The Enema Within
Trip Start Nov 08, 2003
74Trip End Oct 22, 2004
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It was the morning after the night before, and with five hours of sleep under our belts and six pints of vodka and Red Bull in our bellies we found ourselves dropped off at Thongsala Pier for the ferry back to Koh Samui. Our dance partners from the previous night's Full Moon Party were due to be getting this ferry as well, but Brad was hung-over and laid low under cover in a darkened bungalow. Their journey to Cambodia would have to be delayed 24 hours.
The ferry was due at 11.30am, but after buying our tickets we were informed that the ferry was going to be late, what a surprise. The skies were grey, obviously suffering from a hangover itself and as midday came and went without a boat on the horizon, the heavens threw up all over us, soaking us through as well as about thirty other half-dead hippies including a tiny Japanese girl who didn't seem to care as she was still pouring beer down her throat
Finally at 12.30pm a boat appeared in the distance, being flung around on a choppy sea. This ferry was a lot newer than the one that bought us over to Phangan, with a bright red livery of go-faster 'Express' stripes and an interior similar to a hovercraft. Once again it had come from the mainland and was three-quarters full, but we managed to haul ourselves and our ever expanding rucsacs into a couple of seats by the window.
Drenched through, we sat staring out of the window at a threatening looking sea that was going to throw us around like a model battleship in a bath tub. And sure enough, as we finally left the pier, the driver wasn't going to let a little thing like a ten foot swell bother him, as he shifted into top gear and put the boat into full steam ahead.
Up and down, left and right, we went, at times the boat was in mid-air and came crashing down with a spine-jolting bellyflop. Cape Horn was nothing compared to this and after 15 minutes of attrition our breakfast-less bellies complete with gallon of vodka and Red Bull was now going into spin cycle mode.
It was time for my boyhood trick for averting car-sickness by concentrating on a single point in the distance, while Soph persevered with the much practiced discipline of deep breathing.
"I'm surprised no-one's been sick yet!" Exclaimed Soph.
A minute later came a question, obviously trying to take her mind off her stomach which was now going at 1500 RPM.
"Are you OK?"
I told her I wasn't too bad, but didn't really want to expand on it as I had a really interesting pylon to stare at on the fast vanishing coast of Phangan.
Soph's deep breathing suddenly went to another level as she started gulping in lungfuls of air, I could tell all was not well.
It was clear Soph was fighting a losing battle and that the three pints of vodka being blended in her stomach would be making another appearance very soon, either in a plastic bag, on the floor, in a rapped up sarong, on my trousers or all over our rucsacs.
If this were a multiple-choice quiz, I'd have given you full marks for ticking all the above.
After trying to stuff a sarong down her larynx to stop the flow, it shot out like a cork followed by a greeny-red spew-fountain of Devil juice. My new brown hippie trousers never stood a chance but at least they stopped the rucsacs and floor from a good dousing.
Suddenly a plastic bag floated over from the people in front while they wrestled to open their umbrellas
A dishevelled red face covered with tears of vodka looked up at me.
"I feel a lot better now."
Covered in her projectiled vomit with my legs contorted at an impossible angle between my rucsac and the chair in front, I would have loved the feeling to be mutual, but it wasn't. I just contented myself with the fact that it was strangely odourless and that there wasn't a diced carrot to be seen.
The girl sitting next to Soph must have been wondering what she'd done to deserve this, as she was on her way to a hospital on Samui with a nasty looking motorbike inflicted gash on her leg.
(Just think, the gritty details of our colonic irrigation are but a few paragraphs away, I bet you can't wait.)
Half an hour later the ferry pulled into Big Buddha Pier on the north of the island, and after waiting for the rest of the passengers to stagger off, we made our way to a quiet corner of the pier to wash the rest of Soph's innards off my trousers.
After a short wait, a van heading for Lamai beach turned up and after taking our seats, the girl with the gashed leg and the faint scent of Eau de Soph climbed into the front seat
Our van made a few stops on the way south, twice stopping at hospitals to drop off the scooter victims of Phangan, and twenty minutes later we arrived at Spa Samui Beach Resort for directions to our intended destination, Spa Samui Village, a couple of kilometres inland.
