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The enema within

 

Ian Belcher took some persuading to go on a colonic

irrigation holiday, even at a Thai beach resort. It

is, he discovered, quite astonishing what gets flushed

out in the course of a week's treatment. But did he

feel the better for it?

 

Saturday March 9, 2002

The Guardian

 

 

When photographer Anthony Cullen heard the clank of

glass on porcelain, he didn't need to examine the

contents of the toilet bowl between his legs. He

instinctively knew he had just passed the marble he

had swallowed as a five-year-old; the small coloured

sphere - " I think it was a bluey " - had lodged in his

colon for 22 years. His nonchalance was

understandable. Having flushed 400 pints of coffee and

vinegar solution around his large intestine through 10

enemas, and taken 100 herbal laxatives, he had become

hardened to extraordinary sights. He had already

excreted yards of long stringy mucus " with a strange

yellow glaze " , several hard black pellets and numerous

pieces of undigested rump steak. Like an iceberg

breaking away from a glacier, the marble was simply

the latest object to drop off the furred up wall of

his colon.

 

Article continues

 

Within 30 minutes it had become a burning topic of

conversation among guests at The Spa resort on the

Thai island of Koh Samui. Most listened, nodded

earnestly and smiled, a flicker of mutual support,

before describing their own bowel movements in

unnervingly graphic detail. It was just another day at

the tropical health farm where conversations that

would be deemed unpleasant, if not obscene, in any

place outside a gastro-intestinal ward, are mere idle

chit-chat among the sun-soaked clientele.

 

They may have travelled across the world to The Spa's

thatched beach huts, encircling its renowned

restaurant whose Pod Ka Pow Nam Many Hoy - prawns and

chilli, stir-fried in oyster sauce - is a house

speciality, but not a morsel of food, nor a single

calorie, will pass their lips. Instead they order

around 70-odd gallons of coffee and vinegar, lemon or

garlic solution - lightly warmed, please waiter - to

be squirted up their anus. You are unlikely to find

this particular dish on Masterchef.

 

The roots of their truly alternative activity holiday

lie in our modern lifestyle. Some doctors, such as

Richard Anderson, inventor of the Clean-Me-Out

Programme, claim our high stress existences and

over-processed diets - chips, pizzas, burgers - have

left us with clogged-up digestive systems. And that,

according to advocates of intestinal cleansing, makes

us disease time bombs, at increased risk from cancer,

heart trouble, infertility, diabetes, premature ageing

and, pass the smelling salts this instant, wrinkles.

 

Their solution is to fast: to put nothing in one end,

while simultaneously purifying yourself by propelling

significant amounts of liquid up the other. " It's like

changing the oil in your car, " says Guy Hopkins, the

60-year-old owner of The Spa, whose eyes glint with

evangelical zeal when he talks about colonic

irrigation. " If you don't do it every so often [your

body] isn't going to run that well. We constantly put

the wrong fuel in our bodies and, sure, they keep on

going, but cleanse yourself and you'll be amazed how

much better you'll feel. "

 

A tempting sales pitch, yet when my editor suggested a

first-person report, I had grave reservations. As

someone whose only concessions to healthy eating had

involved switching from butter to olive oil and

occasionally cutting the fat off my steak, the fast

sounded frankly insane. Then I began hearing about the

" lifestyle benefits " of the cleanse, of the 90-degree

heat and tropical beaches. Words such as

" de-stressing " and " life-changing " were tossed around.

 

 

I weakened, dithered and finally relented. The

photographer, Anthony, it was agreed, must also fast.

 

Our preparation began well before we spotted our first

palm tree. The Spa recommended we prepared with a

fortnight of abstinence from meat, processed foods

(adios my daily staples, pasta and bread), milk,

cheese, booze, coffee or soft drinks. Instead, our

gastric juices were stimulated by salads, fruit,

slightly cooked vegetables, herb teas and water.

 

It wasn't easy. Both Anthony and myself are what might

charitably be termed " stocky " , enjoying cooking and,

more importantly, eating. Within days, food, or lack

of it, had become an obsession. We had long phone

discussions about interesting ways to grill aubergine;

Anthony bragged about his spicy ratatouille. Life was

changing.

 

As the first toxins were expelled and severe caffeine

withdrawal set in, I experienced headaches, aching

muscles, a lack of energy, and an increasingly short

temper. I also faced a new menace: the liver flush

drink. Designed to sluice out your system, it's a vile

mix of olive oil, raw garlic, and cayenne pepper

blended with orange juice. I've no idea if it worked,

but my urine turned clear and I always got standing

space on the tube.

