“I came, I juiced, I conquered.”

Writer Stella Bergsma heads to Turkey for a detox holiday, bringing along a hangover and a healthy dose of skepticism. But then: “I came, I juiced, I conquered.”

Things weren’t going well: I was exhausted, overworked, and unhealthy. A friend who always radiated vitality suggested a detox holiday. I downed my rosé, popped another *bitterbal* into my mouth, and told her she was crazy. But when things continued to go downhill, I had little to lose.

DAY 1

Meet me—and my hangover
“Welcome to Turkey; here is your first drink.” A friendly woman enthusiastically points to two large carafes filled with an orange liquid. I catch the sickly-sweet scent of fruit and swallow back a sour belch. Around me sits a small group of people—a mix of awkward newcomers and guests who have clearly been here a while, looking tanned and radiant in their bikinis. I eye them suspiciously. Will I look like that in seven days? I can’t imagine it. To be honest, I have a hangover. A bad one. I was out late with friends yesterday. I rolled straight from the pub into a taxi to the airport. I slept off the effects of the night before throughout the entire journey. Here and now—in beautiful Kaş, Turkey, surrounded by all these fresh-faced people—I feel uncomfortable. Our hostess reads out the juice’s ingredients and explains their health benefits. Oranges are packed with potassium, magnesium, and iron, she says, beaming. When she offers to pour me a glass, I politely decline. I’ve got heartburn. My own fault. I feel like all eyes are on me in the bright sunlight—as if a spotlight is trained on me and the rest of the group is staring accusingly, ready to break into a jeering chorus of “She got drunk—hooray, hooray—you could tell just by looking at her.” I’d love nothing more than to sink right into one of the bright red sofas. When we’re finally free to leave, I sigh my way up the many flights of stairs, draw the curtains in my stunning hotel room, and sleep, sleep, sleep.

DAY 2

Juice with oil
The next morning, I venture back out among people, feeling as though I’ve just crawled out of a cave. I get measured and weighed—and I certainly don’t come up short. The results are shocking: high blood pressure, a rapid heartbeat—my head is burning from it. I feel ashamed, yet I bravely join in the round of introductions. Hello, my name is Stella, 47 years old, someone who loves life—but won’t have much life left if she keeps going the way she is. There’s Ellen, a handsome senior purser; Ank, a former schoolteacher; Marlies, a nice young woman who immediately opens up about her burnout; Giovana, a flamboyant Italian grandmother who says her son put her in this camp; and finally Fred, a quiet civil registrar. I feel invigorated after the aqua-jogging class. We have a two-hour break before the evening juice, which consists of three types of vegetables each time. I find it perfectly drinkable, but the people who have been here longer seem to struggle with it. “It’s starting to get a bit hard to stomach,” says Fred, who has been here for two weeks already. He pinches his nose shut while he drinks. Olive oil has to be added to the vegetable juice so the body can properly absorb the nutrients. Just as I finish and try to make a run for my bedroom, Giovana latches onto me. “Steellaa,” she says dramatically, “help me! It’s just like prison in here!”

DAY 3

A bit shaky
I sleep poorly that night. I can feel my heart pounding. What if it suddenly just stops and I wake up dead? The next morning, I ignore my alarm and miss the morning walk. The truth is, I’m a bit scared. You have to climb a pretty steep slope, and from the path, you can look way down. When I’m feeling shaky, I get a bit of a fear of heights. And when I haven’t eaten, I feel a bit shaky. When everyone returns from the high-altitude hike a little later, we drink lemon juice diluted with water. It’s supposed to shrink the stomach and cleanse the intestinal lining, allowing nutrients to be absorbed optimally later on. That’s what it says in the detailed information booklet we all received. Then we get our morning juice. I’m really looking forward to it today. It smells delicious—like strawberries—and tastes even better. After an hour of rest, there’s a Pilates class, followed by aqua jogging in the afternoon. Afterwards, all of us juice fasters sit on the red sofas. Only Giovana isn’t there. Els tells a funny story about drunken ministers on a flight she worked on. We laugh and drink herbal tea. It’s starting to get quite cozy here. Can I have a glass of wine yet?

