Bikram Class #1

I’m still going to go to the Funky Door. Just not yet.

I elected to head off to Bikram in El Cerrito rather than the Funky Door for the first time on the advice of my friends Garrick and Holly.

Garrick and Holly are proper west coast hippies, born and bred. They have been to the Funky Door and found it wanting, as it seems many people have. Holly, in fact, worked the front desk for a awhile, at least until she was fired for wanting to take a fifteen minute break to eat a sandwich, which squares with the boot-camp vibe I hear about the place. I’m a touch intimidated, and so I go with Garrick’s suggestion to try on the gentler vibrations of this alternative studio.

Nonetheless, we are still going to Bikram, it is still hot yoga, and I am still a little nervous. I’m chatting with Garrick on the way up, telling him that I hear the first few times are a little rough.

“Yea, it’s pretty excruciating” he confirms.

“You’ll be lucky if you can just stay in the room.” he says, not at all assuaging my fears. Isn’t he supposed my reassuring west-coast-permaculture-groovy guru?

We arrive. There is one older Indian man there, a sikh, head wrap and everything, and he ends up to the left of me. I am in the exact center of the room, directly in front of the teacher.

I wouldn’t mind being in the center so much if it weren’t for the set-up. I’m not sure if all Bikram studios are designed like this, but 3 of the 4 walls are covered in mirrors, and the back wall is outfitted with a handrail not unlike a ballet studio. The floors, however, are carpeted, which I can’t figure out. I sweat like a hog during normal yoga (although, biologically, this is a malapropism- humans are the only species with sweat glands covering their entire body, so it might be more accurate to say I sweat like a homo sapien, which is just redundant.) If we are going to all sweat like homo sapiens, won’t the carpet get kind of ……..musky?

It is warm in the studio, sure, but it isn’t excruciating at first, and I figure I can handle it. We start with simple breathing exercises.

Bikram is a specific, patented sequence, the same every time. We start of with a peculiar breathing technique in where we intertwine our fingers underneath our chins. The teacher- demonstrating for my benefit- exhales in a raspy hiss-like method.

There was a mini-series in the 1980’s called “V” which stood for “visitors”. The premise was that this alien race, looking much like ourselves except wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and orange jumpsuits, came to visit, on the pretense of peace and harmony. As it turns out, the human appearance was but a literal shell- the Ray Bans were to hide their reptilian pupils- and often enough they would grab their faces just under the chin and tear of the visage, a scaly, mucus-covered bipedal Komodo dragon underneath, which would then promptly devour the hapless human witness.

The teacher is hissing and giving directions in a rather stentorian tones, and I am already needing to suppress the urge to flee. I’m aware that I’m being irrational, but still,I am directly in front of her after all, so I’m the first to go if she rips off her face. What with my Sikh compadre directly to my left, I’m just hoping she can’t palette Indian food. I think the heat does something to your brain.

We carry on with class. We are asked to check our alignment in the mirror, and I admit, it is a useful tool, on one level. I never get to see myself do the yoga, and I can pick out places where my poses are wanting. The problem is, I can also see everyone in class, from every angle, and I do need to point out that Yoga classes are typically filled with rather shapely young women, in about an 8:1 ration to males, which makes it difficult to concentrate, at least in the beginning. It doesn’t help that should you try and avoid the distraction by looking the other way, you just get an eyeful in the mirror of the back row of shapely young women and a guy whose name might be Gus. This problem, however, is soon rectified.

The space heater is on the whole time, and the room is becoming appreciably warmer. We are also generating quite a bit ourselves, and so it really is becoming unbearably hot and stuffy. Those of us who perhaps didn’t consider our wardrobes carefully before class and chose to wear lighter colored garments are beginning to sweat.

Everywhere.

Everywhere including our crotches is what I’m trying to say.

The effect is to make it seem as if we are all collectively incontinent, such are the spreading puddles from our pelvises, and this- even though I know it’s just sweat- is evoking feelings of kindergarten playground shame. I had the unfortunate experience of wetting my pants on top of the jungle gym in preschool, in front of most of the people I would be spending the next 12 years with, and as you can imagine, reputations stick at that age. I’m desperately examining myself in the mirror, trying to discern whether my sweat puddles are visible. It is only a measure of facial hair that is tethering me to the fact that I am a grown-up, or at least the age of a grown-up.

The latter half of class is mostly composed of floor poses, a poor choice as far as I’m concerned. It is getting REALLY difficult to breathe, and I attribute at least some of this to our proximity to the floor. Carbon Dioxide- which we are rapidly producing as we deplete all the available oxygen, is the heaviest component of all the gases in the atmosphere, at least the ones present in substantial amounts. In an open air situation, no big deal, but the room is nearly hermetically sealed, and the carbon dioxide will, in such situations, collect on the bottom of the room. I find myself gasping a bit as we get through the more difficult poses. I am also suspiciously eyeballing the mechanical contraption in the back. It looks to be a humidifier, and I can’t fathom it being physically possible to saturate the air with any more water vapor.