 

We stuck rigidly to the diet until disaster struck: an

upgrade on the flight to Bangkok. Our willpower

collapsed and over the next " lost " 12 hours we

demolished peanuts, smoked salmon and oyster

mushrooms, roast goose, cheese, port, champagne,

Baileys and chocolates.

 

We had four more days before the fast, but while I got

back on track, the photographer went totally off the

detox rails. He consumed beer, Pringles, coffee and,

as we waited for the Koh Samui connection at the

airport, slipped in two Burger King chicken

sandwiches, a huge pile of fried onion rings, a large

Coke, followed by a chicken dinner on the plane. He

was clearly heading for a remarkable first enema.

 

By the eve of the cleanse, I'd already lost over 2kg,

weighing in at 86kg. Anthony was a little heavier, at

91kg. After demolishing an emotional last supper, we

met our fellow fasters. They appeared a cosmopolitan

crowd, confounding fears of being stranded among the

sandals and lentil brigade.

 

There was Derek James, an engineer from Leeds, and

Margaret Barrett, a sales rep from Cambridge, both in

their mid-20s and aiming to clean up their acts after

" caning it " while working in clubs in Tokyo. Nicky

McCulloch, a 27-year-old Australian teacher, hoped to

sort out a range of allergies, including wheat and

alcohol. She was travelling with Mez Hay, a worm

farmer with a shock of blond hair and strident ocker

accent. Passionate about Italian food, along with

steak, chops and sausages from her parents' farm, Mez

admitted she was keeping her friend company and hadn't

put in a single second's preparation. " I didn't know

about it, " she snapped. " Who the hell are you, the

bloody fast police? "

 

Others also had tangible goals, including tackling

stomach complaints, severe constipation and mystery

lumps. Most were keen to stress - a cynic might say

too keen - that losing weight was not the goal. " It's

a bit extreme to travel half way round the world just

for a diet, " argued Mez. " You'd be a bit superficial.

Mind you, I wouldn't mind shedding a few pounds. "

 

That didn't promise to be a problem. After checking

our pH levels - too low and the fast isn't advisable -

we immediately learned that while we wouldn't be

eating, a great deal would still pass our lips. The

relaxed, stress-free week on the beach would involve a

Stalinist adherence to a pill-popping timetable. Each

day started with a charming 7am detox cocktail of

psyllium husk and bentonite clay. It had the texture

of liquid cotton wool, but would be crucial for

pushing toxins and garbage through my system.

 

Ninety minutes later, we had to swallow eight tablets.

They looked like rabbit droppings, tasted like rabbit

droppings but were, in fact, a mix of chompers (herbal

laxatives and cleansers to attack the accumulated

gunge in our colons) and herbal nutrients to help

compensate for those missed during starvation. We had

to repeat these two doses every three hours, every

day, with a final handful of pills at 8.30 each night.

There was just one more lesson, the small matter of

the self-administered enema. Our teacher was the

sickeningly lean, tanned resident alternative health

expert, Chris Gaya, who appeared to have stepped

straight out of a Californian aerobic video. He made

the colonic irrigation equipment - bucket, piece of

wood, plastic tube, bulldog clip and nozzle - sound

like straightforward DIY, although it's unlikely to

feature on Blue Peter in the near future.

 

All we had to do, he informed us, was to lie on the

wooden board between a stool (stop giggling at the

back) and the toilet basin. There's a hole at one end

of the board over the loo; above it a nozzle connects

to a tube, which in turn leads to a five-gallon bucket

of liquid hanging from the ceiling. We would liberally

coat the nozzle, which was the width of a Biro ink

tube, with KY jelly, lie back, think of profiteroles

with chocolate sauce, and slide on.

 

Controlling the flow of liquid with a bulldog clip, we

were to let it flow until we felt full, before

massaging it round the colon (roughly following three

sides of a square around the lower belly) and

releasing. Fluid would, apparently, be flowing in and

out of our backside at the same time. " We'll be on the

board for around 40 minutes, " cooed Chris. " So let's

make ourselves as relaxed as possible. Put on some

soft music, light a candle, create a romantic

atmosphere. "

 

We clearly took different approaches to seduction. But

mastering the enema, once I'd got over

muscle-clenching nervousness, really wasn't difficult.