Soph wasn't finished just yet though. The rally driving technique of our driver had woken the sleeping volcano that was Soph's bubbling belly. Before the van had come to a standstill, Soph was sliding the van door off its hinges and jumping out in true Starsky and Hutch fashion. The beautiful tropical palm tree never knew what hit it as the remainder of Soph's alcoholic lava spewed forth coating its bark with a nice layer of pebble-dashing. Botanists would be visiting this strange new species of palm for years to come.
We finally arrived at Spa Samui Village by mid afternoon and were greeted by a German receptionist with a mullet to die for. It was Friday and we were due to start our 7-day fast on the following Monday, so he oddly advised us to eat, drink and smoke weed to our hearts content before the off, something their website strongly advised against
Standing in reception, toxins seeped from our pores and if anyone needed detoxifying, it was us (especially Soph).
In my correspondence with the Spa, I'd foolishly asked for a Thai Panoramic bungalow with the best view, number 42 to be precise. Their website indicated that it would require a 75 metre walk up a hill which would be moderately strenuous.
Congratulations Spa Samui Village, you are the new holders of the 'Understatement of the Year Award'.
We were taken up to our bungalow the first time by a little golfer's buggy, and even that couldn't manage it. We had to get out and walk the last 20 metres, and even then, that was only to the bottom of a hundred or so steep steps that led to our bungalow.
Soph collapsed onto the bed like an admitted alcoholic at the Priory Clinic and immediately passed out for two hours, while I checked out the view of palm trees, Lamai Town and the sea in the distance from our very own adjoining massage sala, and although it was pretty good, I'm not sure it warranted the near-death exertion of the climb
We were required to watch a welcome video in reception at 6pm so we flailed down 'the hill' with our bodies vainly trying to keep pace with our out of control legs, (in fact our descent was so rapid, our ears popped), and for the next half-hour we watched the Spa's owner Guy Hopkins talking us through what to expect on our fast. This was followed by a superb meal at their award-winning restaurant. Well it was superb for me, but funny enough Soph still wasn't feeling herself, can't think why.
After dinner we'd have to tackle the hill under our own steam for the first time. The hill was easily the steepest hill we'd ever walked up, and it even left a marathon running anorak like myself jelly-legged and poor Soph had to take three rest stops en route, considering the option of setting up a camp at half-way for the night. She arrived at the bungalow (what seemed) thirty minutes later, ready for the ultimate slumber-fest to rival Rip Van Winkle's legendary snooze.
That night I watched 'Cinema Paradiso' on their in-room DVD system, a nice quirky film that soothed the day's puke-induced trials and tribulations.
At breakfast Soph was feeling a lot better, saying that, she couldn't have felt much worse, and a good old English fry-up was what the doctor ordered, but eggs (as in Vietnam) weren't on the menu due to bird-flu restrictions, so we had to settle for a (nice?) plate of scrambled tofu and sliced potatoes smothered in pesto.
The rest of the day was spent gorging on as much food as we could physically cram into our newly alcohol-free bellies, sweeping their kitchen bare like a plague of locusts. The pre-cleanse diet of raw vegetables and fruit was never going to be an option as we lapped up green tofu curries, beef stir-frys and chocolate ice cream.
Come 7pm, we jumped into the Spa's very own transfer bus that shuttles guests between their two resorts every hour on the hour. On the way it does a drop-off in Lamai town, where tonight we'd see what Samui's second town had to offer.
We soon realised after seeing the hordes of middle-aged Westerners cavorting with their little 'young-enough-to-be-their-daughters' Thai girlfriends, that we had arrived at Patpong-on-Sea
We took a table at a German-owned Pizzeria (yeah, I know) for a couple of plates of fishy carbohydrates loosely disguised as seafood spaghetti, and then stopped by at one of the less-sordid looking bars for a beer and the first half of Everton-Man Utd. Dragged away as United led 3-0 at half-time, a couple of days later I was dismayed to see I'd missed a 7-goal thriller. Typical.
On our way home in a taxi, a couple of girls jumped in, and it turned out they were on their way back to Spa Beach Resort. One of them was on her sixth day of the fast and eagerly told us:
"I'm feeling really beautiful today."