Bikram Yoga, even though it originated with a gentleman from deepest darkest India, seems to me the most Americanized version I’ve tried as of yet. It seems incongruous to rely on artificially altering the internal atmosphere with machines, ones that weren’t available a century ago.

Still, all said and done, I feel pretty good. I am forced to concede that Mr. Bikram Choudury- even with the asshat reputation he has- may be onto something. I make it through class intact, and even feel pretty good afterwards. I feel ready to test my mettle against the Funky Door.

A false dichotomy

It is a slightly different post today, folks. I suppose it could be said that I’m guest blogging for myself. As well as all the nifty reviews and yoga diaries, I’d like to get a little deeper into all the elements that surround Yoga, and being as I’ve been trained as a scientist, that’s probably why I chose to write this little piece.

On medicine, western and eastern

We argue. We argue a lot.

We argue about a great many subjects- the morality of abortion and stem cell research, the existence of God, the role of science in spiritual systems.

We do, often enough, harm ourselves when we argue, blocking communication channels when we needn’t and-most importantly- shouldn’t. Take Eastern vs. Western medicine.

Much like the two-party political system in America, the concepts of strictly Eastern and strictly Western medicine is a false dichotomy. There are platforms common to both, and both retain the same goal. In politics, the goal is to govern the people. In medicine, it is to treat the disease. Let us deconstruct these notions, with the intention of recognizing that both have their merits, and-most importantly- could both benefit by removing the blockage and coupling their respective strengths to each other.

As this is a treatise on Yoga, it well serves our purpose to focus on Ayurvedic practice as our resident Eastern medicine.

The word “Ayurveda” retains a holy-grail-type mysticism among health-food shoppers and Californian über-spiritual fitness experts alike. It is a measure of how much an alternative medicinal system was accepted here in the west, that the practice- and subsequently the word -is unquestionably accepted as ‘good’, and has been exploited by current manufacturers of holistic health products. It may help to debunk the notion of inherent ‘goodness’ if we take a look at how these labels are marketed on their native soil: Both toothpaste- a product you don’t actually consume, is purported to be ayurvedic. A popular brand of ayurvedic soap, Chandrika, purports to “ ensure your personal charm”. The Indian version of cornflakes have “Added Shakti!” much in the same way that we fortify our breakfast cereals, albeit with the mystic power of the Tri-devi feminine force. How that force is distilled and added to cornmeal remains undocumented.

Let’s start this dissection simply. Ayurveda could loosely be paralleled to another holistic favorite ‘Chinese Medicine” – it was more or less the governing medical practice for centuries in India. Like the oft lauded ‘Chinese Medicine’, it is a holistic view that relies upon what it available- both in terms of diagnosis and of available treatments. Herein lies the false “east/west” dichotomy- it isn’t necessarily a difference of philosophy- both treat ailments- that lead to the different approaches, but rather a difference of tools.

We need a metaphor for disease, and what better than a pastime everyone is familiar with?

Imagine a pool table.

Imagine three cue balls at one end, an eight ball at the other. In between these, imagine and array of pool balls, configured to a specific shape. And now, cover the table with a tarp- not completely mind you- the cue balls and the eight ball can still be seen , but all the others are obscured by the tarp.

Let us label our metaphor- the eight ball represents the manifest symptoms of the disease. The #1-15 balls represent the internal mechanics- the specific biological molecules and pathway of the disease, and the cue balls represent the tools available to the physician. The specific configuration of the remaining pool balls represent the biological pathway of the disease- it is the same every time, in every person.

The physician’s job is to sink the eight ball- to treat the disease- and in early medicinal tradition, there was really no way to gain an obvious, molecular insight as to how the disease occurred. We simply didn’t have the tools to visualize these molecules. This didn’t mean the disease was untreatable- in fact, through trial and error, a good practioner- this might be a better term than ‘physician’ even though both served the same purpose- could devise a system that at least stood a good chance of sinking the eight ball, at least more reliably than chance. If the practioner fires a cue ball at the right angle, the eight ball can still be sunk- fairly reliably- whether or not you can see what is happening under the tarp.

Geometry is geometry and treatments are treatments- the practioner didn’t need to know what was happening under the tarp to know that it worked. That is not to say that they weren’t curious or didn’t learn anything- our analogy still serves, as you can certainly hear the impact of the billiard balls, and probably locate points of trajectory and intersection. It is speculation, certainly, but it seems natural to assume that this where the concepts of Chakras and acupuncture points came from- they simply are locations where internal energies and anatomical systems coalesce. They only aspect we need to keep in mind, however, is that all these observations were external. Certainly, dissection gave us an idea of internal anatomy, but if the early practioners wanted to see this happening ‘in the flesh’ as it were, they needed live subjects, and live subjects often resist being carved into, at least while they are still conscious.