I somehow ended up with my right foot half way up the

wall, but five gallons went in and out without major

trauma. By that night I'd shed another kilo, and

although light-headed after 24 hours without food,

felt strangely satisfied with the mix of supplements

and detox drinks.

 

Next morning, my first enema of the day down the pan,

I sat in the restaurant staring longingly at the menu,

and found inspiration in the shape of two women

nibbling their post-fast fruit. They exuded some of

the rudest health I'd ever seen.

 

Carol Beauclerk, a " global nomad " with a mop of curly

black hair, was a vegetarian, practised yoga,

meditated and warmed up for her fast with a 17-day

hike in Nepal. At 54, she had the energy and

enthusiasm of someone half her age. " This place is

really jumping, " she enthused. " I'm now hoping to do a

week-long fast each year. "

 

Two tables away, scribbling in a diary, was Claire

Lyons, a 32-year-old British journalist who had

recently completed 21 days without eating. Having not

gone near a set of scales, she had no idea how much

weight she'd lost, but told me, " I feel great. Once I

got past day 10, over the hump, it was surprisingly

easy. " Claire oozed serenity, but three weeks without

food is unlikely to leave anyone hyperactive.

 

By mid-afternoon, their shining example was all but

forgotten. I was feeling awful. Tired, lethargic,

simply lousy. Having not eaten for 36 hours my body

was apparently going into detox mode. Margaret, who

had felt nauseous since waking, had actually thrown

up, and was questioning her motivation. Nicky,

meanwhile, had produced " something about nine inches

long, it was very dark, very scary " .

 

Things were no better for Mez. Already ravenous, she

was spending an inordinate amount of time sniffing

around plates of steaming Thai curry in the

restaurant. She had also failed to grasp the basics of

colonic irrigation. Instead of letting the liquid flow

out, she had taken a massive amount in - until she was

about to burst - before struggling to sit on the

toilet and release it. " I had a huge stomach, " she

gasped. " I was thinking, this must be wrong. If anyone

can take the whole bucket in one go, they're

sensational. " I made a mental note to watch out for

spectacular explosions from chalet six.

 

It wasn't all bad news, however. I discovered we were

allowed the luxury of a daily bowl of vegetable broth.

It made me pathetically happy, savouring every drop as

if it were a Gordon Ramsay creation. Filling perhaps,

but it did little to halt the weight loss, and by the

end of day two, a further two kilos had vanished.

 

By next morning, tiredness had been added to my

hunger. I seemed to have been up half the night on the

loo, the result of drinking a copious amount of fluid.

My bodily functions had also taken a turn for the

truly bizarre. I experienced flu-like symptoms as I

started to expel 36 years' worth of toxins with

headaches and aching muscles; my nose ran constantly,

my eyes were sore and weepy, my ears waxy. I felt like

something out of The Omen. I had also plucked up the

nerve to put a colander down the toilet. Close

examination showed I had passed several feet of long

brown string that shimmered as if subtly illuminated

by a photographer's light.

 

And I wasn't alone. Margaret had picked through her

colander with chopsticks to reveal yellow fatty

chunks, Mez had filled hers to the brim with brown

stringy " chicken skin " mucus ( " We're talking litres " ),

as had Derek, whose output included a strip about

eight inches long, while Anthony described his as

" patchy, like rabbit droppings " . Similar surreal

conversations with virtual strangers became the norm,

achieving levels of intimacy beyond the range of

couples who have been together for years. Perhaps

avoiding frank discussion of bowel movements is one

secret of a long-lasting relationship.

 

That night, as I escaped the dense tropical warmth,

and flicked through books on diet and nutrition in The

Spa's library, I discovered a remarkable document: The

Healthview Newsletter. Inside, octogenarian bowel

specialist, V E Irons, attempted the Herculean task of

selling colonic irrigation on its erotic potential. I

would lose my frigidity, he promised, my sex life

would go stratospheric.

 

" How could anyone fully enjoy sex when he has up to 15

years of encrusted fecal matter and mucus in his

colon? " asked Irons. " HE CAN'T - and HE WON'T. If you

want to remain sexually potent for your entire life,

start cleaning your colon today. I'm 87, and I still

enjoy sex. And if I can at my age, I know you can at

your age... so get on with it! " It was of little

consolation to Mez, whose hunger had now assumed epic

proportions. She was considering eating her apricot

moisturiser, she told me.

