School of Hard Knocks

Oh happy days…

Today, I was awarded my Hatha Yoga Teacher Certificate, after passing both my practical and theory exams with flying colours. Pretty miraculous for a 40-year old klutz with the coordination of a baby elephant.  Stepping up to ceremoniously receive my certificate in front of all the people I’d sweated blood with this last month felt like winning an Oscar. So naturally I marked the occasion in grand, Gwyneth Paltrow style, complete with gushing speech and uncontrollable sobbing; which I then chased down with an irrational outbreak of perspiration. It was a highly charged moment. And although my teaching style may be more barmy than swami, I have to say I’m bloody proud of what I’ve achieved.

But if the road to success is paved with failures then mine has been peppered with more belly flops than overweight diving contest. Firstly, it took me a good few weeks to get up to speed on all the practical stuff. And I know yoga isn’t meant to be competitive, but there’s nothing more disconcerting than seeing your fellow classmates painlessly contorting themselves in to various shapes of pretzel while you continue to lose consciousness every time you so much as attempt a simple forward bend.

And if it wasn’t my body being pummelled then it was my brain, thanks to all the Sanskrit, mantras and sutras we were being force-fed. How I ever got my head around this little gem, for instance, is beyond me:

"Om purna mada purna midam, Purnaat purnam udachyate, Purnasya purnam adaaya, Purnam eva vasishyate”

…but I did and I even managed to memorise the translation:

"That is the whole, this is the whole; from the whole, the whole arises; taking away the whole from the whole, the whole remains"

…just don’t ask me to tell you what all that actually means.

On the plus side, I can now confidently instruct you to “Siras Moola Aswina Bandha” (stick your head up your arse and engage the sphincter lock), so every cloud has a silver lining.

However, the toughest part of it all for me wasn’t so much the punishing schedule as the playground politics and tacit power struggles that are common with being at school. Not that my classmates were a bad bunch, in fact I like pretty much liked all of them. But the little cabal of overly keen yoga bores who’d meet in secret to perfect their practice and swot up on all the theory – I knew about them. They were annoying. And then there was the outright lick-arse who had just two words to her vocabulary: “wooooooow” and “uh-maaaaazzzzzzinngggg” which she’d purr at our teachers with whenever she felt the need to score a few brownie points. Infuriating. But the one student who really made my blood boil was a bloke called “Xenius”. Or “X” as he liked to be known. Quite.

What made X particularly odious was that he really believed that he was some kind of enlightened guru. Which is fine if you can keep that kind of thing to yourself. But no. X liked to share his wisdom. Liberally. He would constantly interrupt our philosophy classes with insights and observations that he genuinely believed were prophetic and profound. But they weren’t. They were either idiotic, obnoxious or just downright pointless. The other day, for example he felt the need to pose this little scholarly nugget: “why is it that nice guys finish last?” I shit you not. I mean, he may as well have gone the whole hog and asked if “absence makes the heart grow fonder?” or whether “silence really is golden?” The truth is most of us have had hot baths deeper than him.

And while X made me want to punch myself in the face every time he so much as opened his mouth, even I could appreciate he was a fairly benign character.  Which is more than I can say for my philosophy and meditation teacher, Mahesh. Now that man was scarier than Stalin. Mahesh presided over our afternoon classes like an enlightened despot. And for a spiritual man, who is supposedly a lot further down the yogic path than most of us, he seemed to have one colossal ego. If you were an unquestioning, obsequious lick-arse, then he might be go easy on you; otherwise, he would be downright abusive. 

Except to me. Apparently I was so insignificant I didn’t actually register on his radar. In fact I don’t think he addressed me directly once during the entire course. If I had the temerity to ask him a question in class, he would look straight through me, like I wasn’t there. To him, I just didn’t exist. And I found this really unsettling. I mean, you can like me or loathe me – but regard me with stone cold indifference? Now that’s just cruel.

But while I’ve had my fair share of hard knocks these last four weeks, I have to say I’ve relished every second. I’ve seen myself grow and change in so many wonderful ways – I’m happier in my own skin, more at one with my body and I generally feel a lot more at peace. Sure, I may never be able to perform a “crow” without seriously hurting myself, or meditate for more than ten minutes without falling asleep; but I can now execute a perfect back flip from standing, touch my head with my feet while upside down in a headstand and have a fairly superficial conversation with you in Sanskrit.