DAY 4

Double cheese sandwich
Miraculously, I don’t feel awful, even though I didn’t taper off at home. I’m not hungry, either. There are occasional pangs, but it’s really not bad at all. The only times I feel a real craving are after working out. I find that a bit unnatural—exhausting your body and then not feeding it. You’ve worked hard; your muscles deserve a reward, right? A tasty double cheese sandwich, or a plate of fried eggs with bacon. “Isn’t that counterproductive?” I ask Bernadette, our fitness instructor. We’ve just finished an intense boxing class—in which I participated with surprising zeal (I have the photos to prove it!)—and now my stomach is rumbling. “The exercise is essential,” she explains. “When you exercise, your body burns through fat faster.” I nod; that sounds good. Especially the ‘burning through’ part. After the juices, everyone often lingers by the red outdoor benches to chat and sample the various herbal teas. The conversations go quite deep. Everything comes up, from our bowel movements to our state of mind. “For me, fasting is a mental clearing-out, too,” says Marlies. Nods of agreement all around. “Yes,” says Els, “you cleanse your mind as well.” “Because you aren’t eating, you seem to have more time and space for things,” says Ank. “You can process your problems better when you fast. You get around to things. Fasting is also a form of letting go.” She tells us how she lost her husband and, not long after, her new partner as well. We fall silent. I stand up and head to the kitchen. “Anyone else want tea?” Even without alcohol, it feels a bit like a pub. A round of ‘Star Mix’ for the house! Only Giovana can’t seem to settle in. Trapped in paradise, she stares ceaselessly at her phone.
“Are you expecting a message?” I ask with interest. She nods sadly. “My son.” Just before bedtime, Ank reveals her remedy for sleepless nights. “Shh,” she says, tiptoeing into the kitchen and grabbing something from a bag. She holds it up triumphantly. “You just suck on it a little, you know,” she says mischievously. “Don’t eat it.” It’s a small tomato.

DAY 5

Happy and proud
My first morning walk. Alone! I easily manage the climb and enjoy the view. No fear, no unsteadiness. I feel so happy and proud. To top off the celebration, we go for a boat ride in the afternoon. We lie on the deck in the sun, and I rub sunscreen onto Teacher Ank’s back. She says having sunscreen on her back makes her feel more secure. We talk about what we’re craving. Everything comes up. Roast chicken, eggs. Asian food with lots of sambal. Fries with the works. We moor in a bay for a swim. As we all bob around in the water, we fantasize about food some more. Grilled salmon, fried potatoes. Salad dressing. Salad dressing? “Yes, I’m craving salad dressing.” Marlies sticks her tongue out at me. “Got a problem with that?” “Yes!” I shout. “It’s weird.”

DAY 6

Not a shred of hunger
I go for a walk every morning now and feel great. I’m getting fitter by the day. I notice it in little things, like getting up off the ground more easily, without groaning or looking for something to hold onto. I catch myself practically skipping up the many flights of stairs these days. And I still have energy to spare. “I’m going to walk into the village; who wants to come along?” I link my arm through Giovana’s. “Come on, girl, let’s go stroll past the Turkish gentlemen.” Ank joins us, and a little later we’re sitting in the village square, drinking mint tea. Giovana talks about her life, her family who emigrated, and her two heart attacks. Ank and I listen. Actually, just me—Ank keeps glancing to the side. “I’ve got an admirer,” she says coyly behind her hand. “That’s lovely,” I say. “Just be careful, though. I think they’re falling for you in droves.” It’s the first time all week I’ve seen Giovana laugh. We order another round of tea—sage this time; we’re feeling adventurous. Later, I walk back to the hotel alone; the other two took the bus. Here I am, I think; here I am, walking along. Who would have imagined this at the start of the week? I feel not a shred of hunger, not a trace of fear. But I do feel something else. I have to think for a moment about what it is. Contentment? Pride? When it finally dawns on me, tears prick my eyes. It is gratitude.

DAY 7

My Certificate
It’s happened: I’ve turned into one of those people I was skeptical of at the start—the “bikini-tan” crowd. I greet new guests enthusiastically, waving a friendly hello with the paper in my hand. It’s my report card. My certificate. Proof of a job well done. I’m as happy as a child about it. I have a lower body fat percentage and normal blood and heart readings. It feels just like getting a gold star from the teacher. Even though I’m a devoted lover of good food and drink, I’ll be back here. Without a doubt.