Enter tools, technology, and the western physician. In reality, there came microscopes, anaethesia, germ theory and biochemistry. In our analogy, we shall summarize the development of medical technology and finely calibrated scientific as a pair of scissors.

With the scissors, physicians- and I think it is fair to introduce the term, although we may need to include a large contingent of research scientists, lab rats, and a host of other medical professionals who don’t and never will work directly with patients- could start to see what was happening with that particular array of billiard balls, the disease. The problem being it was a painstakingly long and tedious process. For the purposes of our analogy, we shall say that they could cut away a 3”x3” window at one time, each window being a culmination of decades of work. You can imagine that many of these windows would be useless- the only thing to report would be that this was a bad place to look.

Careers in science are based upon this ‘non-knowledge’- much of scientific literature could be summed up as “ we looked here, found nothing, don’t bother”. Once in a great while, a window might be cut above a useful location- perhaps here the 2 ball hits the 5 ball, sending it towards the NW corner- but that’s all. And we might even be reasonable in saying that each window cut represents thousands of patients, patients that we can learn from, but not necessarily treat.

This is where the ‘western’ physician gets a bad reputation. In seems cruel to us that this person, our doctor- purported to have taken the medical vow- could be so callous and uncaring as to see patients as data sets- but really it is a failure perception, coupled with the fear of being diagnosed with a chronic or fatal disease. It takes tremendous vision and patience to acknowledge and pursue a higher goal- to eradicate the disease in its entirety, to systematically elucidate every aspect so that nothing is left to chance- so that eventually no one will need suffer. The only problem being, it relies on those suffering NOW to acknowledge that nothing can currently be done- within this system at least. It asks the sufferers to acknowledge that they may well die, and nothing can be done for them, and to STILL volunteer themselves for the betterment of strangers, even hypothetical future strangers. A tough sell, to say the least.

This may be why we perceive traditional practices as more humane- the aim being to treat the patient rather than the abstract concept of the disease. It might be good to note, while we have the pool table in front of us, that these aren’t diametrically opposed methods of practice- this is the same pool table after all- just different points of focus. It may well be that if the early medicinal practitioners had access to the same sorts of tools, they may have done the same- they were also looking systematically after all, hence all the chakra charts and acupressure point maps.

It is also for lack of ‘official’ and ‘scientific’ sounding treatments that ayurvedic practices seem nebulous- diagnosis and treatments relied on what was available, and often seemed steeped in esoteric mysticism. It is again, however, a failure of imagination that led us to make distrust traditional medicine and make critical mistakes. Take Malaria, for example.

The indigenous people - in Chris Columbus parlance, ‘Indians’- of the Amazon flood basin figured out a cure well before western medicine did. In fact, western medicine never did- in merely refined the active compound in the herbal treatments of the Indians, and eventually came up with a synthetic analog. This turned out to be a critical oversight.

While the Indians had little or no conception of the molecular mechanics of the disease- they simply knew if they hit the cue ball in a certain direction, the disease went away.

Enter the synthetic analog. Western medicine, as we all know too well, is subject to marketplace forces, and American pharmaceutical companies generally aren’t willing to pay for imported compounds if they can make serviceable replacements in the lab, as hundreds of thousands of Organic Chemistry students know. They figured it would work just fine.

They were right- to a point. The quinine analog certainly did halt the progress of malaria, but the analog had a problem- for whatever reason, it allowed the parasite to become resistant very quickly- a matter of decades, while natural quinine had worked for thousands of years. In many regions, the local strains of malaria are completely resistant to the quinine analog, and travelers must take harsher psychoactive drugs like chloroquine and laramine*. What western physicians did, essentially, was to take an effective ‘primitive’ treatment for malaria and render it useless through its own arrogance and false confidence in molecular medicine.

Let us not indict western medicine entirely- the proliference of snake oil and charlatanism in ‘holistic’ medicine runs rampant, and are too numerous to bother documenting- it’s certainly been done before, to the point where ‘homeopathic’ has become a blanket term meaning ‘found at Whole Foods, in the Health and Beauty section’ rather than it’s original latin derivation, that of ‘same disease agent.’ **

All this to say- we, as a culture, would do well to bridge the gap between these methods. In a system where upwards of 50% of pharmaceuticals are derived directly from plant compounds, and the vast majority of the rest are simply synthetic doppelgangers of chemicals that were originally derived from plants, it may be time to acknowledge that the vast majority of our medicinal arsenal has its roots in , well, roots. On the same token, we might need to acknowledge that a steady diet of cayenne pepper, honey, and lemon juice condensed into pill form, labeled ayurvedic and marked up 400% may not cure cancer. We need to allow- and encourage- practitioners of both systems to work together, to bridge the perceived gap between the disciplines, for the betterment of the profession and the world.

