The journey of true enlightenment comes in many forms. For me, it's usually on the toilet. (In keeping with the circular nature of life and the universe I have decided to finish these blogs where I started them!) This particular toilet was an unusual one. Due to the limited water supply in remote areas of New Zealand (and the strong emphasis on environmental respect) all of the toilets at this retreat are 'compost toilets'. In other words, a hole in the ground with a bucket of sawdust placed nearby to compliment whatever you deposit. The oddly twee sign hanging on the wall directs you to "Pee or poop, leave a scoop!", as if Snow White herself is the one cleaning it out. Anyway, I caught sight of myself in the reflection of the toilet roll dispenser and actually did a double-take. There was a gold smudge between my eyebrows (well, since arriving here it's more of an eyebrow) and where my hair would usually frame my face it was all swept up in a hippy headscarf. I should explain. The gold paste was dabbed on my forehead during this mornings Havan (fire) ceremony and I was wearing the scarf mainly for hygiene reasons in the kitchen (but let's face it, I thought it would be fun to dress up). A scalp carved out with yogic symbols and a traditional Indian forehead. I almost didn't recognise myself. Almost.
A few days before my arrival at this mountain-top retreat I met a manager of a hostel a few towns away. An amiable North Londoner who wore her sharp British wit with the same national pride as a football fan wears his kit. When I questioned her about her personal experiences of the retreat she said: "I laugh too much for a place like that". Uh oh. Apparently the head Swarmi with the strong South American accent pronouncing 'focus' ("pha-carss") during a meditation session was enough to send her back down the hill. I can't say I wasn't warned.
The half-an-hour uphill drive was challenge enough in my Granny Mazda. We battled on over rocky terrain, through three locked gates, several bubbling fords… At one point I almost mowed down a trail-blazing runaway sheep. When I got there my expectations of a warm and friendly hippy colony quickly evaporated. This is the image that greeted me as I walked up to the main house: a crowd of mainly bald heads all turned in unison to inspect the new arrival. Very much like the colony of seals I'd stumbled upon only the day before, all shiny-headed and suspiciously curious. Outsider alert. I don't think it helped matters that I was wearing my 1950's style sunglasses and my one 'nice' dress (it being laundry day for the backpack). This colony of seals weren't 'wearing' clothes as such, but rather looked like they'd been draped with the contents of the Dalai Lama's wash-basket. Quite used to walking into situations as a complete alien by now, I did what I usually do; put on my best smile and got on with it.
After initiation 'Herb Tea and Fruit' (vegan diet here I come!) one of the serene-looking resident seals led me down to where I would be staying. A private straw-bale yurt, overlooking Golden Bay, with a Queen-sized bed and tea-making facilities. I thought I was going to cry. After moving from dorm room to smelly/cramped/noisy dorm room over the last three months, having my own space is an indescribable luxury. This was something else entirely. I was so overcome with emotion that I heard myself asking Annaporna (spiritual name) if I could hug her. Being a raging hippy I knew she couldn't say no and of course she obliged (serene smile neatly in place) though I did suspect the hug was a little insincere on her part…
Thus began a strict schedule of "om"ing, meditating, lying down, attempting to sit in the cross-legged lotus position, reviving stiff legs after they had completely given up on me, chanting, cooking and consuming of nutritious meals sourced from their veggie garden (though describing them on the website as "tasty" was gross false advertising). Oh and they maintain complete silence from 8pm to 8am. Having my own yurt in the middle of nowhere, silence was a delicious treat after three months on the backpacker trail.
On day two we were introduced to the yogic ritual of Tree Puja. My preconceptions of this were something along the lines of The Wicker Man (group nudity and ritualistic flailing) so I was most relived when they explained what we had in store. We were invited to peruse the surrounding forestry, find a tree of choice and spend some 'quality' time with it. In other words, hug it, water it, offer it some wild flowers (no, I am not making this up) or simply light a candle and an incense stick in its honour. My immediate response was to enquire about the fire hazards of such an operation but I'm guessing these ladies threw out their sense of humour with their hairbrushes and informed me very solemnly to be as careful as possible. Though I did wonder if this explains why there are so many bush fires in this part of the world…mmm. So off we trundled with our tea-lights and incense. I chose my tree (it chose me?!) and attempted to bond in the damp weather, tentatively poking its rubbery bark whilst trying not to choke on burning incense. I can't say I made a life-long friend (we didn't have a hell of a lot to talk about) and sadly never did make it as far as a hug (didn't fancy picking bits of crumbling old bark out of my jumper).
By day five I was feeling a little more sociable and so invited two of my fellow retreat victims over to my yurt for an after-dinner cup of tea. Having kept to myself the first few days I expected these pleasant Germans to be as steadfast and serious about their 'spiritual journeys' as the bald-headed seals. I didn't expect one of them to pull out of his bag a super-sized bar of milk chocolate with the rogueish delight of teenager revealing a secret packet of fags. What followed was much hysterical laughter as we attacked the chocolate with the voracity of ravenous carnivores (who had been surviving on lentils and veggie soup for the previous few days). What the seals didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Absurdly, we hadn't washed off the gold smudges between our brows (brow in my case) from the 'cleansing ceremony' that afternoon, which of course made our personal fat-fest all the more hilarious.
By the last night I was actually getting into my stride and so was everyone else, including the seals. The uptight atmosphere and quiet reverence of these residents seemed to lift on Saturday evening as the ancient Indian tradition of Kirtan began. If you've never experienced a Kirtan it's a call-and-response sing-a-long (lots of "om"s and "Krishna"s, etc.) and before long you feel yourself getting carried away by the rhythm and wall of noise around you. I'm not ashamed to say that we partied like it was 1999 with a harmonium, a pair of drums and, yes, a tambourine. I became entirely oblivious to how I was coming across to everyone else. I suppose that's the thing; if you disregard fashionable clothes and hairstyles (and in my case a carefully plucked browline) you stop worrying so much about what people think. I was probably completely out of tune and looked like a lunatic but honestly who cares?! As a person who hates the quiet self-conscious mumbling you have to sit through during hymns at Church of England weddings, it was refreshing to get in a room with people who didn't feel embarrassed to sing their hearts out. Literally. And it felt good.
By the end of the week I'm surprised to find I've taken a lot from the experience. I agree with plenty of their ideals on life and have further confirmation that you are your only route to true happiness. I don't agree with their single-minded preaching that "Yoga is the ONLY way to self-enlightenment" and I am lucky not to be visiting at the sponge-headed age of eighteen (many of the permanent young residents have the wide-eyed fanaticism of lost sheep, blindly following the yellow brick road in search of enlightenment). I just hope that next time I see a bunch of Hare Krishnas partying through London town I might have the sense to stop thinking so much and jump head-first into the madness. First thing's first, where are my tweezers…