Bikini boot camp
Henry Sands cleanses his body and soul, if not his conscience Afew months ago I met a sassy, beautiful blonde undergraduate heading for a glittering career as an investment banker. She worked hard and seemed to succeed at everything she attempted. Here was a girl who knew what she wanted in life — and he didn't look like a public-school rugby player with a line in fart jokes and a limited grasp of economics.
There was only one thing for it — I took the last refuge of a scoundrel and became sensitive. When she said that she loved long country walks, I said that was amazing because I did too. When she pointed out a passage on self-improvement in the Financial Times, I told her that it was already my life motto. And when she said that she wanted to go to a yoga health retreat this summer, I told her that yoga was my great, unfulfilled ambition. I would love to go. And, if I had somehow given the impression of liking rugby, shooting and wrestling, that was only because I hadn't plucked up the courage to tell her about the yoga.
A few hours later I had handed over my credit card and booked a week's yoga retreat in Brazil, known as a 'bikini boot camp'. It prom- \ ised to cleanse my 'body and soul' (though perhaps not my conscience) and assured me that I would be revitalised through a combination of intense hiking, 6 a.m. yoga classes, daily massages and a 1,500-calorie-a-day diet (at least 1,000 less than I am used to). The average age of the guests, explained the website, was between 35 and 55. Nine out of ten were female. I told myself it would be fine, just as long as none of my friends found out.
On the four-hour minibus ride from Rio de Janeiro it became clear the website was telling the truth. My fellow yoga enthusiasts were tired professional women aged from 39 to 43: Valeria, an investment banker from New York, Helen, a costume designer from London, and Elizabeth, another banker, but from Philadelphia.
When we arrived, it became clearer still what I had let myself in for. There was no cold beer to welcome us, only a 'health cocktail' that tasted like cold semolina. We were told to get into our yoga clothes and while my girlfriend and our new friends slipped into their super flexible, if not desperately stylish, outfits, I poked my head into my backpack optimistically looking for something vaguely similar to wear. It became clear that I had somehow 'forgotten' my yoga gear. But it was not so much the chino shorts and polo shirts that gave my disguise away, as my inflexibility. I usually pick things up reasonably swiftly, but found the challenge of getting my feet wrapped around my head beyond me. I was a natural, however, at the Shava-asana pose — more commonly known as lying stretched out on your back. By the second day I was starving, exhausted and desperate for alcohol. What had I done?
Then something miraculous happened. I started to 'get' yoga. The better I got, the more I got it. Although I still struggled with some of the limb-twisting exercises, I certainly mastered the art of standing on my head. It is a skill that will surely come in useful for future employment. By the third day my body had even acclimatised to the early starts, though my stomach was still suffering. Each day we would hike along the shores of Mamangua Fjord, perhaps the most beautiful place I have ever been, stopping for lunch on one of the endless isolated beaches. Our lunches were presented to us in little plastic containers like the ones I used to take to nursery school; only instead of nice jam sandwiches, they offered spinach and the odd celery stick. I tried to persuade a fisherman to swap my precious celery for one of his fish, but he was not prepared to deal with a starving yoga fraudster. His wife, however, did take pity on me and, for a hefty sum, handed over a piece of her homemade fudge.
The evenings were spent watching the sunset and talking to my fellow yogis over herbal tea about the latest laser hair removal surgery and the benefits of Botox. By the end of the week, I was feeling as if my 'body and soul' were indeed revitalised. I felt fit, healthy and spiritually cleansed, though it came at the cost of my masculine dignity. More to the point, I still have the girl.
www.bodysouladventures.com; Rua Prisciliana Soares, Cambui, Campinas, Brazil, 13028-080.
Previous page
