Love & The Goddess (17 page)

“E
lla don’t buy a ticket – you’re on the wrong bus. We need to take the 45.”

“But the bus driver says we can get a connection from this bus to Rio ...”

“We’re not going anywhere
near
Rio. Come on, quick. The other bus is nearly full.” I was jumping up and down in frustration at the sight of other passengers from the
airport pouring on to the bus we needed to take.

“Ah Kate, lovey, let’s forget about the healer. Ten days on Copacabana beach will do a lot more for you. I’ll treat you to the ticket.” Ella tilted her head and smiled
like a little girl lost.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Come on, I have our suitcases! The 45’s about to leave.”

“Have you never heard of serendipity? It’s a very spiritual concept. When something happens by accident you should go with it. Hey, I’ll even buy you a new bikini.”

I’d begun to wonder if I was dealing with an adult. It was just like when Julie was six years old and going through her stubborn stage. I’d had enough. “Ella, I’m off,
with or without you.” I marched off across the airport tarmac, pulling my bag behind me.

“Wait.” Ella came hurrying after me. “Stop. You could visit that spiritual author you like so much. What’s his name? Pablo Coelho. He lives in Copacabana.”

“Copacabana is not like Salthill in Galway! It covers
miles
. And he’s Paulo,
Paulo
Coelho, and he’s a celebrity author who probably has a bodyguard to keep people
like us away.” Why was I wasting energy entering into this nonsensical argument? “Come on, quick!” We made it to the right bus, out of breath, just as the driver was about to
close the doors. Disgruntled, he descended, perspiring and muttering what were clearly expletives in Portuguese. He opened the baggage compartment and roughly hurled in our luggage. After buying
our tickets I was lucky enough to get a window seat directly behind the driver, sitting next to a young Brazilian girl. Ella secured a seat three rows behind, a handsome businessman beside her.

The two-hour journey began, the bus vibrating like a pneumatic drill and leaping Evil Knievil-style over every bump. Potholes the size of baby baths threatened to explode the tyres and the
driver revved the engine furiously to escape getting stuck, careering wildly all over the road. No wonder many of the older passengers, mostly women in headscarves, busied themselves with the
frantic clicking of rosary beads. The test of faith had begun and I felt vulnerable. Shivering with hunger and cold, I rummaged around in my bag for a quick carb fix of homemade flapjacks.
I’d been told it could be chilly in the mornings and evenings at the end of July so thankfully I had packed my blue merino sweater. I pulled it on over my long t-shirt and jeans.

We climbed rolling hills and descended into valleys teeming with giant broccoli-like vegetation. Gazing out at meadows awash with wild dancing flowers, I recalled the mixed reactions I’d
received from people when I told them I was heading off to see a healer in Brazil. Aunt Marge believed I was moving over to the dark side. My mother had said, “Halfway round the world to
visit a quack. My only consolation is that I know you won’t stick it. It’ll be like the time you bawled your eyes out to get home after a few days in Irish college. Maybe it will
finally cure you of all that hippie stuff.” Julie had seemed annoyed that I would choose to visit a Brazilian healer rather than join her in Boston. A sceptic like her father, she’d
always needed scientific proof before she could accept something as real. Trevor used to tell her from when she was little, “You know your mother can be a bit of a ditz!” She had heard
it so often, I feared she partly believed it. Between the lot of them, the questioning and explanations had been exhausting. I agitatedly twisted my emerald ring. What business was it of
anyone’s, what I did? I was fast approaching forty-five and it was high time I stopped trying to be a people pleaser.

Only Liz hadn’t passed any judgement. I was deeply concerned about my father, who seemed increasingly infirm, but my sister had assured me she would keep an eye on him. At least I would be
able to pray and leave special petitions for him with the healer. I desperately wanted to concentrate on prayer and meditation away from the obligations of organised religion. It would hopefully
help me release my own worries and relax into the feeling that I could hand everything over to a higher power. I looked down at my ring, and felt the old familiar ache in my heart for what had
been. I blew on the large emerald surrounded by twelve small diamonds and polished it with the end of my sweater. A gleam of sunlight caused it to twinkle as though Tinkerbell had sprinkled fairy
dust on it, and my mood instantly lifted. I reminded myself I’d survived – and had survived very well without Trevor for the past six weeks, to the point of working positive thinking
and the law of attraction in healing my health problem. If I remained upbeat, my life could only get better from now on.