So move over Madonna, there’s a new yoga babe on the block…

Checking in with Dunstan

It’s been an action-packed first week at school and I’m amazed at just how much I’ve learned. I’ve discovered that every yoga posture carries a range of physical and mental benefits, yet pretty much all of them can relieve constipation (still, none so far have made much impact on my compacted bowels); I now know that Patanjali is not a mild curry best served with rice (as first thought), but the highly venerated founding father of Ashtanga Yoga; and I’ve also mastered the art of breathing through my clavicles (but it’s not something I’d advise doing in public). And while I ache in places I didn’t think possible, I have to say I feel absolutely fantastic!

But it was the near faultless performance I gave with my first teaching assignment yesterday that’s left me feeling particularly buoyed. Not only did I manage to guide everyone through 6 rounds of Sun Salutations without breaking so much as a fingernail, I pulled it off the kind of aplomb that neither Ely nor the rest of the class saw coming. In fact, they were so astounded by my efforts; they actually broke into spontaneous applause afterwards.

And while I continue pass out every time I perform a standing forward bend (apparently my low blood pressure is to blame for this) and I still can’t do “crow” without making a complete tit of myself, I am delighted with the progress I’m making.

Today, however, I have a day off and as much as I’d love to spend it draped over a sunbed sipping Mojitos, I have to sort out a new hotel. The room rate I’m currently paying is burning a hole in my pocket and if I don’t address this soon, I won’t be able to afford so much as a mint leaf, let alone a Mojito. I’m after something chic but cheap, which may take some time to find, so I’ve forced my weary ass out of bed early to go scour the town.

Within a few hours I’ve pretty much depleted all my options. If I want a room that doesn’t come with a government health warning, it seems I’m going to have to pay through the nose for it. Feeling somewhat dejected, I decide to head to Abba –perhaps my Nepalese friends can point me in the right direction?

With another storm looming moodily on the horizon, I gather my pace, affecting the moronic swagger of a constipated speed-walker, as managing anything faster than a shuffle in flip-flops is harder than you might think. I’m intent on reaching shelter before the heavens open up, so I’m not really looking at where I’m going. Naturally, I don’t see the colossal 7-foot Indian man lummucking towards me until it’s too late.

And this is how I meet Dunstan.

It seems news travels fast in these here parts and Dunstan, having caught wind of my accommodation plight, has come to track me down. Rather too enthusiastically, if you ask me – as he’s managed to completely knock me off my feet and is now yammering nonsense at me. I’m totally mystified. Clearly, this man is wired to the moon, but something – perhaps his stupid great smile – tells me he’s essentially harmless. So I tune in and try hard to fathom some sense. Eventually I pluck out the words “cheap” and “room”. Bingo.

It turns out Dunstan is the manager of an off-the-beaten-track guesthouse called Nadakkavil House. And I’m told it’s completely empty. So I follow him over to the bright orange building, check out a few of the rooms and consequently conclude the deal of the century – a double room, with attached bathroom for 2000 rupees, for the entire 4 weeks (that’s about 70p a night!) Sure, the place is more Bangkok Hilton than Park Lane Hilton, but it’s clean and it looks relatively secure. Plus, I’ve already taken rather a shine to Dunstan. He may talk utter twaddle and look like a strange cross between the ‘Nutty Professor’ and ‘Lurch’ from the Addams Family, but I can tell he has a heart of gold. And that’s good enough for me.

We seal the deal with a firm handshake, which sends Dunstan into incoherency overdrive. The words “promise”, “secret” and “special rate” seem to be going round and round in a loop. Eventually, I get his drift – I’m to tell no one about the deal he’s given me, as it would be bad for business. Holding a finger to my lips I whisper “sshh” to show him I comprehend. He clumsily mirrors the gesture, along with another of his huge, winning smiles.

In fact, Dunstan is so entertained by the whole “Sshh” thing he's decided to adopt it as his new catchphrase and is now proceeding to crowbar it into the conversation wherever he fancies. I ask him if he provides towels for his guests. He responds, “sshh”. Is there hot water? “Sshh”. Can I move my stuff in today? Another “sshh”. And I’m battered with a further barrage of “sshhes” as I attempt to back out the door.  Like I said. The man is completely crackerjack.

But I reckon this means I’m in for an interesting few weeks.