I SAID farewell to Jamie and the kids at the airport, jumped in a cab and went to Ilheus town centre for some food (last supper around 3.30pm) before hopping in another taxi for the bus terminal.
The driver, who spoke some English and liked The Beatles (which he played for me) offered to take me direct. His price R70.
I declined, saying I had time and it was much cheaper by bus. Eventually his price came down to R40, so I agreed, provided he dropped me at the door of the farm Borboleta Azul (Blue Butterfly) owned by my guide Silvia, who, with the least interference possible, would nurture me through the ‘process’.
Off we went, me with only an approximate idea of the road to my final destination until we reached Serra Grande and I pointed him towards where I thought we needed to go.
The road was dusty, unpaved, lined with rocks and pot-holes, though not as poor as the Piracanga Road. I could hear the driver muttering to himself discontentedly as his car took a semi-beating, especially on the two occasions we got stuck and his wheels kept spinning and I needed to get out and push.
Eventually, I decided we best ask for directions and a family on the road offered to help, joining us in the car and taking us all the way only to find Silvia wasn’t there (she was waiting for me in Serra Grande – I’d said I would call her when I arrived).
So we turned back to the family’s house – a concrete shell, no beds, but good satellite TV – where I waited.
As for the taxi driver: I got out his money, but he asked me for R100, showing me the meter, which he had kept running (and was at R130). I agreed the trip was rough on his car, but reminded him we’d made an agreement. I gave him R60. Begrudgingly, he accepted.
He did at least honour calling Silvia for me when he reached a point where his mobile phone picked up a signal.
About an hour later a lady living at Silvia’s picked me up and showed me to the room where I would be staying for the first 11 days. It was basic. No electricity. A compost toilet. No doors.
But I wasn’t here for the luxury. It didn’t matter to me. Later Silvia arrived. We talked, had some coconut water and then it was off to bed. I slept about 12 hours (estimated).
The ‘process’ began at midnight and would end at the same time 21 days later. The first week there is no food or liquid. The second week I could have diluted juice (one part fruit, three parts water) and coconut water. The third week the juice is more concentrated (40 per cent fruit).
For me this was a journey of self-discovery, to explore my limits and to also experience the depth of this ‘process’ called Living On Light.
I’d never done anything like this before. I’d fasted several times for 24 hours only on water or vegetable juice.
It’s important to understand these are only my interpretations and experiences. The first seven days, sometimes referred to as ‘The Surgery’, are about the physical.
I found not consuming food or water challenging in moments, but these phases surprisingly soon passed. I was more thirsty than I was hungry. Having a heavy cold, too, didn’t help, but this quickly went.
By the end of the sixth day my mouth and lips were dry, seriously parched (hence the silly grin in the photo above). But I had no hunger. I still peed every day.
The week began slowly. I had no rhythm. The first day I spent mostly inside, bedding down and nesting. I recall the first two days seeming to last forever and wondering how on earth I was going to complete 21.
But by the fifth and sixth days time was moving swiftly. Something had changed effortlessly and beautifully within me.
I had stopped resisting – resisting the ‘process, counting the days, thinking of time. In the first few days I had tried to fill my hours, as we’ve been conditioned to do. I picked up books and read. I journaled (a lot). But by the end of the week I didn’t feel to read any more. I was content and comfortable just being, whether it was sitting on a fallen tree in the lake, in my hammock or by the lakeside.
Thoughts would come and go. It didn’t matter. There was no critical judgement or interpretation. Just acceptance. I let things unfold naturally.
My only difficulty was sleeping. The forest orchestra really made a concert each night. It sounded like a 100 horses on cobbled streets blowing whistles and playing drums. I had to wait each night until the racket finished before I could properly rest on my bed which felt as if it had no mattress.
Maybe as the flesh reduced on my 6ft frame I could feel my boney physique more. But really I didn’t lose as much weight as I thought I would. My face didn’t become drawn-looking until the third day.
I would combat thirst by gargling with water and rinsing my mouth when swimming in the lake. I felt fine swimming – it seemed to energize me – but walking was arduous. My legs felt weary from Day 2. My balance was distorted.
Each day I did some yoga, but nothing demanding. The first week is about rest. I slept a lot during the day, tying up a hammock between trees.
Silvia advised me that from Day 4 I should three times a day take two-hour rests until the week was over, trying not at all to move. This I did.
However, I often felt breathless and as if I couldn’t even lift my legs when walking. My diaphragm felt as if it had shrunk.
Each action and step was becoming slower and deliberate. I was mindful of my every motion. My resting heartbeat seemed more rapid. My handwriting improved as I noticed I kept pace with my thinking. I didn’t sweat.
Every day was a blank page. I didn’t have to check my diary. The days were not divided by meal times. There was waking up, whenever that was, and 5pm, when I would meet with Silvia for sharing and meditation (she’d usually ring a bell). Promptly after I would go to bed as darkness moved in.
I didn’t have any extraordinary revelations. More so, I thought of food and delicious recipes I wanted to make and consume. Sometimes I’d even cherish food I no longer really ate, like melted peanut butter on toast with tea (the milky kind). Other times it was food I was looking forward to after the ‘process’ - chocolate mousse, falafel sandwich.
Later in the week, as thirst became stronger than hunger, all I thought of was watermelon, coconut water, tangerines and juicy oranges.
The ‘process’ is about breaking conditionings and we have many, of which our eating habits are perhaps the strongest.
I tried not to force anything. “This is a hospital and you are the patient,” Silvia would say to me as a way of helping me to understand I should trust in the ‘process’.
Trust I did. And by the end of the week, with my stomach feeling as if it had shrunk to the size of a pea, I came to take my first sip of water.
It tasted so good I almost felt like crying. “This [appreciation] is what the ‘process’ teaches you,” said Silvia.
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