The River of Vipassana

I have an allergic response to woo-woo stuff, so the last thing I want to do is spend a week and a half wooing around with a bunch of woo-woos in Peru. But things are going completely off the rails. Everything is on the table.

“Alexa. Brew espresso,” I say, shouting at a receiver down the hall of my luxury canal-side flat on Orsman Road in Shoreditch, London. My DeLonghi Magnifica espresso maker hums and whirs. Pulling the sheets over my head, I reach to the other side of the bed and grab my iPhone. What have we here?

The notifications from the night and early morning stream endlessly. I scroll my TikTok ‘for you’ page which feeds interminably on auto-play. A woman attempts the ‘blackout challenge.’ Classic stuff. Switching over to X, I see that Holly, Simon & Kayla have already retweeted articles and posts on the tech merger that I passed on, @ing me on the posts (@NigelHaake). Shit. I am behind the eight-ball on my tech influencer quota and getting called out on it too. On a positive note, I’ve been invited to apply for the same fifteen LinkedIn jobs with my competitors that I get recommended every morning. Just brilliant. Riddle me this: What part of CEO in my job description indicates that I am looking for an entry-level coding job?

Reddit and Discord ding with alerts. I make a mental note to change my sleep setting so my iPhone can go on silent before 4 am. Checking Facebook, I am welcomed to a man shaving down a horse’s hoof, an ENT pulling detritus out of someone’s ear and lancing a blackhead, and a Malaysian man using makeup to turn him into the spitting image of an albino Cruella de Vil. Hmmm. Interesting. I watched all three all the way through. What the hell does the algorithm know about me that I don’t? Or are we all this f’ed up? I snap Kayla a picture of myself under the covers, and she instantly snaps me back a shot of her cleavage with an eggplant emoji. Cheeky. You have to keep that Snap streak going at all costs.

Here's the problem. Every couple of hours I start crying. Today it starts before I get out of bed. In the plus column, that espresso smells like liquid f-ing gold. Yeah, so the crying. We aren’t talking about a stray tear. We are talking sobbing my heart out. Blubbering and sniveling like a schoolboy who skinned his knee falling off his pushbike. Uncontrollable gasps. Spittle webbing in the cracks of the sides of my lips. Real cringe shit.

Fast forward to the White Board session at Cr8v HQ. That is where Kayla puts it to me. And she isn’t taking no for an answer. I zone out hard while we are going over App engagement statistics, which is usually where I grill everyone. It is kind of ironic. Our literal job is to steal people’s attention and hold their attention hostage so we can foist unwanted advertising on them for things they aren’t properly interested in and don’t want anyway. We are experts in engagement. Yet I have never been more disengaged. I can’t focus. I am not present. Where am I? Bugger all. Hell, if I know.

“Fancy joining us, Nigel?” Kayla asks. “Earth to Nigel Haake!”

“This whole meeting is an absolute doddle, don’t you think?”

“Nigel Haake. I’m just chuffed to bits that you’ve graced us with your presence. Thank you. Thank you so much for joining the meeting,” Kayla says.

“Pleased to be here,” I say, deadpan.

“I’m having you on, you knobhead,” Kayla says.

“I’m gutted,” I say. “Well crack-on then, would you?”

Kayla continues her Prezi presentation. F-ing Kayla. I am a tech wizard. What you call magic, I know is just code. Algorithms. Infinite nested loops. Iterating. On the psychoanalytical—the woo-woo side—I’m no expert. But it is quite obvious to even a layman that I’m hanging by my fingernails here.

Kayla takes me aside in the hallway. “With the greatest respect Nigel, I’m worried about you and I’m not the only one who has noticed. You’ve got to pull yourself together. In case you forgot, you started this company, and we’re going to be needing you to be on you’re A-game here, if you don’t mind.”

“Come for a chat in my office, will you?”

“Here will do.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“You are going on holiday.”

“What are you getting on about?”

“You are going to the Sacred Valley in Cusco, Peru. You’re leaving this evening. I’ve booked it for you. And goody for you. You’re flying Delta. You can have yourself a pre-drink and a nosh in the Sky Lounge before you shove off. You’re welcome.”

“It’s all settled then, innit?”

“I went on the same retreat myself a few months ago. It will change your life. Believe you me.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to be doing in Peru? Mind filling me in?”

“It is called Vipassana. Meditation. You are going to sit silently without speaking, pretty much from 4:30 am to 9:30 pm. It’s a Buddhist tradition—”

“—I’m going to what?”

“Come off it, would you? When is the last time you went ten seconds without being glued to your phone? They’ll be taking that off your hands. That’s the first thing. The whole idea of the thing is to help you disconnect. See things as they are. Ten days from now, you’ll be floating down the stream of awakening. Well, I was floating. In your case, it might be more bobbing up and down a bit in the currents. Flailing about. Still. Not sinking. That’s the important bit. I mean, everyone can’t be as brilliant as me, can they?”

“10 days! What the f**k, Kayla. Are you mad?”

