An entire week planned out, almost like an exam schedule. It’s impressive how organized leisure can be.
Still, I set the alarm for 6:30 in the morning, just enough time to wash my face, brush my teeth, tie my hair in a bun, put on something vaguely appropriate – and voilà: ready to conquer the yoga world. By 6:55, the buggy arrives. I quickly get used to this – roll out of bed, and within minutes, I’m on my way. Except one morning, it doesn’t. I wait a bit, trying to look relaxed about it, as if this is all part of the experience. Eventually, a buggy appears, driven by the island’s spa doctor. Or possibly a guru. It isn’t entirely clear. He greets me unfazed, as though this is a perfectly normal arrangement. I get in without asking questions.
The ride itself is one of the best parts. The sea is still half asleep, the waves barely moving. The sky is soft blue, with a sliver of sunlight beginning to appear. There is very little sound, aside from nature and the quiet creak of wooden planks as the buggy moves along. If you’re paying attention, there are small things to notice. One morning, an enormous stingray lounging just below the villa, completely unbothered. Another day, a small family of devil rays moving along together, apparently on their morning exercise as well. Occasionally, a bird dips into the water, checking on breakfast. As you move along the island, it becomes clear that everyone else is committed to their holiday plans of sleeping in.
If you’re paying attention, there are small things to notice. One morning, an enormous stingray lounging just below the villa, completely unbothered. Another day, a small family of devil rays moving along together, apparently on their morning exercise as well. Occasionally, a bird dips into the water, checking on breakfast.
A perfectly reasonable thought appears: croissants, maybe, with that ridiculous, buttery French perfection. Or a mimosa. Surely a well-earned one.
I arrive at the pavilion. The driver wishes me a good class. I find myself wishing the same. There’s a short walk, and for a moment, I hesitate. No one is there. Has everyone else sensibly decided that Monday morning is not the time for discipline? A more concerning thought follows: am I the only one? The idea of being observed closely while attempting yoga at this hour is not especially appealing. And then the teacher appears. He is, without question, the calmest person I have ever met. Not just relaxed, but deeply, consistently serene in a way that feels slightly unusual before 7AM. It makes me feel like taking notes – pronto. And then, just as I begin to accept my fate, another student shows up. Thank heavens! Some days it’s a little group of five, other days just the two of us. A small mercy indeed.
The pavilion does its job very well. It’s essentially an elevated elegant take on a nipa hut blending seamlessly into its surroundings it almost feels it grew there. A small path of greenery leads you in, feet sinking into soft white sand as you go. In the early hours, you can hear the birds doing their morning commentary, even the occasional bat finishing its night shift with a last, dramatic call. Incense lingers in the air, catching the morning light. And then the view opens up: the Indian Ocean, calm and endlessly blue, like it has all the time in the world. Just a short walk away is the lobster-shaped spa, because why not, where I later found a surprising amount of clarity, one of those things you don’t realize you needed until you’re actually there. It is the perfect place to find inner peace – or at the very least, attempt it.
The practice is simple, easy to follow, and – cliché as it may sound – surprisingly effective. The teacher guides us through the familiar poses: legs stretching, a forward fold, downward dog, then a little cobra before coming back again. I try to keep up, of course. Hands to the mat. Step forward. Fold. Breathe in, breathe out. Step back. Hold. By the second day, the sequence begins to feel familiar. By third, I am almost confident what comes next. Almost. But not quite enough to relax completely. There is, in any case, actually a nice, pleasant feeling in getting the hang of it. And you find yourself paying attention to things you might normally miss: the warm breeze, the faint incense smell hanging around, or the shadows of someone else, and the teacher, always taking their time, like the rest of the world does not exist.
Along the way, I discover the odd pleasure of moving very, very slowly, as though the day’s entire purpose is right here, on this mat. On certain mornings, you feel unexpectedly capable, sometimes your hands reach a little further, your balance holds a moment longer. Other days, you grimace as you reach for you toes. It all feels part of the process, isn’t it?
And then, somewhere between the poses, my mind pauses. A perfectly reasonable thought appears: croissants, maybe, with that ridiculous, buttery French perfection. Or a mimosa. Surely a well-earned one. On the fifth day, I entertain the idea of both. By the sixth, I’m pretty sure I’ve earned them even before the class is over. Arms rise towards the sky. Hands come together at the heart. Eyes close. Exhale. For a moment, everything feels right. Then I start thinking about croissants again.