Hello, I thought, we've got a live one here
She was pretty but I wouldn't have called her really beautiful, but it did get us thinking how we'd feel at the same stage and whether all this lack of food business would give us a fresh, positive outlook on life as the testimonials from previous fasters on the Spa Samui website had expressed. In a weeks time we'd be strutting around with the confident, good-looking air of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston, no problem.
This morning we woke at 11am and just made it down for breakfast by midday. It was the day before the off and some serious stomach-lining would be called for today in preparation of seven days of starvation, but before all this, we'd have to take a pH test to check our body's acidity. If the paper remained yellow after a slobber of our saliva, then take-off would have to be aborted while we pre-cleansed on raw veg. They both turned green so the clock was started at T-17 hours.
The rest of the day was one big 'Final Supper', the likes of which hadn't been seen since David Blaine decided to go 40-odd days without
As wheelbarrows of green curries were trundled to our table, worried chefs rang the Chinese government, to tell them to step up their rice making production. Jacket potatoes came by the dozen and our very own spring roll eating record for a day was smashed out of sight. This was no day for poncey feuillettes of flaky foie gras or fondant fancies, this day called for a medieval-style banquet of roast hogs' hind-quarters and wild boar stuffed with venison, which, in turn, had been stuffed with squirrels, all eaten by tearing lumps off with bare hands and washed down with a flagon or two of Bull's Blood, followed by a quick slap and tickle with a busty wench . . . sorry, got a bit carried away there, calm down Gary, anyway, if anything came along with a sprig of parsley and a lettuce leaf it was going straight back.
That evening it was time for our first two tablets of the 219 we'd eventually have to take. A couple of 'Intestinal Cleansers' were washed down with a glass of water, after which we settled down, sorry, I settled down for the live football on ESPN with Chelsea thrashing Charlton to within an inch of their lives, 1-0.
Not a lot of sleep was to be had that night for either of us, with the thought of pointy tubes, green herbal drinks and Big Macs keeping us awake
9/2 - DAY 1
The alarm went at 6.45am, we had an appointment with a 7am detox drink of bentonite clay liquid detoxifier, psyllium husk bulk intestinal cleanser topped up with pineapple juice to make it taste marginally better.
We arrived at the detox centre where a couple of Spa staff were furiously mixing drinks for our fellow interns, er, fasters. Some weighing scales were by the wall so we hopped onto them to get our starting weights.
Rocky 'The Lardman' Gazza tipped the scales at 14 stone and half a pound of prime English beef with a good helping of fat and gristle, while 'Choc-meister' Soph weighed in at . . . sorry, classified information, if I told you, Soph would have to kill me, you know what women and their weights are like, but safe to say, if they were speaking scales they'd be saying 'one person at a time only please.'
Back over at the counter and we were ready for our first taste of a detox drink
We were then given our 31 tablets for the day. 15 intestinal cleansers and 15 herbal nutrients, three of each to be taken five times a day every three hours, plus one acidophilus lactobacteria tablet known simply as a 'Flora Grow', to be taken just before bed-time.
Our detox drink was also a five-a-day affair every three hours, which would be taken at the detox centre, or if you were lazy, going out or had an impossible hill to climb, you could ask for a takeaway that you could mix yourselves.
Doesn't sound too bad, does it?
Oh yeah, there was the small problem of inserting an anal probe into a certain nether region twice a day and pumping 16 litres of freshly ground coffee, apple cider vinegar and warm water through your colon. In short . . . colonic irrigation.
So, in effect, our day would look something like this:
7am Detox drink
8.30am 3 Intestinal Cleansers, 3 Herbal Nutrients
8.45am 16 litre Enema
10am Detox drink
11.30am 3 Intestinal Cleansers, 3 Herbal Nutrients
1pm Detox drink
2.30pm 3 Intestinal Cleansers, 3 Herbal Nutrients
4pm Detox drink
4.30pm 16 litre Enema
5.30pm 3 Intestinal Cleansers, 3 Herbal Nutrients
7pm Detox drink
8.30pm 3 Intestinal Cleansers, 3 Herbal Nutrients
9pm 1 Flora Grow tablet
And when you'd get a spare moment, you could have a massage or a steam bath. It was a full diary and there was never a dull moment.