“Well, it isn’t exactly forty days in the desert, is it?”

“I’ve been blubbering like a schoolboy. Having migraines. Haven’t been sleeping. I have this gnawing feeling of dread day and night. You really think this will help? I would try anything. I was thinking ketamine, myself.”

“It’s either going to Peru or I could give you a screw. But I don’t want to get a reputation for being a tart. And I don’t think a quick poke would do it. You’re too far gone. Sayadaw Alp Doğuş will get you sorted. You’ll be good as new. Now off with you.”

“I’m sorry. What were you saying? Did you just say something about ‘having a screw’?”

“When you get back. If you’re lucky. I mean I don’t mean to toot my own horn. I’m good. But not that good. Have you seen yourself? You’re a proper mess.”

“Great pep talk.”

“Get going now. It’s not optional.”

“Jesus. So, it’s like that then, is it? I do seem to recall hiring you to work for me, but somehow I think things have gotten mixed around. You’ll handle everything while I’m gone? Will you?”

“For you, Nigel. Anything. Now, go, get yourself sorted. Please. Tickets and itinerary are on your desk.”

* * *

When the taxi drops me off at the Ashram of the Sacred Valley at about 3 pm, I follow the e-mail instructions. We are forbidden to speak to anyone else going on the retreat or even to make eye contact or use hand gestures. Real woo-woo stuff.

The sign that reads “Course Boundary” seems ominous. It is like a point of no return. I briefly think of running back for the taxi. But the view makes up for it. The compound faces the village of Calca, with the Andes rolling along behind it like a giant wall, the caps of the jagged mountain peaks kissing the clouds above. The mountains stand indomitable in the dappled sunlight under the passing clouds. While they hedge us in, there is something transcendent about an edifice so large that it creates rivers and shelters valleys. There is a sound of barking dogs in the distance howling at the visiting tourists. And the yips and yaps echo like tiny bells. The mountains seem to have something to say but whatever it is, it’s tosh to me.

A line of haggard city dwellers is ambling toward the doors of the Ashram like cows to the slaughter. All of us are in sweatpants and t-shirts, carrying backpacks and sleeping bags, looking like kids going to a primary school lock-in.

My cell phone is in a clear Zip Lock bag with my name written on a card. A small Turkish man with a bald head is collecting the phones with a nod and assigning bunks, segregating the men and women retreat-goers. He grabs the Ziplock with my iPhone but I don’t let go. I hold tight, and General Zod here wrestles it easily from my grasp, grimacing and grunting for effect. I am officially cutting my tether to the Matrix. I’m now officially off-grid.

The Ashram of the Sacred Valley is a mud brick and timber building with a terracotta tiled roof. After settling in at the bunkhouse, I am instructed to enjoy the surroundings and walk about by myself until the first meeting. No, thank you. I didn’t get my outdoors merit badge for a reason. I sit outside my tent, cross-legged, and break the rule against intoxicating substances, by puffing on a weed pen I’ve stowed in my luggage. As the THC carries me off into the fuzzy air and hamsters start to run up and down my arms, I am perplexed at how I can’t reach Kayla. What am I going to do for ten days without her? I suddenly feel all alone in the world.

After the sun sets, I sit at the far table in the back of the mess hall. Everyone is having a supper of fruit and herbal tea and waiting nervously for the instructor. An Asian gentleman next to me named Toag starts talking. “It’s my second time. Round one was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. When I was in college I spent some time in a monastery. That was child’s play by comparison.” Toag breaking the silence seems like a rebellion.

The other men at my table all look at each other, not sure if it is okay to break the silence rule. But within a minute or two we are all chatting and talking about where we are from. My stomach is grumbling, and I head back for seconds, looking for something heartier. I scoop a bowl full of drool into a tin can, which I eat with a plastic spoon. It is the nutritional equivalent of soggy cardboard. The drool looks exactly like the food Neo was given when he woke up after leaving the Matrix. I guess there is some carbohydrate in there, but it does nothing to quell my hunger pains. Rubbish. Straight rubbish. The battle begins.

After dinner we go into the meditation hall.

They play a video of S. N. Goenka, a deceased guru, who gives a video discourse of the “Noble Silence” and lays out our itinerary for the next ten days.

* * *

Day 1

Sayadaw Alp Doğuş. How can I describe this man? Imagine Al Pacino in Scarface. If he was Turkish. With a proper beard. With long flowing hair. Wearing robes and beads. And replace the hard edges with a nervous laugh and a light and airy vibe, like the way you feel on helium at the Dentist’s office. But this last bit is a permanent affectation.

He stands up in front of the group. Closes his eyes. And begins his monologue.

“Welcome, fellow stream-enterer. You are the feet balancing on the floor of the boat. You are the flowing river. You are the land that yields to let the river flow. You are the air that caresses the rapids. You are the cosmos that forms a perfect blue pearl in the depths of the black abyss. You are the mind observing the cosmoses. You are the forming word that vibrates in the void and shakes matter into being with a breath. You are that inhale and exhale of thought reverberating through all of nature. A humming sound. Ohhhmhhh.”