I must have dozed off, because suddenly I was jolted into wakefulness by the bus hitting a bump so enormous that my head ricocheted violently, sunglasses shooting off my nose. “Christ
Almighty – what is he at?”

The girl beside me stifled a giggle, and asked in English if I was all right.

“Yes, sorry. I just got a shock. Are we here?”

“If you’re going to see the Medium, then you are here.”

“Do you know him?” I knew that the Healer was sometimes referred to as ‘the Medium’.

“My grandmother lives near him.” She pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe in this man.”

I looked into her eyes. “But he has healed lots of people …”

“I know peoples come from all over the world to him but I would not go to him. I just do not believe in any of that. I only believe in God. But I hope you enjoy your time here.”

“Thank you …”

She stood up to leave, and I began gathering up my belongings. Ella appeared at my shoulder. “I heard what she said – do you think she’s right?”

“Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, Ella. We’ve all seen him on YouTube and we’ve read the testimonials. Come on, let’s get going.”

We were just in time to save our suitcases from being tossed into a nearby sandpit by the sweaty bus driver. After recovering them, I asked him where we could get a taxi. “Where youroad
after all, and go?” he grunted.

“Poussada Agnelo,” I answered, showing him the address and printed google map.

He threw his arms out. “No taxi here.” He jabbed his finger at the map. “You walk dat way, you find one.” Dragging our bulging bags behind us, Ella and I set off. Before
long, we found ourselves on a narrow dirt road, puffing and panting as the smell of farm manure filled our nostrils. The sun appeared like an orange satellite dish, its rays belting down on top of
our heads.

“How come no taxis have passed us yet?” asked Ella.

“Because no vehicle of any description has passed us.” I snapped. “It looks like we’ve ended up on some back road.”

“Look at the chickens.” Ella pointed to five gangly fowl wandering over and back, quaking and flurrying as we passed. “It reminds me of my granny’s farm in Connemara,
back in the seventies – all the fields with weeds growing wild and the old stone cottages with their tin roofs. Though I don’t think her farm ever smelt this bad.” We burst into a
fit of giggles at the sight of three black pigs, their snouts in a trough, happily munching potato skins and slops behind a barbed wire fence. It reminded me of that old Ireland too – my
mother grew up on a farm in the midlands. But I’d never experienced anything as sticky as the red clay on this road. My black trainers and Ella’s sandals were covered in it. “Just
imagine if we were back home right now –we would be at the Galway races dressed in all our finery,” said Ella.

“That’s one reason I’m delighted to be away. Trevor and I used to attend every year with Liz and her husband. This year he’ll be swanning around with Martha
instead.”

“I never thought of that. It’s good you came away at this time, so,” Ella said, rubbing my back in a reassuring manner.

No taxi passed us, but we weren’t on the wrong road after all, and we finally arrived sweaty and grimy at our accommodation. It was called a
poussada
, which in Portuguese means an
inn. It was a very plain long one-storey building with small windows and a corrugated roof. A rotund Brazilian woman greeted us and briskly led us down a long corridor to our adjoining rooms,
sparsely furnished yet spacious, with two beds each and stacks of fluffy towels in the plain but immaculate en-suite bathrooms.

“Not much hanging space, but much better than you predicted, Kate,” said Ella brightly.

Yes, much better than I’d expected after listening to Trevor constantly warning me about “the flea-infested kip I’d find in lieu of a five-star hotel” if ever I visited a
“third-world country”. “You can leave some of your clothes in the suitcase and use it like a drawer on top of your spare bed,” I suggested.