There were also a few calorie-free delights they urged you to take during the first three days to stave off hunger pangs and to basically stop you from dying. A runny, dirty dishwater flavoured vegetable soup, some coconut water or carrot juice.
On the first day you were spared the morning enema, so we spent it slogging up and down Hell's Hill with bellies full of bentonite clay and psyllium husk. Until 4pm, that is, when it was time for the dreaded enema instruction video at reception.
We took our seats with a couple of English girls and a Japanese couple as the video crackled into life with the image of an Aussie guy called 'Buzz', Spa Samui's resident enema expert, who knew all there was to know about poking strange looking objects into bodily orifices of the hard to reach kind.
Our fellow viewers shifted uncomfortably in their chairs with worried looks and embarrassed giggles as Buzz went through the procedure wearing a strategically placed, dignity-preserving sarong.
Twenty minutes later and we were ready to be interiorly invaded and with buckets in hand, we climbed 'the hill' along with the two girls who were staying two bungalows down and a bubbly Thai girl called Toi who would set up the first colema board while you took note. We stopped off at the girls bathroom first and Toi went through the motions like an old pro while the four of us watched intently.
Firstly the bucket of caffeine and vinegar solution would have to be diluted with 16 litres of warm water and then hung on a hook above the toilet. A small plastic sieve was then placed into the toilet bowl to catch any interesting solid colon gunk, before placing the large white colema board horizontally onto the toilet rim with the other end perched on a stool. Connected to the bucket was a length of clear plastic tubing, and to remove any air bubbles and begin the flow of liquid, a short sharp suck on the end would be needed to begin the siphon. As soon as the mixture began flowing through, a bulldog clip would need to be attached to a kink in the tube to halt the flow, acting as an on/off switch when you were in position. Next came the attaching of your own personal pointy 'colema tip', the width of a biro, which went through a hole in the end of the board and slipped into the end of the bucket's pipe. Also supplied was a tube of KY jelly that was smothered on anything that you thought might need lubricating, say no more. The only other thing now would be to get in position flat-out on the board for the bit everyone dreads . . . insertion. The truth is, it slipped in very smoothly indeed, which was a bit worrying for a red-blooded male like myself, but two inches was all that was needed and it was now time to release the bulldog clip and lie back and think of England for twenty minutes. At this point I should say I allowed Soph to go first, being the gentleman I am.
The caffeine was now flowing gently into the colon with a warm, soothing feeling and after about five minutes the first results would be rearing its ugly turtle's head(s). The ingenious design of the colema tip meant as the liquid poured in, the exiting excrement would by-pass it and pour out around it into the toilet bowl. There was only mild discomfort, but that soon vanished as three litres of blended vindaloos and onion bhajis flooded out with orgasmic pleasure. The same in-out, in-out flow of liquid and gunk continued for another quarter of an hour before it was time to gently disengage, clean up and inspect faeces.
The first days findings were of the plain poo variety as the last few days gorging showed themselves once more. The interesting discoveries weren't usually seen until your sixth or seventh enemas and we could hardly wait for the next episode as it was. Afterwards, buckets had to be taken back to the detox centre for the staff to prepare them for the following morning.
If you don't want to know what we found in the baskets, look away now.
Today's basket content: Plain poo.
OK, you can look again.
10/2 - DAY 2
After a detox drink, six tablets, our morning enema and a coconut water we caught the 10am shuttle bus into town, complete with tablets and takeaway drink.
We were going to see the open sewer that was Lamai beach and we weren't disappointed. As we strolled along it became clear our local tip in Thamesmead was cleaner as we dodged beer bottles, empty crisp packets and rotting fruit arriving half an hour later at Spa Beach resort with feet covered in tar. We were pleased to see we had made the right choice in staying at the Village resort on seeing their accommodation were basic wooden shacks in a scruffy wasteland overlooking a scruffier beach.
While we were there, their TV lounge was showing the Spa Samui based Channel 5 documentary 'Celebrity Crap Camp' so we stayed to watch Kim Wilde, Richard Blackwood, Keith Duffy and Tamara Beckwith going through what we were now going through which was amusing to say the least. It was especially funny seeing 'Toi', who had shown us the set-up, clambering over a prone Richard Blackwood to remove an air-bubble blockage for him.
