When I arrive to the large overgrown Victorian house in suburban London I am at least 60% certain I have the wrong location, so pushing open the latched door without acknowledgement or greeting goes against every principle I have ever been raised to have. However, the strong smell of incense and the bustling new age community within seem to fit with my expectations of the venue, so despite the lack of response to my nervous 'hello' I push on in, fully prepared for someone to ask what I am doing in their house.
Upon introducing myself to a skinny man whose tongue had been as unlikely to have spoken an unkind word as his hair had been to have ever seen a comb, I was made as awkwardly comfortable as a clear carnivore in a houseful of lifelong vegans could be. We simply did not know what to say to one another. I had bought brazil nuts with me as my contribution towards the snacks for the day. They loved them, but felt that they were being 'naughty' each time they succumbed to one. To this day, I fail to see the naughty value of a brazil nut.
Shortly thereafter we all pile into the living room. We are talked through some basic body-loosening exercises then told to slowly walk around the small crowded room freely and in any direction that feels right, sensing as well as see our fellow walkers. After a while of this we are told to find a partner, and to acknowledge one another not with words but with a silent nod. I turn around and crash into a feller who was immediately behind me so I nod at him. His eye contact with me is solid enough but the minimal inclination of his head could just be the residual concussion, so I nod again. He nods again, this time slower, with the exaggerated care of someone who now knows that he is dealing with a window licker. We are told that one of us is to be the bear and one of us is to be the tree. I am immediately uncomfortable. This feeling does not improve as we are told that the tree is to remain strong and planted while the bear rubs his/her self all over the tree in whatever way brings them the greatest relief.
I don't want to talk about this again.
Then we sit around the perimeter of the room, on a large fluffy tye-dyed rug. A large pot of cacao - the unrefined, unsweetened version of hot chocolate - is bought in and passed around the room in mismatched mugs. It tastes bloody awful. Apparently the bitterness of it is intended to re-awaken different unused parts of the brain. A woman in the corner of the room takes up some string instrument and sings an adlib song loaded with positive words and the theme of freeing oneself. The man next to me gets up and starts dancing. A woman across the room from me follows suit. Soon the whole room is writhing and gyrating, and somehow I have become the weird one for being the only one sitting still. So.… on the understanding that there is no cameras present... I tentatively get up and start moving.
I have no idea how to move. I'm pretty sure I do the floss dance at one point. There IS a camera. Damnit!
We move out to the garden to the tune of rhythmic drums and tamborines, where we are split into two groups - Fire and Water. I move to scout the garden for herbs to crush into the restorative bath while the bulk of the group tend to the fire. The garden has rosemary, sage and - unexpectedly - eucalyptus in abundance, and the fragrant bath is ready long before the uncooperative fire. It is fanned madly by 2 people, while everyone else sings and dances at it. I help with the fanning to excess purely because the alternative is just too bloody embarrassing.
When sparkling hot, large stones are removed from the centre of the blaze with a shovel and carried to the handmade construction of branches and rugs, where they are placed in a pit in the centre of the construction and then we enter, one at a time, bowing at the entrance of 'the womb' before crawling inside.
It is well named. Once the rugged is pulled across the doorway the sweat lodge becomes completely black inside but for the sparking of the hot stones in its centre, and my body is immediately coated in sweat. I am rather prudishly wearing a bathing costume. Most of the women entered with a sarong, which they promptly lost upon finding their seat. The woman next to me starts making disconcertingly sexual noises from the moment the door closes. My attempts to move away from her pretty much put me in the lap of my partner from earlier, with not notably improved results. I keep still a sweat. Like a bitch. This is actually gruellingly uncomfortable. When people start singing again, I join in, because in a strange way the union of song does seem to lessen the discomfort.
Nonetheless, when a man cracks and gets up to leave, I immediately follow. My nose purges long strings of yuck as a crawl and my body is slippery with a thick coating of sweat. I - am - revolting. I splash myself with the icy herbal bath water then sit naked by the roaring fire in the blissfully cool bite of an October afternoon, staring blankly at the flames in a state of hazy euphoria.
The others are in the lodge for a further 30 minutes. The noises from within reach a crescendo somewhat reminiscent of an animal slaughter house. When they finally crawl out, they fall barely conscious onto the garden floor for a good few unnerving minutes; their flesh steaming. I stay just long enough to ensure they are all alive before excusing myself, gratefully now fully dressed and coherent.
Interesting day. Hippies are weird.
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