*Laramine is said to make the traveler paranoid. If personal experience is any measure, laramine can make you believe that the shoeshine boys, eager to make a few pennies from you, are stalking the café, waiting to punch you in the kidneys, steal your wallet, and leave you in the gutter. The average shoeshine boy in Iquitos, Peru is about 8 years old.
**Homeopathy uses, as its lynchpin, the idea that minute quantities of a pathogen or allergen introduced to the body will lead the immune system to recognize it. For example, microscopic amounts of the allergen in poison ivy taken internally, may help the body to become ‘accustomed’ to it, and subsequently circumvent an allergic reaction then next time it is encountered en masse, so to speak, during a hike in the woods or otherwise. It is not, as many holistic commercial endeavors would lead you to believe, anything that doesn’t come directly from the pharmacy.

Guest Blogger #1: Darlee on Savasana

It's been a struggle, getting back on the Yoga Horse. I've been a bit laid up as of late, what with postherpetic neuralgia, which is a BIZITCH. but at least i ain't gots it SO bad. It was Anusara for me today, which feels like Diet Yoga after the Power Vinyasa/Ab crunch/Enlightened Boot Camp routine. Still, not much to say about it, and so I'm happy to pass the podium to another Yoga enthusiast. I like to see initiative, and so am handing over the mic to one Darlee- the first respondent to the call for guest bloggers- from..........hell, I don't know, where the fuck you from, Darlee? Anyway, she voices concerns about Shivasana, and as I likes me some shivasana- the repose at the end of class- I'm inclined to agree with her.....

“Hey yoga teacher! shhhh!

What's the deal with shavasana? Why, after 60 or 90 minutes filled with (mostly missed) opportunities to say something meaningful or helpful during the asana part of class, do yoga teachers use this precious "quiet-time" to talk? Or read out loud? Or even to SING? I don't know.

Shavasana (savasana) is THE time for rest in yoga. Not just rest for the body or mind- but for the spirit. For some yogis it's the best rest in the entire work/sleep cycle. The benefits of silence are tremendous, especially after yoga practice. Unfortunately, yoga teachers often use savasana as an opportunity to show how "spiritual" or "woo-woo" or "yogic" they are.

Ed. Note: I'm not entirely sure what "woo-woo" means, but I'm feeling it's an onomatopœia for fru-fru "steeped in the ancient traditions of Deepest Darkest India" spirituality....

I already can hear some yoga teachers saying, "If I don’t talk to them they'll jump right off their mats after class and run." Well, I’m here to tell you- the minute you ask me to close my eyes and imagine myself at some exotic locale, or ask me to direct an imaginary white light through my chakras- I am ready to go AT THAT VERY MOMENT!

Ed. Note for the Yoga layperson- I believe, if my facts are together correctly, it is white for the head chakra, blue for the heart chakra, and red for the, uhhh, anus chakra. Conveniently patriotic!

These scenes, speeches and songs are NOT relaxing. They feed the yoga teacher's ego rather than leaving the students in silence to be with their own inner voice. If you must, play a nice drone music CD with some tamboura, perhaps, or a sweet soft chanting CD, BUT PLEASE: no incense in the yoga room! Don’t get me started…that's an entirely different post!

Ed Note: I love incense, but I take her point- even as a fan, I find it a little alarming to add sensory stimulation when you are supposed to withdrawl from your senses- it's called 'corpse' pose for a reason...

So PLEASE, teachers think about this: swami chidvilasananda said "when there is senseless talking, you can not hear the voice of your own self." Shhhhh! there is so much for your yogis and for YOU to hear from your silence! God speaks in silence.”

And there we have it. Teachers, did you get that- LET US CHILL. Of course, given my track record, you can certainly give me a kick in the ribs if I start to snore, as I am wont to do.

COMING SOON: The Yoga Cop and (I swear) Bikram Yoga.

Coming Soon: Guest Bloggers

Yep. That's it. That's the challenge.

Go to a yoga class. Just one. Write it up and we'll slap it up on the site.

Our first(but not our only) guest blogger will be one Chuck Garbonzo (not his real name). He is a 200+ lb republican Dee-troit rock city COP, single dad of 4 kiddos and can put down whiskey like....well, like a cop. Known him all my life, and we've been at opposite political poles for the whole time.

I know I'M a little critical of the hippie vibe- I can't wait to see what he's got to say. For a little more insight, I suggest you check out the video bar- he's the one who clued me to the existence of "Yoga 4 Dudes."

Feel like giving it a whirl? Just let me know.....

A milestone, of sorts.

It is an odd thing, this yoga project. It is an odd thing to be a stranger at yoga classes, to actually COMMIT to being a stranger- I see interactions between regulars, and I want that for myself. I want friends, regularity, a routine.....but that's not what I set out to do. Fortunately, I do have help, one source being Em, who communicates with me regularly via email. She asked a question, a pertinent one:

"i'm curious" says she via email, "about how many yoga classes are you going to every week, and are you beginning to feel any kind of shift, either in your body or your mind?"

