Sri Lanka part 4 – Jug shower & Island of dreams

Jug Showers & Island of dreams

The tap is just above ankle height. The jug that sits below it is a litre deep, orange and plastic. The same as you might buy from the £1 shop at home. This, is our shower. Sighing deeply, I’m not surprised in the slightest to find this very humble wash area: ‘No hot water, bloomin norah and only a litre jug ffs’. Looking at my watch (I’m surprised they didn’t take this from me too) I’m down to 25 minutes of personal practice time. Fast pacing it to my ‘cell’, my stomach drops as heavily as a rock plummeting to the bottom of a pond as I walk in and am once again hit with the reality of where I’m going to be sleeping tonight. Quickly emptying my backpack onto the spare ‘bed’, I grab a sarong. It’s much lighter to carry than a towel and dries quicker. Snatching up the washbag I move swiftly back to the ‘shower’. Closing the wooden door, the sense of urgency vanishes as I tentatively take in the shower room. Concrete wall to my left, concrete wall behind me and concrete wall to my right. Height, about head height so 5 Foot 6. Standing on tiptoe would give me full view of the toilet next door. ‘I’m glad it’s just women over here’. The wooden door in front is the same set up as the toilet. 6-inch gap at the bottom and about head height. The tap is by my left ankle. ‘Why’s the tap so low to the ground?’. Slowly beginning to undress I notice that the concrete floor feels chilly under my bare feet. ‘This is gonna be a mission’. One by one, each item of clothing gets chucked over the door. Now totally starkers, I double check the gap in the wall behind me as I bend down to turn on the tap, nobody needs to see this view! Letting the water spill through my open fingers as the jug fills with water. ‘Bloody norah its freezing, how can the water be so cold? There’s no way I can throw that over myself. OOOO I hate being cold.’ The voice in my head isn’t unlike the sound of a whiney 5-year-old child. (Bar the swearing). Dunking the flannel into the jug, I hold my breath as I squeeze the water out over my body. ‘Shit this is horrible’. Briskly rubbing the soap all over whilst dancing from one foot to the other, it refuses to lather up. Instead, it lays upon my skin in a thick layer, as if I’ve covered myself in candle wax. Scrubbing hard with the flannel I realise squeezing water over me isn’t going to get this waxy dirt off. ‘I’m going to have to throw a jug or 2 of water over myself, oh god, I don’t want to do this’. Continuing to fidget around, my brain is frantically searching for another way to wash down. There isn’t one. ‘Stop being such a wimp Lisa, get on with it’. It’s going to be so cold’. I’m getting tired of the sound of my moany voice in my head. ‘C’mon Lisa get on with it!’  Picking up the refilled jug, body tense, eyes closed, I throw it over the front of me. Face included. ‘Bloody norah, that really is cold’. After just 2 soakings, I deem myself soap free enough to dry off. ‘God I love that just clean feeling’. Looking around as if clean clothes are going to miraculously appear, I realise I didn’t bring them. ‘Oh crap, I can’t walk back with my sarong wrapped around me, can I? we’re supposed to have knees and shoulders covered at all times. If we can’t wear fitted outfits, I bet I can’t run back to my room wrapped only in a sarong. Bugger, I’m gonna have to put my sweaty dirty clothes back on’. Trying to climb into the filthy, sweat drenched fabrics without them touching my clean skin is impossible, no matter how carefully I pull them on. ‘oooo Yuk this is gross’. They feel full of grit and scratchy. ‘Why can’t we have bare shoulders and knees anyway? What a ridiculous rule’. The gong for evening snack goes as I’m hot footing it across the stones for clean clothes. ‘Thank god for that, I’m starving. It’s so lucky the lady by the lake didn’t take my browning banana this morning, else I’d have eaten nothing today. Must be 6pm then, I wonder what evening snack is?’  Frantically throwing to one side all of the beach clothes I’ve brought; I’m wondering what I’m going to wear. Fortunately, I had a pair of blue baggy trousers made in India. ‘Looks like these are about the only appropriate item of clothing I have.’ Chucking them on, along with a t-shirt, I tie a cardigan around my waist. I’m well aware that my clothing looks as creased as an old person’s face but it feels good to be in clean, fresh clothes. Heading up to the kitchen block, situated to the right of the meditation hall, I’m moving at a slightly slower pace. Although hungry, I haven’t been in so don’t know the kitchen rules yet. Following behind a couple of the others, I see a hand written sign on the entrance. ‘He who knows his greed is a saint indeed.’ On the large table situated in the centre of the room, there’s a big metal container with a tiny tap at the bottom of it. It looks like some kind of milky drink as I watch someone release the liquid into a small glass. Next to this are what appears to be some kind of biscuit. Not too far off a Farley’s rusk, but a bit smaller, and there’s a jar of homemade jam with a knife resting on top of a plate. Plates are kept in a rack above the large butler style sink to the left of the room. With the tiny amount of food that I’ve eaten today, I could easily devour 10 of these mini rusks. Having read the poster and observed the others taking no more than 2, I’m far too self-conscious and concerned of what others might think of me, to take the amount my tummy wants.  I take just 2 biscuits and jam and a tiny glass of warm watery milk type drink. Now, feeling like the new kid at school, I have to figure out where to sit.