On arriving back at the Village, we were soon immersed into the schedule of things again as each hour came and went with the prospect of a drink, some tablets or fun with faeces to look forward to.
We certainly weren't feeling hungry yet with five drinks a day supplemented with coconut water and carrot juice, although the vegetable soup was proving too disgusting to stomach and was crossed off our daily menu.
Today's basket content: Plain poo with jelly.
11/2 - DAY 3
7.15am at the detox centre, 48 hours into the fast, and it was our first weigh-in. Both of us had lost 6 pounds already, although it was probably just lack of colon content and not actual bodily fat.
We were still feeling OK and not that hungry and there were warnings that we'd be very tired and suffering from headaches but these too hadn't materialised.
The clientele were a mixture of 30-40 somethings from America, Japan, Germany, Ireland, Australia and the UK with the majority being figure-conscious females of the species, with the sunny personalities of loud office-workers. The detox centre was turning into a little social club with the main topic of conversation being the comings and goings of their sphincters and they weren't embarrassed in the slightest who knew. It was a club Soph and I went out of our way to avoid.
Early that afternoon we went for a herbal steam bath which apparently would help the body rid any toxins by flushing them out through the pores. We entered a cavern carved out of rock and were immediately hit by the smell of roasted, herb-fused, Sunday vegetables given off by the hot-air vents. The two hundred degree heat we could handle but the delicious waft was sheer mental torture to our minds and stomachs.
The weather was overcast today as we spent the rest of the afternoon by their kidney-shaped pool (mmmmm, kidneys), thus avoiding traipsing up and down 'the hill' which was now taking it's toll, although it was giving my legs a long needed work-out and Soph's derriere was now resembling a couple of cracked walnuts.
After another day of 32 litres of caffeine going through our bodies, I realised we were now consuming the exact same amount of coffee as my brother Brandon drinks in a day, albeit through the other end. What a coincidence.
Today's basket content: Jelly, mucus and pips.
12/2 - DAY 4
Today we woke with a light-headed, natural high feeling and slightly peckish, but still nowhere near as hungry as we'd thought we'd be. The morning was spent reading by the pool and giggling at a Japanese couple who spent their days in complete matching outfits that included their garishly striped bright blue swimming costumes. It did the trick perfectly in taking our minds off our peckishness.
In between a detox drink and a pill-popping session we treated ourselves to a one hour Thai massage each which again proved a successful respite to our endless thoughts of burgers, beer and bratwurst (yep, even stinky dried German sausage was becoming appealing).
Venturing once again into Lamai town that evening, Soph spent a week's budget on a phonecall home to share her anal anecdotes with her nearest and dearest, perfectly coinciding with their lunch, a stroke of evil genius.
Later we sat in a restaurant opposite McDonalds eating an haute-cuisine dish of three herbal nutrients and three intestinal cleanser tablets followed by a 1984 vintage carafe of coconut water.
Today's basket content: Jelly, mucus and a stew of multi-coloured browniness.
13/2 - DAY 5
After a night of torrential rain, a hot, sunny day greeted us on the morning of our next weigh-in, with Soph losing another two and a half pounds, with a further four and a half pounds falling from my fast diminishing colon.
We were both feeling a bit weak today with our bodies going into full detoxifying mode, and with Soph sprawled in a deckchair with just about enough strength to hold up her latest girly novel, I bid her farewell for a half hour session in the steam bath.
It was hotter than usual today as I sat hunched trying to breathe in the last bit of oxygen through burning nostrils. My heart began to palpitate with my head deciding to join the palpitating frenzy not long after. Dizziness soon kicked in along with some of the strangest stomach cramps I'd ever felt.
A generously tattooed German woman sat opposite me in equal distress and muttered a mumbled Munich expletive as she rose to her feet, pulled on a pair of body-scrubbing gloves and proceeded to untie and discard her sarong.
I presumed she'd have swimwear underneath.
I presumed wrong.
Her mission was to scrub every square inch of visible (and hidden) flesh and orifice to aid the detoxification of the detoxing of toxins, do you follow me? It was also her mission to do this in a number of yogic positions, three feet in front of me in a not too steamy steam room (well, it wasn't too steamy at that stage).
