The Feel of Steel (15 page)

Has my learned disquisition got you past the squeamish moment? If not, leave now.

So here I lie, on a chipped white melamine board in the spartan bathroom of the bungalow, letting the water in, letting the water out; and eventually a series of small, soft objects slides out of me into the bowl. I repeat and repeat until the bucket is empty. It takes about forty minutes. And all the while, a small silvery-brown gecko is perched high on an upright of the window frame, head down, feet spread: I could swear he was watching me.

That evening, after the last drinks and capsules, we're advised to take a bowl of clear vegetable broth. It's the first thing I've put in my mouth all day, apart from the doses and my toothbrush. Just vegetable-flavoured water, really, with a dash of cayenne thrown in; but I approach it avidly, this liquid so clear, so fine, that one can barely believe it would have a flavour. It's a large bowl and I eat it slowly, with a dessertspoon, faint with delight at its simplicity and purity.

Day Two:
At 4 a.m. I wake from a dense, dream-filled sleep, imagining bacteria swarming on my ‘personal colema tip' where it lies on the bathroom shelf. What would my sisters, the nurses, say? ‘You mean you stick that thing
up
yourself without sterilising it?' The ceiling fan whirs. Waves on the nearby beach surge and flop. Crickets and frogs keep on
seep-seep-seep
ing in their strange unison. A small motorbike goes screaming past, a hundred metres from my head, along the road to Lamai. What am I doing here? I fantasise scrubbing my colema board with Dettol. Dawn comes and I can't be bothered – so swiftly does one adapt to the unimaginable.

The day crawls along. I do the regime, I sleep, I sprawl in a stupor on a deckchair. I have a massage in the pleasant, open-sided, palm-thatched sala where gentle breezes fan the air. The Thai masseuses in their loose Spa uniforms wait for requests, sitting in a group near the
steam room, murmuring to each other and deftly crocheting toilet roll covers. Some people are regularly doing yoga, other eager beavers mention a gym. J. is out there being sociable, but I can't bear to hear one more person say ‘Amaaaaaazing!' I hide in my bungalow and continue to plough through the pile of novels I've brought:
A Change of Climate
,
The Hours
,
The Untouchable
,
Cold Mountain
.

Day Three:
Each day is superficially the same but psychologically distinct. I am weak, vague and hyper-sensitive. My personal vibe is plummeting. Several young princes of narcissism swan about the place. One in particular grates upon my nerves. He speaks to no one, withholds eye-contact from all but a favoured few, and poses ascetically on the beach and near the restaurant, naked except for a loin-cloth like a nappy. His body is slim and strong but his face is blank, vain, fanatical; he tosses his clean, thick hair about his shoulders, and adopts flamboyant yoga postures in spots where he is sure to be noticed. If my looks could kill, he'd be stretched out beneath a palm, still beautiful in death.

Day Four:
Escalating misanthropy. J.'s is most exercised by Madame Mysterioso, Psychic and Tarot-Reader. She's
a skinny, rather dingy-looking, but endearing eternal traveller in a set of bulky hair extensions, a nose-ring and silver bangles, a grubby white crocheted bikini top and a brief sarong. While we peruse her laminated tarot brochure, she tells us she's ‘zapping her parasites'.

J.: ‘What parasites would you have?'

MME M.: ‘In India I had a tapeworm' (parts her hands in a fisherman's gesture) ‘that long! I was crawling to the cafe! I was eating for two! One meal for the worm and one for me! I was as weak as a kitten!'

J.: ‘How did you know how long it was?'

MME M.: (airily) ‘Oh, I passed it.'

J.: (grimacing) ‘How did you get rid of it?'

MME M.: (suavely) ‘Oh, they have wonderful medicines for worms, in India . . . but I came down here to make sure there was nothing else in there.'

She drifts away to the next table. I feel ancient, uncool, too well-scrubbed.

J.: ‘I thought I saw disapproval on your face.'

H.: ‘You're projecting! I thought she was sweet – like Linda Jaivin if she dropped a stone and went feral. Would you get a tarot reading from her?'

J.: (promptly) ‘Nope.'

H.: ‘Too much bullshit?'

J.: ‘All I see, when I look at her, is pathology.'

H.: (flaring up) ‘What's pathological about her?'

J.: (severely) ‘She's abandoned her tribe. Her mother wouldn't be able to communicate with her.'

There's no point in squabbling: we're both too out of it. I skulk off to lie on my board and brood darkly about what is pathological, where families are concerned, and what is simply survival. The little gecko pops out of his hidey-hole and keeps me company, gazing down with his head on one side and his throat pulsing.

Nothing much happens colema-wise till I've almost emptied my bucket – then suddenly a whole lot of slithery stuff comes rushing out. I sit up, disconnect the colema tip, and peer into the toilet: a strange bumpy curved object, like a small brown croissant with a sheen on it. I'm excited.
Can this be the famous mucoid plaque?
I tear the long side off the KY jelly packet and prod the croissant with it. Yes! It's a chunky-nubbly, stringy, almost odourless sort of
chain
. Brilliant!

Dazed with success and starvation, I dismantle the equipment and hose the whole place down. Before I'm done, cramps rack my belly. Soon I'm curled up and groaning on the bed. But I'm not scared. I believe it will pass, and eventually it does.

For the rest of the day I'm in a dream. Speaking is all but impossible. If someone addresses me I take ages to focus on their face, process what they've said, and dredge up a suitable reply.

‘I feel we're losing you,' says motherly, scientific J. ‘You seem other-worldly, as if you've left your body.'

With shy pride I describe my mucoid plaque.

‘Huh,' she says. ‘It's probably only psyllium plus gel from the capsules.'

‘What?' I cry, aghast. ‘You mean it's all just hype?' She shrugs and turns away.

Day Five:
My revulsion at the detox drinks and capsules intensifies by the hour. Gagging, I venture into the steam room, grope to the tiled bench, and sit meekly in my sarong, hands clasped on my knees. The air is white with fog. Am I even alone? A tall dark mass enters. I squeak, ‘Who's there?' It's a man from San Diego, who tells me the tale of his gallstones. As it happens I have already heard it around the traps, for he is the legend of our intake: people point to him and whisper, ‘See that guy? He's been fasting for, like,
ever
.'

‘We all have gallstones,' he says, in the nonchalant but faint voice characteristic of someone more than seven days into the program. ‘I did the epsom salt treatment. I passed a thousand stones at first, then two and maybe even three thousand more. I lost a lot of them through the weave of the plastic sieve.'

Gallstones?
Do gallstones come out your
bum
? My croissant suddenly doesn't seem worth mentioning. I sit in silence, outclassed, adrift in a world obsessed with filth. Everybody seems so sure. The printed instructions for the fast warn us against ‘negative people' who may bring us down at vulnerable moments. Fancying myself an
intellectual as I do, I consider it a matter of honour, in this credulous environment, to be one of those ‘negative people' – but what do I actually know about the inner workings of the body? What is the basis for my scepticism? I'm still functioning on Miss Featherstone's biology lessons at school, her simple diagram of a mouse: cheese went in at the top, moved down the tubes, and issued from the bottom in what she called ‘little – black – pellets'.

Day Six:
A night of despair. At 3 a.m., the death hour, a hoarse, hiccuping, humanoid cry – ‘Huck-
haaaah
!' – erupts from inside the wall right by my head. Heart athump, I kick the wall, then sit up in the dark and curse. I can't go on with this. It's masochistic – it's insane. How can I get out of here?