There are, you guessed it, more concrete benches. They have long cushions placed on them, covered in a sort of plastic material. Like a wipe down table cloth type material. These benches run around the walls on both the inside and outside of the kitchen. The 2 on the inside, face the centre table but aren’t close enough to actually use the table.

Walking outside, plate and glass in hand, I notice a couple of people sat on the steps opposite the kitchen building. The view from these steps is spectacular. Full mountain views for miles. A similar view to when I was stood at the chimenea earlier. Sitting down on the hard step, I feel at ease. Sat looking out at beautiful scenery is one of my favourite and most comforting things to do. This is the most at peace I’ve felt all day. The growling sound emanating from my tummy reminds me to eat. The biscuits and jam taste good. As much as I want to scoff them down as quickly as possible to appease the hunger within, I also want them to last as long as possible. The familiarity of tasting sugar brings with it more comfort. I am a total sugar fiend. I love the stuff and over eat on it regularly. As a child I had 4 sugars in my tea until Mum decided this was no longer O.K and made me cut down. I actually don’t like sugar in tea anymore.  Taking a sip of the drink, (for fear a proper swallow will have it disappear in 1 hit) my tastebuds don’t recognise the flavour. ‘Mmmm It’s not Indian Chai, which is kind of what it looks like. It’s not sweet. Erm, what is it?’ Concentrating hard as I take another tiny sip, swirling it around as much of my mouth as the small amount will travel. ‘It tastes like milky water; this is what Mum and Shelly’s tea must taste like’. Both my Mum and sister drink their tea weak. Literally, 1 dunk of the tea bag and add milk. ‘Oh well, it’s nice to have a warm drink’.