And so I answer:

I’ve been at this for a month now, and I’m averaging about three classes a week. Have I seen a shift? Kinda sorta.

Physically, the answer is yes, certainly. It isn’t HUGE, but my bearing is different, although I have to admit, it sort of depends on the studio and the teacher. From a purely cosmetic viewpoint, my trousers are a bit looser around the waist and my Man-Titties- an unfortunate reality for those of us who’ve crossed the 30-threshold- are less breast-like and more Men’s Health Pectorals, which is cool, I suppose.

To boot, a rather intoxicated young woman was soliciting hugs on the sidewalk the other night, and so I gave her one- I surprised us both, I think, with my strength. A good strong hug is a cool thing to give. Who knew I had it in me?

And the spiritual side? Dunno, exactly. It might be a false dichotomy to separate this from the physical side, but might as well, at least for thinking purposes. I see it as analogous to gardening- if I’m trying to cultivate a spiritual garden, so to speak, I’ve basically just tilled the soil. I can feel myself becoming more receptive, but to what end? The chanting and all the little parables that the teachers mention don’t do much for me on their own. I feel like they are referencing concepts of the Indian brand of spirituality that you might not get if you were just in class for the asanas, which I think most people are. Plus, as you mentioned, some of the parables are kind of trite- the pontification of the Nature of Ugly Facial Hairs and One’s Spiritual Acceptance of Them? Just pluck the fuckers. Problem solved.

Still, I’m liking some of the reading I’m doing. I don’t think there is much room for an exploration of this side of yoga directly in the classroom, at least during the asana/prana sessions. I think most people want the shapely booty. I doubt I’ll go to any chanting sessions, but maybe I’ll hit up some of the philosophical ones. All said and done, though, I feel like this searching has more to do with what you figure out for yourself, rather than what the teacher can tell you. And I think the teachers know that……

And I like the fact that you asked that question. You mind if I put it up as a post on the old blog?

Cheers ma’am

S"


And so it is. I also considered dropping the blog- I've been feeling a little tired of this open dialogue as of late, and this is a blog afer all, not CNN. Still, she swayed me, told me she'd be sad if I dropped it, and the small readership that the blog has garnered is a regular one. I thank all 3 of you ( it's more than that but still, one must joke). And I still have a job to do. But i have an idea.........start researching your local yoga classes, folks. I will soon issue a challenge.

A Public Service

So I joined Yelp. This make me a "Yelper". I'm not pleased about this, but what can you do?

I figure, as long as I'm doing the blog, might as well run some more condensed versions, one per studio, kind of get a few reviews out to the public and everything.

So there you go. If you are at all curious, I put a little gadget on the side bar that links to the reviews. The "5 star" system has never seemed quite complete to me, so I will use the Bananasana(copyright 2009) method of:

SPA FACTOR:
MYSTIC CHANTING FACTOR:
TEACHER QUALITY:
SLACKER DEAL:
FAIR WARNING:

The first 3 categories will give a level ( low, moderate, high), the 4th will tell you what the introductory deal is, and the last is, well, just something you may want to know before you get to the studio.

And so there you have it.

Harbin Hot Springs Retreat

Bikram will come later. I decided to Rent-a-Relic, skip town and hit the hot springs. They have, uh, hot springs of course, but Yoga as well.

Harbin is close, has Yoga twice a day, and a bit of a reputation. It’s a ‘clothes-optional’ resort, and often hosts polygamous conferences and sensuality workshops. My friend Jay describes it rather diplomatically.

“You may want to check the schedule. They sometimes have theme weekends where people aren’t always conscious of……….boundaries.”

I’m puzzled by this ambiguous statement, so I check, and it isn’t the Tantric Intimacy Workshop or Group Sex Weekend or anything, so I figure I should be safe.

I arrive in the late afternoon. I’m a little later than expected, and so I ask the check-in guy, a grey-ponytailed hippie about when the Yoga class is.

“5 o’clock. Now just sign here.”

I sign there.

He briefs me on the camping rules, and sends me off with a hearty

“Now go have fun!”, with a sly wink.

I’m a little creeped-out, speculating on what kind of ‘fun’ he means, when he calls me back, and I realized I have forgotten to pay the man.

“You probably need the actual money, huh?”, I joke.

“Ah well, it’s not as if you just ran off, I sent you off, you know?”

I smile and nod, wanting to acknowledge that he realizes that I wasn’t just trying to skip out. I present my debit card, square up, and make gestures to depart.

“I mean, it’s not like you just ran off you know. I did send you off, yea?”, he says.

“Uh, yea. I, uh, know what you mean.” I reply.

