to be able to smell better whilst in India for heck's sake!?” KMN. Red spray, flies, and the Ganges come flooding to my cerebral cortex in a flash, accompanied by a fit of mental dry heaves.

Ayurveda Retreat: A Hypochondriac’s Not Dry Dream Pt I

Co-written by myself and Britnie :)

Arrival

We decided to come to India to repair the psychological damage done by our first trip here 2 years ago. Upon the recommendation of a trusted friend, we contacted the Ayurveda Yoga Villa in Kerala, South India, and booked the retreat called “Yoga and Rejuvenation.” We envisioned daily yoga, daily massage, and fresh vegetarian food. What we got was that, but so much more.

The night we arrived, the realities started sinking in. At dinner, we learned that we are not customers, we are patients. You do not leave this place on your own free will, you are released. You meet with a doctor daily to discuss every ache, pain, throb, bulge, and imaginary ailment concocted by HA (Hypochondriacs Anonymous). Many of the other guests, I mean patients, sit with the doctor for hours discussing at length the incongruencies of their bodies and obtaining a variety of medicines and/or medical procedures to heal their doshas (whatever that means). The medicines have scores of random herbs and flowers in them and usually stink like cow manure or pickled pigs feet. The treatments range from grease enemas, forced vomiting, a diarrhea marathon, and soaking your eyeballs in butter; to oil massage (a loosely used term), steam box sweating, and milk baths.

Health Assessment with the “Doctor”

Doctor: “What is your favorite color?”

Britnie: “Brown.” He looks at her queerly.

Doctor: “That's not common.” He writes notes.

Justin: “Mine is blue.”

Doctor: “Correct.” And he smiles pleasantly without writing notes.

Doctor: “What sounds more pleasing, being hot and coming into air-conditioning or being cold and then sitting by a fireplace?”

Justin: “Air-conditioning.”

Britnie: “Fireplace.”

Doctor: “Hmmmm...” This time he eyes Justin maniacally and writes down the word “steam box.”

Doctor: “What taste do you prefer? Sweet, sour, salty, spicy?”

Britnie: “Sweet.”

Justin: “I have no idea. I am a food slut.”

Doctor: “Is that a medical condition?”

Britnie: “No. It means he just eats everything.”

Doctor: “Well, you need to choose your favorite.”

Britnie: “He likes spicy.”

Doctor: “Oh, okay, I have now done an in depth health assessment on your soul, mind, and body. Drink 5 caps full of this sludge,” he hands us sludge in a bottle, “take this pill at night for sleeping (just ignore the warning that says Do Not Swallow), and undergo whatever the therapists in the naked room do to you. If you do this, we might approve your release. Thank you and goodbye.”

We part, eyes downcast, with no handshake or returned salutation.

The toilet got our medications and it's never looked shinier.

Hair Aftermath

Long time, no blog! I have a bit to catch up on, I'll keep it brief. First, as many of you know, I cut my hair. This was a bigger decision for me than you may care to contemplate! Living in a culture where you're expected to be a cookie cutter human being has its perks-- one being that doing something as benign as growing your hair long makes you the resident hippy rebel. I had no idea to what extent people noticed my unconventional hair length until I cut it. I was especially surprised that when I went to church many people commented that they liked my long hair and that it brought a good and needed vibe to the congregation. It was especially good to hear how much they liked it... but they assured me they liked the new cut, too. That is, once they figured out that the guy Britnie was sitting so close to was not a brother with whom she shared an unnaturally close affection, but just a transformed Justin.

Besides the shock of it all, I have been enjoying the new hair cut. It is much quicker to dry and now that I'm in Vietnam, it is much cooler. Last year when I was here, it was like a little heat insulator that kept my head hot at all hours of the day. Also, back home I kept getting told how young and skinny I looked, so I guess that's a good thing, too. Interestingly, I was also told I looked like a young Robin Williams... I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I'll take it. My wife's little 3 year old cousin told me I looked like Harry Potter. I totally took that as a compliment. Duh, who wouldn't?