Finishing the biscuits much sooner than I would have liked; I feel hungrier than before I ate them. ‘Or maybe they’ve made me realise quite how hungry I am. Oh well, just have to wait for breakfast. I could go get more, even just 2 more isn’t greedy when you’re this hungry. Others might think I’m being greedy though’. Heading back into the kitchen I see left over biscuits and jam on the table. My tummy growls in demand of more sustenance. People are washing their plates and glasses. ‘I can’t do it; I might be late for chanting and they’ll think I’m being greedy’. Just as I’m washing my pots the already familiar sound of the gong strikes 3 times. It’s time to head back into the meditation hall for chanting and group meditation. Dear god! I’ve been here half a day and I’m on my 3^rd lot of 90-minute meditation. I’m feeling desperate. The thought of sitting again is almost too much to bare. The thoughts in my head are gaining in volume, both in the amount I’m thinking and the sound. They’re really loud. I’ve not spoken now for hours, nobody other than the teacher has spoken. Looking at everyone else they all seem content, peaceful and happy. I feel like I’m starting to go mad. ‘I could kill for a cigarette and a beer, 2 weeks without a beer or a cigarette!’ Kicking my reef sandals off (I’ve ditched the walking boots, with the number of times I’m having to put them on and off, the reefs are the easier option). I Make my way into the hall, through the entrance that’s by the teacher. Making my way over to my pile of 6 cushions. I can’t bear to cross my legs again or even kneel, so in a pose that might mimic that of a rebellious teenager, I lean against the wall, legs outstretched and watch as the others settle into position. All of the monks bow down in front of the statue of the Buddha before finding their seat. Some of the westerners bow down too. I watch in irritation as if us getting on with it already will make this end quicker. The night’s drawing in and the candles on the ‘stage’ bring a cosy warmth into the room. Godwin, slowly opening both of his arms, palms up, fingers titled towards the scratchy carpet, gestures for us all to sit together on the floor. He kneels down at the front. When everybody is settled, he begins to chant. The monks and the westerners join in. First, I freeze. Then my eyes dart around watching everyone, I can’t work out what’s happening. The entire energy of the room has changed. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.  My head feels really heavy. Dropping my chin onto my chest, I close my eyes. I’m once again feeling really emotional. I can’t join in, not just because I’ve no idea what they’re chanting but if I attempt a vocal sound, I fear heart wrenching sobs will escape my body. ‘What the hell is wrong with me, everything is making me cry, maybe the Drs right, maybe I am depressed, maybe I should have taken those tablets, maybe I shouldn’t be here, I just wanna go home’. I can physically feel the chant. I come from a family of musicians. My Mum’s a singer and I’ve grown up amongst band rehearsals with Mum always singing in the house, forever learning new songs. This chanting is nothing like singing. It’s coming from a much deeper place. As if the sound is coming from their solar plexus. It seems to transmit through vibration and it’s as if it’s being transferred straight into my solar plexus and heart. It is the most emotive sound. I’ve no control over the releasing of tears. ‘I’ve got to start carrying tissue around with me, I don’t think I’ve brought any bloomin tissue’. The chanting (and my crying) lasts for maybe half an hour when Godwin softly speaks “Let’s take our seats and begin our silent practice’. I’m too tired to bitch about it, I sit, legs outstretched, leaning against the wall. My palms are placed on my thighs. Breathe in 1 breathe out 1, breathe in 2 breathe out 2, breathe in 3 breathe out 3, breathe in 4 breathe out 4, breathe in 5 breathe out…..’Ha, I’ve just counted 5 breaths. I’ve counted past 3! It’s like the sobbing has somehow helped me to surrender a little. Its released some of the fight. Or, I’m just so tired. This has been the longest day ever. I wonder what Mum and Shell are up to now? What time is it over there? Be about midnight I guess. They’ll probably both just be finishing work’. Both Mum and Shelly live in Tenerife. I’ve not spent much time out there. ‘Maybe after this trip I’ll head over and spend some time with them. Wonder what Dads doing now? Midnight on a Thursday, he’ll be heading to bed’. Dad loves his routine. I always know where Dad will be and what he’ll be doing. Mums much more of a free spirit. If it’s not her working hours I wouldn’t have a clue where she is or what she’s doing. I’m much more like her in that sense. ‘In fact, like now, nobody knows I’m here. I must find a way to send an email at some point to let them know’. Godwin’s voice interrupts as a whisper ‘Breathe in 1 breathe out 1, breathe in 2 breathe out 2, breathe in 3 breathe out 3, ‘Awww that feels nice, it’s really quite calming when I count my breaths, let’s start again, breathing in 1 breathing out….’It was such a relief when that fisherman pointed ahead and said ‘land’. Ha, in fact, relief isn’t a strong enough word, I felt ecstatic! We all did! I really thought for a while we might not make it. Those 5 hours in that boat felt like days. It was like the sun shone out of every bodies face, including the fisherman’s. Images of all of us grinning at each other from ear to ear flood my mind. The sound of those heartfelt words, that flew into the air, like birds dancing away to their own song.  ‘Oh my god we’ve made it!’