“I mean, I did tell you to go have fun you know. When you left. I mean, it’s not like you just went away, yea?”, says he.

“Yes……..uh, you sure did.”, reply I.

I don’t really understand if he is aware that he is repeating himself. He’s of the old school, a real 60’s hippie, and not the first time during this weekend that I become perplexed listening to someone.

Yoga Class 1.

It must be noted that I was later than I anticipated. One reason being that I had stopped to eat a Philly-cheese steak on the way up. It was always an odd point of contention, this notion of the Sacred Cow. At age eight, visiting Calcutta, I was astounded to see the seemingly enormous Brahmin Bulls roaming freely throughout the city. For one thing, they didn’t jive with my notion of what a cow was, being familiar only with the chubby, rather benign looking dairy cows of the Midwest. These things looked hump-backed and dangerous. Another issue arose when my English mother- my only source of the cultural heritage of India, as dad was typical of Indian fathers insomuch as he left all that sort of thing to The Wife- explained that cows were holy. This also did not square with the fact that we- as a family- relished a fine cut of prime rib more than your average American nuclear unit. I still eat beef, but I try and mentally acknowledge that the cow has died for Our Sins. I like to conflate my religions.

So I’m running late, and I scramble to set up my tent and get to the Temple on time.

It is a beautiful building, structured like a yurt on the steppes of Mongolia, but all wood and stucco plaster, symmetrical yet askew in some indefinable sense. It is circular, Feng Shui running clockwise, and it seems a most comfortable place for reflection.

Class starts.

It is heavy on the chanting. As previously stated, I don’t like chanting, but I’ll usually murmur along, just audible enough to fill the letter of the law. Here, though, we are seated in a more egalitarian circle, rather than the typical loose checkerboard with the teacher at the head of the class. She is, in fact, sitting right next to me. She busts out some instrument that looks to combine the less desirable aspects of a sitar and a banjo. It’s kind of janky looking, only two strings, but passably ethnic looking. It sounds, however, like a banjo. With two strings. And no frets. The brown plastic recorder pressed into your hands in third grade music class was a more versatile instrument. She begins plucking the only two notes available to her, the interval a Twinkle Twinkle non-committal fifth, over and over and over again.

We begin the chanting.

Much to my horror, she begins to sing Hare Krishna. If you have forgotten the lyrics, perhaps blocked out the musical Hair from your memory out of a sort of collective cultural shame, they are as such:

Hare Krishna
Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna
Hare Krishna

Hare Rama
Hare Rama
Rama Rama
Hare Rama.

The next two verses, as they are sung with a slightly different melodic structure, are thus:

Hare Krishna
Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna
Hare Krishna

Hare Rama
Hare Rama
Rama Rama
Hare Rama.

There are two problems for me in this situation.

The first is that my opinions of Hare Krishnas- the dudes with the pastel orange robes and the braided…….rat-tail….. miniature Mohawk?- are molded only through mass media. I was first exposed to them at my uncle’s house, as he had a VCR and the movie Airplane! recorded from cable television. I watched the movie seven times the weekend we were visiting, scoring the dialogue forever on my brain. I am also reminded of the early Bloom County comic strips, where a Hare Krishna is trying to explain who he is- Opus confuses “Hare Krishna” with “Hairy Fishnuts”, and the devotee becomes aggravated, freaking out and finally demanding Opus to “just cough up some dough.” In short, I view them as hapless clowns. Unfair, to be sure, but probably typically American, such is our reliance on the Tee-Vee and comic books to propagate our prejudices.

The second problem is that I am sitting next to the teacher, which means that everyone looking at her is, by default, looking at me. This is a shy group, as no one knows anyone else- we are all on vacation after all- and I feel compelled to make a good showing, to support the teacher as she plucks away on her janky ethnic banjo. I AM MORTIFIED, but I plug on nonetheless. We sing the whole sequence- all four verses- a total of five times. I know for a fact it is five times. I am counting, waiting, and finally actually PRAYING that it ends soon. It is a sensation akin to counting how many times the teacher says “uh” during a lecture, but...really……………………..slowly.

We don’t begin the asanas. We lay on the mat for a good long time and actualize our prana, which essentially means we are borderline napping. When we do start, we cycle through all the poses, and things move at a fair clip, at least until we get to pigeon pose.

Pigeon pose involves a mid torso twist. They say you shouldn’t eat before class, and I suppose you certainly shouldn’t eat a Holy Cow, particularly if you are in such a hurry that you forget to acknowledge the cow’s Christ-like sacrifice. We hit the pose, and I twist the cookie tube the wrong way. The cow has the last laugh- his remains get squeezed in the wrong direction, and suddenly, almost violently, I become ill. I have to get up and leave the class, to go deal with this bovine Montezuma’s Revenge.