My heart was palpitating, my head was palpitating and now even my palp was palpitating as she rubbed away at fleshy erogenous zones I never knew existed.
After two hours it was time for me to get some fresh air and a much needed cold shower so I quietly skirted around the serial scrubbing psycho and headed for safety and the welcoming familiarity of clothed people.
Deep moment approaching . . .
I remember thinking as I stepped outside, of how we all take oxygen for granted and of how wonderful it is to breathe lungfulls of clean fresh air. Lets all think about that for a moment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and also how great sweaty, naked, tattooed German girls are . . . . . . .
. . . deep moment ruined.
For our second enema of the day, we asked the detox staff to prepare our buckets with different ingredients. A fresh garlic and vinegar solution was supposed to be a bit more heavy-duty on our insides and would weed out the toughest of toxins and plaque, including worms and parasites, nice. Happily there were no little creepy-crawlies in our stool, but the first signs of stringy gristle showed it's alien-like face.
Later we enjoyed an evening of torrential rain, powercuts and near-death starvation, a regular night in Manchester no less. Sorry, cruel.
This made getting to and from our 7pm detox drink out of the question, so that night we were really ravenous, and the desperate glancing looks from one another meant the option of cannibalism wasn't far off.
Today's basket content: Jelly, mucus and stringy gristle.
14/2 - DAY 6
Day 6, and we woke up on a dull, cloudy day feeling really tired and weak, me especially after the previous day's X-rated steam bath, so after our early morning session of detox drink, tablets and colon flush, we turned on the TV to hear the immortal words:
"I'm Spartacus, I've got a cleft chin," or something like that.
Perfect epic viewing for hunger escapism, with Spartacus' pain putting our own into perspective.
Along with the tiredness and weakness, my jaw was now aching through lack of chewing exercise and our fluids were going through one end and straight out the other.
After our lunchtime drink we headed to the massage sala for some aromatherapy where we both had an hour's Thai aroma massage, and with tired muscles kneaded and skin thoroughly doused with lemongrass oil, we emerged feeling semi-revitalised and gradually feeling better as the day wore on.
The last few days of the fast were turning into ultra lazy days by the pool or on our verandah overlooking Lamai. The thought of going into town to watch everyone stuffing their faces with junk food would have been too much for us, and there would have been a danger of falling off the wagon so close to the end.
That evening while Soph was getting into her seventy-sixth book of the trip, I had arranged with reception for the main viewing channel to be switched to StarSports for the France-Ireland Six Nations match which, again, took my mind off the tummy torture and outside the rain, once again, honked down all night.
Today's basket content: A lot less with just a bit of stringy, alien-like gristle.
15/2 - DAY 7
Again we woke to a steady drizzle of rain but that wasn't going to stop us feeling upbeat as it was our last day, and as the day wore on we'd start counting down the number of tablets left to swallow and pints of clay and husk to down.
Our last weigh-in showed us both losing another three pounds each, with my final weight loss being 13 and a half pounds for a final weight of 13 stone and one pound, while Soph lost eleven and a half pounds for a final weight of . . . whoah . . . nearly forgot, classified information.
Although we were a little sad to be nearing the end, it was the enemas that had proved the most enjoyable part of the fast in a masochistic kind of way. I think it was down to the thought that our bodies were benefiting in a big way from the clear-out of waste and mucus that can, and often do, lead to fatal diseases. The setting up and execution of the colema board had become second nature to us and the feeling of 'letting it all go' was anally orgasmic to a certain degree! If anything, we'd be glad to see the back of 'The Hill' which we'd been dragging our tired bodies up and down for the past week with up to five return journeys per day.
Gradually we became stronger as the thought of solid food the following morning kept us going, and as the sun finally appeared in the early afternoon, we ventured down to the pool and then for another steam bath with Soph escorting me this time.
Our 7pm detox drink that evening was replaced with a Flora Grow drink that was two Flora Grow tablets in a large glass of water which had been sealed and fermenting for eight hours, and with the hunger really tying our stomachs in knots we, sorry, I settled down for the night to watch some more rugby, England v Italy.
Today's basket content: A lot less still, with mucus, jelly, pips and stringy plaque.
The day had come we'd been waiting for, but before we could tuck in, we had two more enemas and another Flora Grow drink to get through.