To which she merely replied, “Hmm … I’ll see.”

Leaving Ella to unpack, I returned to my room for a shower. I sighed contentedly as warm water ran down my back, helping unwind tight knots in my aching muscles from the long flight and bumpy
bus ride. A glance in the mirror startled me – a ghostly face framed by a mass of fiery candy floss stared back. My skin had taken on a deadly pallor, due to exhaustion. Thankfully I’d
brought some tinted moisturiser, otherwise I was sure I’d end up being mistaken for one of the spirit entities that allegedly floated around the Healer’s ashram. I rubbed serum into the
mess that had become my hair in an effort to combat the effects of humidity.

Afterwards, I unpacked the excess of clothing I’d brought, from waterproof fisherman’s trousers, in case of monsoon rains, to t-shirts, dresses and tunics for over leggings and
skinny jeans. I laughed at the idea of having a choice of clothing sufficient to dress for dates with a variety of men from “spiritual” to “outdoor” types. I could probably
glam up to satisfy a “sophisticate” in the sticks if it came to that. But no, I reminded myself, I’d left dating behind and was here for the good of my soul. After pulling on a
blue tunic over navy cotton chinos, I sat on the edge of the white-covered bed to check if my mobile phone was working. I had three text messages. The first was a “Welcome to Brazil”
greeting from a regional network. The second from Liz made me sigh as I read her warning, “Kate, have a great time. Mum said don’t let that healer near u with a knife!” My mother
had obviously forced her to write that to me, since she never ever sends texts herself. I scrolled open the next one, “Enjoy Brazil. Be safe Mum, Julie x”. My heart warmed at the
thought of good wishes from my daughter and I immediately sent her back a text telling her I loved her. Then I jumped up, grabbed my shoulder bag and left the room.

“Come in, door’s open,” Ella called as I knocked. I entered to find her fixing a bandana around her head. It matched her azure-blue embroidered kaftan worn over flared white
trousers. Smiling at me, she twirled a triple row of beads dangling from her neck. “What do you think? Do I look the part?”

“If you mean ‘hippie tourist on the spiritual trail’ … then yes. But you know we have to wear all white to the ashram whenever the Healer is present? Apparently
it’s easier for the spirits to work on us when we’re dressed in white.” I rolled my eyes heavenwards.

“I know, you told me. I picked up some great chain store bargains before I left. When I’m finished accessorising, they’ll look couture. What are we doing this
evening?”

“After dinner, we’ve to go to the ashram for an introductory talk.”

There was a knock on the door, and Ella rushed to open it. I stood out of the way as a Brazilian man wheeled in an empty clothes rack. We had passed it earlier on the corridor and obviously Ella
had noted its potential. I’d forgotten how resourceful she could be. “Obrigado!” she cried, squeezing a five dollar bill into his hand. Then, “Oh look at these!”
scrunching her nose in disgust, examining the distorted metal hangers dangling from the rail. “Not to worry, I’ll work on getting a few proper ones from him later.” She clapped
her hands happily. “See how quickly I can turn any place into a home!”

As we entered the dining room, we were met with a clatter of conversation, at first difficult to decipher as four or five different languages vied for ear space. A group at the top table spoke
German, while an elderly couple to their left spoke French. After passing a Japanese family, my ear tuned into English spoken in several different dialects: American, Cockney and Irish were
somewhere in the mix. My nose twitched to aromas of garlic, lamb stew and roast chicken mingled with zingy citrus scents and wild herbs. Excitedly, I took in the mouth-watering display of vegetable
and nut salads vying for space on the buffet table with a sunburst-yellow display of star fruits, melons and mangoes. “Oh Ella, I’d definitely run my own cookery school or restaurant if
only I could buy fresh sun-ripened produce like this back home,” I said wistfully, running my hand over the soft hides of papayas, apricots and nectarines sitting together like satin pompoms
in a bowl.

“Stop romancing the papayas and get your meal,” said Ella laughing, as she thrust a plate under my nose.