There is a notion in Hindi scriptures- and I certainly can’t substantiate this, or reference it ( I looked)- that a soul will spend a million years in purgatory (or the Hindu equivalent) for every hair on a cows hide that you ate. An FDA study came out shortly after I read this, stating that each McDonald’s hamburger was composed of an average of 200 different cows, due to the processing procedures. We learned of this in high school, at about the same time we learned how to properly use scientific notation, a method that lets you quantify enormous sums. We spent much of our after-school hours at fast food establishments, calculating precisely how long I’d spend in Hell, given I was raised almost exclusively on McDonalds from the ages of 6 to 17. This cow, though, this singular cheese-steak entity- takes his toll in a way that numbers cannot describe. It is severe enough to keep me out of the rest of class. I’m quite sure you really don’t want me to share the details.


After I take care of my internal problems, I wash up and head to the mineral baths. It is night, everyone is naked, and lined around the perimeter of the pool, in various stages of repose. It is a small pool, budget-motel sized, and all the prime spots around the edge are taken. There are various couples, clearly engaged in, um, intimate relations. I expected this to some degree, figuring that as long as they weren’t OBVIOUSLY having intercourse, I would deal, but I am forced into the middle of the pool, along with a group in the middle in some sort of football huddle of …..sex.

There are gobs of white stuff floating in the water. Now, there is a reason for this- it’s a mineral hot springs, and we are in the moderately warm bath. As the water cools, the minerals precipitate out, and as it is largely calcium, the congealing crystals float around the tub, like amorphous globs of…well, you know. But I know they are just minerals. I read the sign before I got in.

It does not however- when you are in the middle of the pool, awkwardly averting your gaze from the sex mob, track lighting focused on your nether regions like they were the guest on The Tonight Show- make you feel any better. I decide to hit the sauna instead. On my way out, I step on some soft sticky something or other that sticks to my foot- my bare foot, as I am naked- and I calmly flick it off, the same type of ‘let’s get down to business’ calm that overcomes you during times of crisis, like having a mouse crawl into your trousers. Only after I flick it off do I even allow myself to think it may be a used condom. I start bending down to check, but I realize with a titanium certainty that I don’t want to know, I DON’T WANT TO KNOW. Rather than sleep in my tent that night, I sleep in the reclined passenger seat of the rental car, fearing that in the tent I’ll be subject to the sounds of the Tantric Sensuality Workshop after-party.

Class 2:

It is the intermediate class, requiring me to get up early, but this is not a problem. I haven’t really slept all that well, dreaming of rolled up yoga mats stacked upon each other in dark underground bunkers, like anonymous femurs in the catacombs of Paris. I crawl out of Ford Escort Fetal Position as soon as the sky is light grey, hoping to end the edgy half-slumber I have spent a half-rotation of the earth in. I get to the Temple early and warm up with a strap, trying to stretch out my hamstrings, which are now winched up as tightly as jib ropes on a sailboat.

Class begins.

We start with stretching out our hamstrings, employing the aid of a strap. I will refrain from commenting on where the teacher- whose 'Indian' name, coincidently, is the same as my brand of ayurvedic soap- got the idea, but I’m suspicious, to say the least. We do this for 45 MINUTES. Half the class is dedicated to this, shoving our femurs into our hip sockets, which sounds like a terrible idea.

It sounds- to me at least- like a terrible idea, because if I recall my “Yoga Anatomy” diagrams correctly, the sciatic nerve is couched in the hip joint. It runs directly through the ‘hole’ in the back of the pelvis, one for each leg, and if you compress it, it will affect your whole leg, as this is the nervous system’s sympathetic super highway.

Halfway through this exercise in repetition, the soles of my feet go numb. I relate this information to the teacher, but she just tosses the Asana version of a platitude my way.

“Oh, just do ShaNaNasana, it’s good for reawakening your vitreous humors.”

My feet feel all wrong. It is difficult to ‘ground yourself’ when your interface feels like you’ve been standing on a frozen cut of pork for upwards of an hour. I have to duck out of many poses, and I feel completely out of whack, like I’ve done damage rather than good.

I’m rolling up my mat after class, spying in on a conversation between a German tourist and the teacher.

“Oh yes,” says the German tourist “we have been to some classes in the San Francisco .”

“Oh you should go where I take classes, at blahblahblah studio”

Now, should I be worried? I had entertained the idea of faking the role of Teacher one day, taking the helm, but I don’t think I’d ever do that now- I feel like I could do too much damage, not knowing what I‘m doing. Shouldn’t she know what she is doing? I feel ALL WRONG, like I’ve induced a mild scoliosis by force, and I can’t help but note that she might not have the wherewithal to run a class correctly.

I elect, afterwards, to go for a soak, hoping that these healing waters will undo the scoliosis. The front pool, the moderately warm one, is calm enough, but the back pool- the really hot one, encased in a squat, open-air edifice- is Bumping. By Bumping I mean that the people in the building are either collectively moving giant granite slabs or are engaged in some extremely athletic sex, such are their violent exhortations. We- the mellow early morning ponderers, are trying our best to ignore this.