From Posh Legs to Super Attractive Vein

I am ashamed to admit that in high school for Halloween one year I was a Spice Girl with a group of my friends. I was Posh Spice, the sexy one that wore very small clothes. My distinguishing feature as Posh Spice were my long and skinny legs (this is according to my wife who witnessed this embarrassing phase). There is even a picture of the group of us posing as the Spice Girls (which you'll see below). Britnie, way back in high school, even took this picture to school and showed some of my teachers and they teased me about it after that. It was all in good fun and honestly, who wouldn't get some kind of twisted enjoyment out of wearing pantyhose and fake knockers?





Fast forward thirteen years. I am no longer the attractive spring chicken I once was. Now one of my legs is a gnarly mess of ugly old man. Observe this photo and notice what looks like a basilisk weaving itself through my calf muscle:

Last weekend my in-laws saw this delightful, bulging vein and starting filling my mind with paranoia about blood clots and pulmonary embolisms. Ever since my dad got a subdural hematoma in his brain after one too many rides on X-2 at Six Flags, I've been scared of brain bruises and blood clots. So, I figured I'd have a doctor check it out to see if my life was at risk.

Finding a doctor was an adventure in itself. I hadn't been to a regular family doctor since July 2003 when my mom forced me to make sure I hadn't picked up a parasite on my mission. Whenever I've needed a doctor during the past 8 years, I've just gone to Urgent Care. I knew the last regular doctor I went to was long gone because his office was in the old Cottonwood hospital. I ended up calling up the place my wife's family goes and made an appointment there. I met first with the nurse, who repeatedly kept telling me what a cool vein I had and it was the highlight of her day since usually all she sees are sore throats. Once the doctor arrived and he looked at it, I sat through a long explanation about veins, failing valves, and my doctor's consternation over his son's desire to major in theater at college instead of pre-med. Long story short, it turns out I just have a disgustingly huge and unattractive varicose vein. Yep, I've now been deemed old and gross-looking by a PhD. Goodbye calf-modeling career. Hello twisted face-stares from statuesque young people.

Bike Riding

My wife and I bought bikes a few weeks ago. We bought them for several reasons:

• They are a good way to stay healthy.
• They keep us from driving our cars as much and cars kill the earth and we don't like earth murdering. We're not your typical Americans (or at least we like to think we're not)!
• Britnie's parents bought some so we had to, too. :)

We both got Diamondbacks, which are, from what I was informed by the bike salesman, a quality brand. I liked how smooth mine moved, and Britnie liked the color of hers. You would think you could sell her the worst quality thing on the planet if it was cute enough, but she also has this amazing talent for finding the cutest AND most expensive thing at every store we walk into. To give you an idea, her favorite store is Anthropologie at the Gateway Mall... if you know that store, then I need not continue explaining anything.

So far we're getting good use out of them, especially considering that the weather here in Salt Lake has been quite unpredictable lately and winter won't seem to go away! Ah the joys of Utah weather. I'd blame global climate change, but this craziness in our weather has always existed, I think.

Today I rode mine 3 miles to my grandma's house (no I did not wear any kind of red cloak and Idid not have a basket of goodies) and we went to lunch. I thought about having her sit on my handle bars and pump her to Arby's down the street, but I thought better of that since I didn't want to be responsible for breaking her. We took her car instead. We had a good time chatting and after lunch I cut some of her rose bushes for her. After our visit I made the trip back to my house and took a small detour down the Jordan River Parkway and enjoyed watching the random wildlife down there.

This evening, when Britnie got home, we went for a ride around the neighborhood and I got TWO flat tires! Yes, I know, I have amazing aim when it comes to hitting every thorn on the road. I bought some green slime stuff and injected it into my tires and I'll hope for the best that does the trick!