Rowing closer, the land becoming clearer, I keep squinting and un squinting my eyes. The sight before me must surely be a mirage. The sand is white. Growing out if it, lining it, maybe just 10 metres inland are luscious green trees. They appear to run deep, as if creating a forest. ‘White sand and a forest, a forest on a beach?’  My head can’t comprehend what my eyes are witnessing. I can’t make out a single foot step. This place looks like it hasn’t been touched by humans. ‘Must be because we’re still far away, we’re not that far away, there really isn’t a single footstep marked on that sand, but it’s late afternoon, if there were people here surely there’d be footsteps. Have we really found an island without people on it?’. Inside my body begins to shake. I can barely contain the excitement as the fear felt reality of being eaten by sharks earlier is replaced by its other extreme. Joy. Pure joy and excitement like I’ve never experienced in my life! This place can only be described as an Island made up of dreams.  ‘Maybe we did die back there, maybe we did get eaten by sharks and this is us dead’. The view opens up, clearer and larger until I know for sure it’s real. Eyes fixed onto the unfolding scene, as if moving them away might make the magnificent landscape vanish into thin air more mysteriously than a magician’s assistant. It’s so exquisitely beautiful. There are moments when I simply must rest my eyes. It’s strangely exhausting taking in such an alluring view. I’m barely breathing. We’ve all grown silent again. There are no words to either express or add to our experience. A feeling of euphoria dances through my body as we are now, maybe 30 metres, from the island. I can contain myself no more. Jumping out of the boat, arms and legs splayed wide ‘Woohoo’!! Splosh!! All memories of shark infested oceans gone;

The water is warm. I can see straight down to the ocean bed, more white sand. I have surely died and somehow made it to heaven.

‘Lisa! your passport’.

‘Shit’ I’ve been wearing my passport and cash on a waist belt, under my clothes, throughout the entire trip. Even whilst sleeping. It’s become another part of my body, like I’ve grown a rather odd shaped part to my stomach. I forgot it was there. Nothing will dull this euphoric feeling. Taking the waist belt off and holding it up in the air with my right arm, I begin laughing and squealing with delight as I skip/wade towards the shore of dreams. When the beach is just a couple of wading footsteps away, I take off the reef sandals. It feels important that the first footprint be of a bare foot, not a manmade shoe. Placing the soul of my right foot onto the sand is like standing upon layers and layers of silk. I am speechless. It’s the smoothest softest sand I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t even know sand like this existed and I’m fortunate enough to live in a beautiful part of the world in Cornwall. Coming up behind me, the row boat carrying the others comes ashore. One of the guys. When stepping onto the sand, falls to his knees and cries.

‘That concludes todays meditation practice. Do continue to practice mindfulness as you make your way to your beds. Perhaps, whilst you brush your teeth, you can be fully present. Connect with the running water. Imagine the pipes that are carrying the water to the tap for you to use. Be grateful to the people that dug the holes for the pipes to be buried so that they could carry the water to the tap for you to swill your mouth. Be mindful that the water supply is not wasted and turn off the tap in between brushing your teeth. Be thankful for the people that made your toothbrush and the people that made your toothpaste. Practice being fully present whilst you brush your teeth. See you all back here, in the morning.’ With that, Godwin placed his hands in prayer position, bowed down to us and then to the statue of the buddha.

‘Blimey, it’s really easy to get lost in thoughts. I disappeared for a while there, that session went really quick. Right, mindful toothbrushing and……Oh god, I’ve got to sleep in that room!’