“Huhhhh-UH!”

*Splash*

“Arrrrrugggggggula!”

*smack of flesh on concrete*

“kuhkuhkuhKuh!Kuh!KUHKUH KUHHHHHhhhhhhhh……”


I find myself scanning the waters for incongruous-looking globs of white precipitate. I leave, SHOWER, and secure a picnic table on the outskirts of the retreat, hoping only to be out of the semen crossfire.

I’m quietly working on my Yoga mat for the rest of the morning, taking in sounds and, uh, naked people, and the general atmosphere. It is a pleasant morning, and a half-naked man is playing cello down the hill. I actually meet him a little later, in a little hovel off to the side of the Chapel, later in the day. He is the final straw that sends me packing.

“Hey man, I liked your playing” I tell him, when I see him later in the smoking hovel.

“Aw, great man.” says he.

We banter a bit, I tell him I play as well.

“What kind of stuff do you listen to?” I ask.

What comes next, I can’t explain or even transcribe without getting carpel tunnel, such was his need to talk copiously and unabashedly. He starts. I’m guessing about 20 minutes later, he wanes, a little, just for a moment, and I grab my chance.

“Well, dude, I gotta keep working on my mat, see you in a bit” I say, before I run, run, RUN.

What happened was this: He scrambled my brain.

I don’t know anyone here at the Hot Springs, but the place attracts a certain clientele. It is of the fully integrated organic divine light delivered by sacred oxygen to bring illumination to your beautiful, enlightened soul, and I’m all ears. I’m all ears because I’m trying to be more open minded about this shit, to perhaps listen without judging, and so I’m trying to follow the whole monologue. It is a plan of sorts that he has for Life, and as far as I can discern, it involves the following elements: an organic farm, a restaurant, a cello, a solar-powered generator bike trailer/rickshaw, outfitted to cross the whole of India and able to power one-man concerts on the street corners of New Delhi, a suit, a realization of all of corporate America that they must invest in this man’s organic-fueled restaurant/farm/collective/socialist and yet capitalist network of organic-cello-farm collectives, and someone who will give him money for all of this, because he’s a genius.

He’ll be wearing a suit in place of an actual resumé, I suppose. I should have shut him off at “Aw”, but I’m trying to be more open.

Allowing this- allowing myself to be cornered, to smile and nod, makes me feel as if he has psychologically pushed open a door in the front of my skull, found little resistance, and began to use me as a conduit to talk to everyone else in the smoking hovel. And this is the culture here at Harbin- you don’t say anything negative, because, man, everyone has something to say and that should be respected, and if you interrupt, that might not be cool.

It’s ethic of non-criticism, even the constructive sort, that is driving me a little loony. It is conflated with all the posi-speak, the repitition of “divinity” and “enlightened self” and the unavoidable “spirituality” that gets me. It’s the wanton overexposure of these concepts, the idea that putting a tin of your spare tobacco on the table counts as “universal giving without expectation” and that when said tobacco is subsequently stolen allows one to give a diatribe about one’s beautiful non-expectation of an act of open communal action, without suspicion that someone had ill intention or could be converted to better intention if we ALL gave without suspicion AGAIN- that makes me suspicious. Not of the stealer- that should have been predicted- but of the giveé, the person who uses a loss of a fairly available product to leverage an image of themselves as ‘giving’, and subsequently positions themselves as able to ask for shit later on, as they are so communal. Because everyone should be communal. Got a cigarette, Bro?

Listening to this man- a man who sports the very same Good Vibes For YOU sticker that I posted just a few days back on the bottom of his cello- makes me feel odd and ill-fitted to the groovy hippie vibes of Harbin. It doesn’t help that I’m critical of his playing- while he extols the virtue of Bach- and can play his passages passably well, as long as he is at least an hour away from his last joint- he suffers from a lack of proper intonation, coupled with a drug-addled set of synapses fused together long ago. 13 is too tender an age to start dropping acid, and I hate watching the fallout, years later. I have to wonder if my time is coming.

As I watched the sun decline over the mountains, I’m arguing with myself. To stay? To go? It’s over two hours’ drive back to Oakland, a mountain in-between, and I don’t do so well with the winding roads. Still, I find that my time here is through. I’m not a hippie, wasn’t raised to it. My friends here on the west coast were born to it- they make light of the Overly-Groovy as well, but afterwards, after they poke fun, they let it roll off their backs. Me, I’m too new here to have the proper filters. I take the situation seriously, compounded by the fact that I don’t have a lot of friends here yet, and I’m willing to listen to just about anybody. But I can’t listen to just anybody. These aren’t my people. I’m too couched in the blunt practicality of the Midwest, be it for better or for Palin/McCain. I pack up my unused tent, and retreat from the Retreat.