Here’s a fun challenge: how long can you spend in the back of a car with your sibling without murdering them in cold blood? The question is not rhetorical – really I am looking for methods of execution.
I don’t know whose idea this was, but I am going to destroy Mark because it was his idea. We have just spent an unfathomablenumber of hours in a taxi, and I’ve thrown up in a bag at least seven times. My stupid brother arranged the whole thing last night, and kept waving his hand at me this morning whenever I asked how long the trip was.
It reminded me of being little, when Mum, me, Mark and Hannah would go on long car journeys to Cornwall in the summer holidays. It was always awful – arguing and elbowing eachother in the backseat while Mum shouted that she would ‘turn this car around’ – but the awfulness was also part of the fun. We knew adventures and the seaside were ahead. Even the lunch stop at Little Chef was magic. Then it was all about who could see the sea first and then crying because Hannah – being the tallest – always won. It was nice.
But right now, the three of us are runningto catch a ferry, so we can spend a week in a national park, taking a drug that sounds like some kind of stripper.
I am looking forward to it.
I’ve been reading up on the Ayahuasca thing during the car journey, and I’ve decided it’s going to be really interesting. I am going to eat only healthy, wonderful things and meditate every day. Then go puke my guts out drinking tree bark so I canhave visions.
I want to get in the Turiya state, which is a complicated thing I read about, where you’re very awake, but also sort ofsemi-unconscious. It’s all about bringing discipline tobliss-ipline, which is a cool tagline I just made up and have decided to make my motto. Maybe I should get into advertising when I’m back in theUK? I think I have a knack for it.
Either way, I am goingto look deep inside myself on this retreat, and trulysee me.
And I am going to be one of those awful people who talk like that all the time.
‘Come the fuck on, Bridget!’ Mark shouts at me as he and Joe run to board the ferry. I hitch my enormous rucksack further up my shoulder andhalf-jog after them.
On board, we are greeted by a bearded Westerner, who introduces himself ina broad Welsh accent as Gary.
Aha, themuch-revereddrug-smuggler cum guru.
‘Hello there, Alice, I’ve heard a lot about you,’ he says cheerfully, and I briefly wonder what that Welsh tongue is capable of. You need a lot of muscle memory in your mouth to pronounce that language. I wonder what would happen if he went down on me and said that famouslylong-named Welsh train station, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.
I give myself a shake. No more sex on this leg of the trip, thank you. Particularly not after that awfulone-night stand. This is aboutsoul-searching, not fun.Soul-searching is not fun, I’m certain of that much.
‘Hello Gary, nice to meet you,’ I say primly.
‘You look like that actress,’ he says, looking at me searchingly. ‘That superhero woman,what’s she called? Jessica Jones!’ he snaps his fingers.
I nod stoically, determined not to be dragged into any flirting nonsense, even though it is the best compliment I’ve ever heard and I am in love with Krysten Ritter.
‘Thanks very much,’ I say, puffing out despite myself. ‘I am also surprisingly strong.’ I pause before adding, ‘You look like ...’ I am lost for a celebritylook-alike. ‘You look like ... um, Jesus?’
‘How do you know what Jesus looks like?’ he says, bemused.
‘It’s just the beard,’ I say, trying to sound confident. ‘It’s very Jesus.’
‘Do you feel very surrounded by Jesuses when you’re in East London?’ he says, as Mark grabs my hand.
‘Stop embarrassing yourself,’ he says, yanking me away.
‘See you later,’ Jesus shouts after us, as wego find seats at the front of the boat with the rest of the ‘retreat’ guests.
‘What do we actually know about Gary then?’ I ask suspiciously, sitting down in the wet plastic seat. I can feel the engines beginning to roar beneath us and a surge of excitement pulses through me. We’re officially on our way to the island. It’s really happening.
Joe leans in. ‘Call him Shaman Quam,’ he saysin an excitable, confidential tone. He’s reverberating with joy – typical Joe.
‘Why?’ I whisper back.
‘Quammeans “shaman” in Turkish, and Gary just got back from Turkey,’ Joe explains, confusingly.
‘So you want me to call him Shaman Shaman?’ I ask, carefully.
Joe nods, wisely. ‘He’s a medicine man. A healer. A life coach.’
Mark leans in. ‘He’s also an accountant. He used todo my accounts, that’s how we know him. So if you need any tax advice while we’re out here, he’s your guy.’