Before we start our first meditation session, Sayadaw Alp Doğuş finishes are instruction. “Rising, passing away. Rising, passing away. With this understanding of nature, try to retain perfect equanimity. No more craving and clinging. No more worship and hatred. No more seeking to balance the scales in your favor. Always equanimous, always equanimous. Strengthen your equanimity. Remain very alert. Very attentive. Very vigilant. Recognize that the balances are absolute. Highs. Lows. None may be maintained. Understand this. Every itch and niggle. They are all impermanent, impermanent, impermanent. Changing, changing, changing. Constantly changing.”

And then we are left in silence.

Day 2

My back is buggered. I’m thinking of pulling out. In between meditation sessions, I massage my back with the backend of my toothbrush. It’s all I’ve got. I’ve got hard knots in my back from sitting cross-legged for 10 hours that are giving birth to baby knots. Knots for days. It is excruciating. The worst pain I’ve ever felt. TECHHHH SUPPOOOORRRTTT. Dear Lord. I’m going to die!

Day 4

Still thinking of pulling out. Jack Dorsey did it. It will be shameful if a barmy mug like Dorsey makes it and I don’t. This ego stroke doesn’t help. Pulling out is all I can think about. F-ing Kayla.

We are doing hour-long “sittings of strong determination.” It is as bad as it sounds. Bugger all. I haven’t been able to sit still for a full hour yet. I am a gonging gong. A proper knobhead. I cannot stand the sound of my own thoughts a moment longer. I’m pulling out for sure.

I knock on the door of the office, and Sayadaw Alp Doğuş comes out, frowning.

“What is it brother?” he asks.

“I’m in torment. I can’t take another day.”

“Ahhh. Good,” he says.

“No. Not good. The opposite of good. The last four days have knackered me something awful. I miss Kayla. I’m tormented.”

“Some say the soul is the size of a thumb. Others say it is the size of a persimmon seed. The soul was not meant to contain so much ambition. You are close to a breakthrough. This is the sound of the rust on a bicycle chain of an unused bicycle, sloughing off.”

“Alright. But tomorrow is it.”

“Good.”

Day 5

It happens suddenly. The back pain is outside. I am a stone. Detached from external stimulus. I am a stream-enterer. Floating. The “sittings of strong determination” pass in moments. I’ve finished working through my entire lifetime of thoughts. Waves of joy come over me. Time dissipates. I roll down the river.

Day 7

Porn alert. Every digital image I’ve ever seen flashes in my head. The grind of my daily digital overload comes at me in high resolution. I’ve lost equanimity. I am a magnet for a lifetime of mud. Muddy mud. Thick. The river is quicksand. And I am sinking. How deep is this depression? Where do these evil memories come from?

I have to leave the meditation hall. I sit in my room and cry. The depression comes in waves. I am shattered. I feel everything I have ever felt. I try to let go of this noise. But it won’t go away.

Day 9

I channel the cosmos into a spot in the middle of my forehead. I accept all thoughts. They wash over. I detach. And return to the present. Stand next to the thoughts. I am not the thoughts. I am their master.

It gets better when the trauma becomes something that happened to you rather than something that is happening to you.

I am the noble silence. I forgive myself, forgive the world, forgive all. I lose attachment. Care for nothing. Ohhhmmmmm.

Day 10

Sayadaw Alp Doğuş debriefs us. He reminds us that all is rising, all is passing away. We bow and depart. I feel sad to be leaving. I don’t know how to plug back in.

* * *

Clicking back into the Matrix, I call the taxi and leave the Ashram behind, bowing to the Sacred Valley one last time.

As I turn my iPhone on, a million notifications hit at once. Panic and anxiety flood. But then I separate the noise. Stand beside it. All is rising. All is passing away.

There is a message from Kayla, one of hundreds. “Call me, will you! Please! SOS! There is a tender offer on Cr8v. I need to talk to you.”

I ring Kayla.

“You’re alive!”

“I actually think I have become a proper monk.”

“Jesus. You haven’t shaved your head, have you?”

“Shaved and waxed. Like Mr. Clean. You can see your reflection.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s a proper shave. I think I’m well fit, innit?”

“You got through it! I’m so proud of you Nigel. I was sure you’d pull out.”

“Chuffed to bits that you feel that way.”

“We’ve got a problem.”

“Can it wait until I get back?”

“No. Yirn is buying us out.”

“Never mind that now. I really want to see you, Kayla. I’m so grateful you made me go through this. Fancy a pint. Maybe a mega-pint?”

“Don’t push your luck. You won’t be getting that screw.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The River of Vipassana carries me through the winding mountain roads, to the airport, and back to the roundabout at Shoreditch, back to Kayla and Cr8v. But I am not the same. The noise is there, but it does not penetrate.

The assault comes at me, but I am just a rock in the stream.

And I want Kayla’s rock beside mine. All is impermanent. There is only the stream.

Rising and passing away.