 

That night produced the most vivid dreams of my life,

a typical symptom of detox, with blockages

disappearing from the mind as well as the body: I'd

attacked Vietcong gun positions in a hot air balloon,

I'd played golf with exploding balls, I'd been savaged

by a grizzly bear. Other guests' dreams were more

grounded in reality: Anthony and Mez had raided their

parents' fridges, with the worm farmer devouring

steak, potatoes and cheese sauce.

 

And some simply begged for the psychiatrist's couch.

Nicky, who in reality sees her divorced father only

sporadically, dreamed he had turned into her

boyfriend. Freud would have enjoyed that. Indeed, in

private conversations with guests, well away from my

notebook, many fasters admitted to having recently

split up, or having travelled to Koh Samui to get a

long-distance perspective on relationships. I had

unwittingly stumbled on Relate-On-Sea.

 

There was further physical fall-out, too. Day four was

supposedly the worst of the week, with toxins expelled

through the skin and lungs, as well as the kidney and

colon.

I didn't disappoint. My nose, ears and eyes

deteriorated, my sinuses throbbed, I was yet more

sluggish. It felt like a beer, wine and whisky

hangover. Increasingly strange things appeared in our

colanders. Derek was shocked to find rubbery nuggets,

Mez had found black oval shapes " up to five inches

long " , my offering had an almost luminous green tint.

 

As if to celebrate crossing the halfway point of the

week, many of us switched enema solutions. Abandoning

coffee and vinegar, I flamboyantly opted for garlic,

claimed to get rid of parasites.

It seemed as natural as ordering gin and tonic instead

of margarita, but when I casually told my girlfriend

in a telephone call to London, there was a long

silence. " Are you aware how tenuous your grip is on

reality? " she asked. " Are you with a cult? "

 

I clearly needed to get out more. Many people hadn't

left The Spa for days, it was developing its own

micro-culture. But when I summoned up the energy to

sip mineral water in a bar in nearby Lamai town, I

felt instant paranoia. The lights, the noise, the

crowds, the smell of food. It was a world in which I

didn't belong.

 

I returned to the womb to find new guests. John Twigg,

a burly 37-year-old Kiwi, had prepared by drinking

more wine. " It's made of grapes, " he argued. " Grapes

are vegetables, so what's the problem? "

He was joined by the Lycra-clad Mimi and Dave

Hatherley from Fairbanks, Alaska, who had an unnerving

habit of finishing each other's sentences.

Forty-two-year-old Mimi ran, biked and did step

classes five times a week; Dave, 43, ran, skied,

hiked, climbed and mountain biked. They were both

" into vitamins and nutrition " and while fasting were

also exercising hard because " the results will be

better " . After talking to them, I felt strangely

giddy.

 

My mood and physical condition, however, were about to

go through a dramatic change. By lunch - sorry, by the

second dose of herbal laxatives - on day five, my

nose, eyes and ears had cleared, and I had more

energy. Remarkably, without nibbling a single shred of

food for 120 hours, the irrigation still washed out

huge amounts of gunk. I passed six-inch strips of

gristle and what appeared to be large chunks of fillet

steak. I don't know how I ever afforded them, let

alone swallowed them.

 

At least I could contribute to the increasingly

competitive enema discussions. Someone had always

passed something harder, brighter, more bizarre.

Margaret's chopsticks had unearthed some gristle,

about a foot long, and hard, black pellets. She was so

impressed she took a photograph. A few chalets away,

Mez had passed " rubbery brown, fat worms " with a

strange purple glaze, which she insisted on showing to

me in her bathroom.

But the clear winner was Anthony's 22-year-old marble.

Perhaps the most bizarre thing, which I didn't

appreciate until days later, is that it all seemed

perfectly normal at the time.

 

When I next bumped into Alaska Dave, he was jogging

rapidly between the restaurant and his chalet. As

panpipe music played in the background and he told me

about today's three-mile hike, I noticed he wore a

strange electrical device.

It was a zapper that emitted an electrical current to

kill parasites, and carried the printed warning: " For

research only. Not approved for use on humans. " Even

for The Spa, that clearly wasn't normal.

 

The improvement continued into day six. A nearly

detoxified brain and bloodstream meant I awoke

clear-headed, and full of energy. The enemas now

produced less, but it was darker and harder as the

fast broke away the older, more ingrained plaque.

 

It was the same story the next day. Our bodies seemed

to reflect a mood of demob happiness.