As soon as we woke it was into the bathroom for our last 16 litre enema, but this time it would be with pure warm water only that would hopefully flush the last remnants of gunkiness from our colons, and our sieves showed very little except a few small length of stringy gristle. Our warm water enemas were immediately followed by another friendly-bacteria forming Flora Grow drink.
A couple of hours later and it was our final insertion, a very sad moment. This time we were given a huge plastic syringe to attach to the end of our colema tip which contained a Flora Grow Implant solution of four Flora Grow tablets in water that had been fermenting overnight, that would need to be retained in the body for at least half an hour, or if physically possible, the whole day.
We were now finished with special drinks, tablets and contraptions and on final countback our individual consumptions for the week read:
219 herbal nutrient and intestinal cleanser tablets.
37 pints of detox drinks.
224 litres of enemas.
The restaurant now beckoned for a nice bowl of 'Guy's Breakfast', named after the Spa owners' regular morning fix of mango, goat's yoghurt and bee pollen. Sounds a bit manky? It was delicioso. The bee pollen had an unexpectedly nice crunchy texture that gave our underused molars a well earned workout. A glass of mixed fruit juice was also downed in double quick time, a heavenly change from the diluted pineapple-flavoured wallpaper paste we'd been filling up on.
We left the restaurant still feeling hungry though, but we couldn't overdo it in the first few days or we'd frighten our stomachs to death and suffer from a rich-food reaction, so the menu for the next few days would be vegetables, fruit and salad, and although it was Soph's usual diet and not mine, I'd be glad to munch on anything raw and salady over the next 72 hours.
Lunch couldn't have come soon enough as we emptied bowls of Spa Som Tum salad and Vietnamese spring rolls into our mouths along with extra large glasses of their heavenly lime and honey coolers and we left the table feeling beautifully bloated for the first time in a week.
After a week's detox we were feeling a lot lighter and clear headed, with colons that were now semi colons, and if we were going home the next day we'd certainly have carried on the good work and improved our wellbeing by buying all the right foods at Sainsbury's and spending a little longer in the gym, but we knew this was going to be impossible as seven more weeks of south-east Asian curries and beer were just around the corner with a further eight months of impossible-to-resist Antipodean culinary stodge following soon after. We'd just have to savour our sense of healthiness for as long as possible as our combined weight loss of 25 pounds was bound to creep back on.
For dinner that evening we kept to our good ways of steamed vegetables, Som Tum salad and vegetable soup.
'Enemy at the Gates' with Jude Law was showing that evening on HBO. Chronic.
After another bowlful of 'Guy's Breakfast' that morning, we hopped into the transfer bus for a trip into Lamai town. On our to-do list today was a two hour 'what's-happening-in-the-rest-of-the-world' Internet session followed by a visit to the barbers for me as my 2mm long hair was growing wildly out of control.
We then stopped by a snazzy boutique hotel on the beach for lunch, where I couldn't resist a secret squid salad. Fish wasn't supposed to be eaten until the next day but there was no-one around looking so I went for it, and felt all the better for it.
After finally finding a couple of square metres of rubbish-free sand, the afternoon was spent sun-worshipping on Lamai beach, with a lunch of pineapple and mango supplied by a passing vendor who expertly chopped the pineapple into bite-size lollipops on sticks.
We caught the 6.30pm tuk-tuk from Spa Beach back to the Village for a dinner of ginger stirfry, tofu tacos, brown rice and our favourite som tum salad. Still shunning beer, we guzzled another couple of extra large lime and honey coolers.
Today we hired a jeep from the resort and as I hadn't driven for three and a half months, the first half hour was spent remembering what pedal did what and which gear was where, but it turned out to be just like riding a bike, if you know what I mean.
We began by driving a clockwise circuit of the whole island and were surprised just how small it was with a lap taking just 50 minutes, and as we drove along the main street of Chaweng, the islands' largest town, we couldn't resist stopping off at Starbucks for a mocha and a latte, well, you gotta do it.
Further along the coast we arrived at Central Samui Village on the south-east tip of the island for an early lunch of yellow fish curry and Caesar salad followed by an hours sunbathing on their loungers.
