Yesterday I purged, 3 days too late but better late than never. It involves drinking 'nigari' which sounds like lovely sushi, but is, in fact, some form of salt that is in flakes and looks prettier than regular epsom salts and costs a bomb in a health food shop. You dilute it in water and drink it. It is the most disgusting thing ever. Literally. Unimaginably revolting. 2 hours later, the remains of your intestines come out. Enough said.
Consequently, today I felt brave enough to step on the scales. Now I didn't weigh when i got here (couldn't find the scales) so until I get home to 'my' scales, I won't fully know the extent of weight loss, but it looks like I've shed 3 kilos. 😀
This should have improved my mood and motivation, but didn't. Now the evening broth is so revolting and tasteless that my froggy counterparts add shit loads of garlic to it. So the odour over 'breakfast' (or rather - a glass of water and some herbal tea) is repugnant. Apparently, fasting awakens all your senses, well I already have the sense of smell of a bloodhound, so you can imagine what I feel like being surrounded by garlic breath/sweat. (My fast-mates don't seem to shower that much either). I actually tell France, who reeks the most because she had 5 bowls of broth yesterday, that she maybe overdid the garlic yesterday. She says 'oh really? are you sure it's not the others?'. Nope. I'm pretty sure it's you reeking to high heaven like 3 cloves of crushed garlic left in a bin for a week. Oh she says, I'll go wash my hands then. W T F? wash your hands? You need to gargle with Dettol to get rid of that stench, then a quick shower with Mr. Proper to top it off.
Every morning pre-hike, we have 7 minutes breathing and meditation. I don't mind an odd breathing exercise, but Stéphane put some weird gonging thing on his crappy portable speaker that has weird glowing lights in it which I find infuriating and distracting. Add to this the fact that everyone else is breathing garlic fumes and it results in a less than zen post meditation Carla. Even worse is that todays hike is an hours drive away. Thats one whole hour confined in a minibus with 5 stinking people and no aircon. I really want to bail on this outing, but we are going to the Calanques which are stunning so I prepare to grin and bear.
Jean Jacques always takes the front seat, while us women pile into the back, cramped and sweaty. I wait till last to get on the bus, assuming that he will feel obliged to get in the back and leave the coveted front seat to me. Nope - he plops in like the chauvinist self righteous bigot that he is. I comment 'ah, all us ladies in the back as always'. Ah oui, agree the ladies, it's because he's a man, he thinks it's his right to be in front! He reddens, although he's a bit of an alcoholic so generally always some form of red, and says 'mais non, Carla you can have it if you want'. Noooooo I say, its fine - you stay there Jean Jacques and I plop my headphones in and hitch the hoody up over my nose. By the time we arrive at the Calanques, I am almost asphyxiated, torn between smothering myself to death, or dying from toxic garlic frog odour.
The walk is amazingly beautiful. Tough, and rocky but really stunning. As I trek, I remember my friend Loic, who passed away a couple of weeks ago, but who loved the Calanques and visited every summer. We end up on a tiny beach and I dare to take a dip in the very chilly water. Paco joins me, bravely swimming quite far out to 'rescue' me (I'm sure he's part Newfoundland) and then spends 3/4 hour shivering. I had forgotten my towel, so wrap him in the hoodie and perch on the stony beach hoping I'll drip dry. I don't. Getting out of a wet swimsuit and back into hiking gear on a public beach isn't easy, but I eventually manage without flashing too many unsuspecting tourists and we trek back to the grubby minibus. This time everyone tells me to sit in the front and I accept. The garlic odour has diminished, replaced with BO. I have the window down the whole way home.
I have a post hike massage (we don't get back till 3pm, it was a long one today), then more fascia work - she gives me an extra hour, my fascias must be well buggered. Broth tonight is worse than ever. I can't drink it. So foul. After 'dinner' a woman shows up with various bowls, gongs, flutes and a guitar. I run away to my room as I cannot face a cumbaya type chanting, gonging, pinging and wailing session.
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