XXVII. Adventures in Healing, Part Two

My incursions into the world of holistic health maintenance were not restricted to merely visiting apothecaries and clinics. While living in Malaysia, I got heavily into Tai Chi and, to my surprise, became a vegetarian. Living meatlessly came relatively easy. In fact it was basically forced upon me, being that I was staying at the Penang temple/headquarters of The International Society for Krishna Consciousness. No, I hadn’t gone that far. I was there strictly for the free room and board, and for the local Tai Chi master who came to give lessons. There were, however, certain daily obligations I had to fulfill in return: waking up at 4:30 for morning services, working for a couple of hours, usually gardening or chopping vegetables, then joining in evening services. I had no qualms about singing and dancing, I quite enjoyed it, but the sermons – literalist interpretations of the Bhagavad-Gita – proved a tad difficult, particularly when they sought my participation in the inevitable discussion that followed. I was diplomatic; I didn’t want to lose a free bed or the surprisingly tasty meals.

Given the free room and board, a large number of hippie travelers passed through the temple, and virtually every one of them had some kind of advice on Living Clean and Karmically: raw foods, food combining, fruitarianism, fasting, colon cleansing, and on and on and on. Given how skinny and listless they generally were, it was a wonder anyone in their right mind would listen to them. But I did… I was on A Path.

When I got my first boil, the hippies assured me that it was just my body ridding itself of toxins. When a boil on my arm grew large enough to turn heads, a doctor from the local clinic, an Indian woman who occasionally visited the temple for the free feasts, ordered me immediately to her office, where she lanced the beast. The massive crater it left turned even more heads and occasionally elicited gasps. I was prepared to tell anyone who asked that it was a bullet wound.

It had been suggested by one of the travelers that perhaps I needed to go even further with my purification. He shared with me his method for fast, cheap and easy colon cleansing: drink a half-gallon of prune juice all at once. That was all there was to it, he instructed, just do it on a day when I had nowhere I had to be, and to make sure I had quick, all-day access to a toilet. The next morning, after services, instead of eating breakfast, I chugged down the juice. I sat down, not knowing what to expect, and certainly not expecting what was to come.

First, there was a light gurgling, followed by sounds I can only describe as hundreds of tiny souls shrieking, yearning to be set free from my digestive tract. While this persisted for several minutes, I amused myself by imagining a reworking of Horton Hears a Who. Then a low rumble and a pressing sensation began to build deep in my intestines. I felt it best to repair to my designated stall – a seldom used squat toilet in a corrugated tin shack behind the temple. I bolted the door, dropped my shorts, squat down and waited. But not for long.

It came out. I mean it all came out, as if every meal I ever ate in my life gushed out of me, with such speed and force that I was halfway lifted out of my squat. When the surge ebbed, I caught my breath and, once certain it was over, washed myself out with the small water bucket by the side of the toilet. I turned to examine my excretions. It was literally the largest load of crap I had ever produced (save the comments). It was as big as any of the elephant turds I used to pass (by) in the jungle. Upon closer inspection, I spied what I believed to be an undigested bean sprout. That’s odd, I thought, undigested bean sprouts usually don’t wiggle. I poured some water over it to get a better look. It was pale, semi-translucent white and long, maybe eight to ten inches. I fished it out and rinsed it off, along with my fingers. I was rather proud of it. I had to show it to all my hippie advisors. (Look what came out of me!) They were less than interested, one might say a bit squeamish, in fact. They don’t make hippies like they used to, I lamented.

I spent the rest of the day in and out of the toilet. None of the subsequent visits held the same impact, but I was continually surprised that there was still anything left inside of me. The next day, I returned to the doctor and showed her the worm, now safely stored in a baggie. (Naturally, I felt it necessary to bring it for an accurate diagnosis.) She donned a pair of surgical gloves, seized the baggie from my hand and tossed it in with some medical waste. She gave me a shot and enough pills to kill off any eggs that I might be harboring. As I thanked her and left, she merely shook her head in a manner which suggested that I confirmed everything she had long suspected of Westerners. I never saw her at the temple again.

To be continued…