I had rarely felt so healthy, so energised, in my

adult life. That didn't, however, mean the end of the

bizarre revelations. John passed " something from an

alien movie " into his colander - and then videoed it

for his office colleagues.

He was joined by an outsized oil worker, Pipeline

Pete, embarking on his 10th fast. " The first time I

came, " he boasted, " they needed to dig three

cesspits. "

 

And there were more. Early that evening, I found Mez

huddled over a well-thumbed tome in the library.

" Jesus, have you read some of these? " she groaned,

handing me a book of ex-guests' awed testaments. " I'd

have bet £1,000 my bowels were clean, " wrote Chris

Markvert, 67, " seldom have I been so surprised. "

" Great pooing, " said Roy from San Francisco, " the best

month of my young life. " And RTM contributed seven

pages of increasingly manic scrawl, which included

interesting facts about the Vikings.

 

It also contained graphic photographs of people's

enemas, footnotes in The Spa's history to go alongside

stories of legendary guests, such as the alcoholic

whose detox included hiding whisky bottles and

wandering naked into neighbouring resorts; and

" Kathmandu Joan " , who fasted for 140 days over two and

a half years, passing over 70 green and black

" buttons " and clearing up an abdominal disorder.

 

We couldn't compete with that, but by the morning of

day eight, the fast was being credited with impressive

results. It had, people claimed, got rid of allergies;

removed worrying lumps that had necessitated

appointments with gynaecologists; eased severe period

pains and sinus problems; helped people lose kilograms

while improving their skin and strengthening their

nails.

I'd lost well over 6kg, had an indecent amount of

energy and, as people kept observing, had developed

unnaturally bright eyes. I wasn't aware they were

cloudy before, but felt I had earned some flattery

after 14 enemas and no food for roughly 170 hours, 35

minutes and four seconds.

The cost of the seven-day programme, by the way, is

£184, and accommodation in a chalet for the week adds

another £60 or so.

 

The first post-fast meal of papaya made my toes curl

with pleasure, but, as George Bernard Shaw observed,

" Any fool can fast, but it takes a wise man to break a

fast properly. " Raw fruit and vegetables should be the

order of the next three days, but within hours Anthony

had consumed two Snickers bars and a fish supper. It

appeared to have no ill effects.

They came 24 hours later. After demolishing piles of

local prawns, we unwisely sipped a shot of Mekong

whisky. Toxins tasted good, very good indeed. So good

in fact, that by midnight, we had drunk a bottle each.

The next morning, on the beach, my glasses were

smashed, toxins pulsing around my bloodstream, the

hangover indescribable.

 

But the week was not wasted. As a nutritional

Philistine, I was inspired to read more, to learn some

basic lessons. It's hardly double-blind scientific

research, but I defy anyone to examine a

post-irrigation colander with its chunks of apparently

undigested family roast and not make some small

changes to their diet. I love meat; the smell, the

taste, the texture, but now it only makes a rare

appearance on my plate.

 

Frankly, even that's too much for the gurus of

cleansing, who believe a truly health diet revolves

around fruit, vegetables, nuts and pulses - the more

that's raw or steamed the better. Along with fish,

they've become the staples of my diet. If I

occasionally lapse - and nothing will make me give up

Christmas turkey or goose - a flashback to The Spa

reins me in.

 

While I'll take caffeine, alcohol and chocolate to the

grave, I've also cut back on most dairy and wheat

products. It might make me the dining companion from

hell, but I do, at least, have the stories.

People are constantly appalled yet fascinated by the

idea of cleansing, and for some masochistic reason,

demand the grim details between starter and main

course.

As they wait for their medium rare fillet or pork

Dijonnaise, they crane forward to hear more about the

decaying contents of people's colons.

 

As for Anthony, he never considered giving up meat. Or

cream sauces. Certainly not Snickers.

Life, as he sees it, is too short.

And who am I to argue?

But remember, this is the man who has lost his marble.

 

© Guardian Newspapers Limited 2006

http://www.guardian.co.uk/weekend/story/0,3605,663391,00.html

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I enjoyed the article. Any one know how one could set up a colonic

irrigation regimen at home. I am talking of what to do on day 1, day

2, day 3, etc. What to drink, what to eat. What materials to use.

Thank you.

 

 

 

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http://www.google.com/search?hl=en & lr= & q=colonic+at+home & btnG=Search

 

Results 1 - 10 of about 3,060,000 for colonic at home

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