Over the road was the resort's own butterfly garden where we really showed our ages with an enjoyable hour's tour marvelling at all the lovely multicoloured flutterbyes.
Back in the jeep we realised our £14 worth of petrol we'd bought probably would have lasted us a week on this island, so a concerted effort was now made to use some of it up with a trip inland to the highest point, until we were stopped near the summit by a military checkpoint and asked to do a U-turn. Obviously this little island in the middle of nowhere is a top-secret strategically important defence position!
Another loop of the island later and we found ourselves back at the infamous Chaweng Road for a spot of window-shopping. We parked at the southern end and on consulting our 'Dining on Samui' booklet, we realised we weren't far from a restaurant called 'Betelnut', an interesting sounding eatery serving Thai-Californian fusion meals, owned by an eccentric, larger-than-life Californian of whom I'll expand on later. On arriving and seeing the stylish interior with interesting looking menu, we booked a table for 8pm that evening.
The rest of the afternoon and early evening were spent walking along the never-ending main street, browsing through shops of cheap junk, phoning my Mummy and drinking iced coffees, until it was time for dinner.
We arrived at Betelnut and were shown to a table where we sat and studied our menus. Over Soph's shoulder I could just make out the kitchen and the unmistakable sight of Jeffrey Lord, the chef and owner who'd obviously put on a few stone since his picture was taken for the Samui dining guide, and looking at the menu we could see why.
Soph plumped for a starter of crabcakes with roasted red tomato sauce followed by pan seared salmon with tamarind glaze and basil mash, while I went for the sesame crusted salmon katsu and a main of lambchop tenderloin with massaman curry. Another dish that caught our eye was 'Buddha jumped over the wall', which was apparently a kangaroo dish but at £6.50 for a starter it was a little too expensive and little too cruel to eat.
As we were ordering, the owner himself came bounding out of the kitchen to introduce himself and see what we were ordering. He was sweating like a trooper and his apron was a menu in itself as it hadn't seen a washing machine in years. He cast his eye over our order and noddingly approved all our dishes while urging us to try his signature dish of kangaroo, but we had to decline.
A couple of glasses of Californian white wine accompanied our food as once again our budget wouldn't stretch to a whole bottle due to the astronomical Thai taxes that are slapped on them.
As our dishes came and went, the chef hovered around gaining feedback on his cooking while supplying us with his life story in mini-chunks, including a gem when he cooked a dinner of stuffed doves for George Bush senior, Henry Kissinger and Jimmy Carter and when asked by Bush senior to see where his son had got to, he had found Dubya Bush in the gents throwing up after a few too many, whereupon he helped him outside for some fresh air. And then there were the stories of getting shot in Vietnam and his strange relationship with his Thai wife and his own pervy penchant for ladyboys. He had been on Samui 10 years and clearly loved the lifestyle and could never see himself going back to San Francisco. During our last couple of weeks in the islands we had now met three nutty guys from SanFran. They sure breed them there.
Dessert consisted of three scoops of ice-cream, but not your common or garden flavours. We had ginger, lemongrass and the intriguingly titled 'fire and ice', a plain sorbet fused with red chillis. The lemongrass was sublime but the 'fire and ice', although creative, didn't quite work for us.
After coffees a free glass of Grappa arrived at our table courtesy of the chef. Soph took a sip and nearly internally combusted and even though I was driving, the chef was having none of it, so I succumbed to a swig which set my throat on fire. A fire extinguisher, 14 glasses of ice water and a severely credited credit card later we were on our way having re-introduced our stomachs to fine food the hard way.
Our last day on Samui would be spent at the quieter, less trashy southern end of Lamai beach recovering from last night's uber-dinner, with a less flamboyant meal of pasta at a local pizzeria in the evening.
By the way, it had been three days since the fast and we were still waiting for nature to take its course, with laxative tea having no effect. We'll keep you updated on (bowel) movements.
Two weeks on Koh Samui and we were well and truly ready to head for the quieter, less developed island of Ko Lanta off the west coast of Thailand for three weeks of relaxation (as if we haven't had enough).
If you've read this far I'm afraid your lunchbreak's over, but thank you and congratulations for persevering and sitting through over 7,000 sometimes graphic and disgusting words.
The Semi Colon & The Trophy Waif