‘I turned my body into a garbage bin.’

As a special correspondent for RTL News, Jaap van Deurzen (66) has spent years reporting on dramatic events such as the massacre on the Norwegian island of Utøya and the devastating tsunami in Asia. At the invitation of Story, he spent a week in Portugal on a juice fast—flushing toxins from the body by drinking fruit and vegetable juices. A pleasant side effect: Jaap lost 6 kilograms and 7 centimeters off his waistline. Read his detox diary in Story.

“You’re really not going to eat for seven days? You’re going to drink nothing but fruit and vegetable juices for a whole week? Have you lost your mind, man? That can’t possibly be healthy!” Stubbornly, I reply: “Maybe not, but I’m going to give it a try anyway. I want to get rid of this potbelly; I could stand to lose a few kilos of flab.” We’re at a pub in Weesp—nine middle-aged men with ample beer bellies. After a session of open-boat rowing on the Vecht, we’re more than making up for the fluids we lost by downing frothy blonde beer. My mates look at me and shake their heads. *Poor old Jaap is showing early signs of dementia*, I can see them thinking. “Get us another nine beers!” Maikel shouts, making the familiar gesture of twirling a finger in the air.

Shortly afterwards, I fly to the Portuguese Algarve. The flight goes smoothly. For two and a half hours, I’ve been battling the demons of my better half—whom I invariably and affectionately call ‘Blond’. I would have loved to bring her along, but she is terrified of flying. Every rattling screw in the bowels of the Boeing 737 makes her freeze. She doesn’t need a juice cleanse to lose weight; the kilos simply drop off her frame from sheer nerves a full month before departure. Dark clouds are drifting over Faro. Perhaps an omen of what’s to come. On the plane, I carefully reviewed the brochure from the travel agency Health Holidays once more. This is certainly not going to be a trip for gourmets like us…

Blissful

We’ve been to the Algarve before and eaten our weight in fish there. We used to wash our finned friends down with large glasses of white wine. Soon, I’ll be sitting there with a toxic-green spinach juice… Blond has already announced that she intends to keep up our tradition of Portuguese feasting. She’s having none of this juice-binge nonsense—she’s going to eat! Not me; I’m fasting. The plan is to give my body a proper detox. Many participants in the program call it a ‘reset,’ though I have no idea what that actually means. I’m usually as level-headed as an empty stomach and don’t really believe in these kinds of semi-healthy antics, but I’m desperate to lose weight. Besides, I want to experience what it’s like not to eat for a week. Over the past few years, I’ve turned my body into a bit of a garbage bin. Taking it easy for a week can’t hurt, in my view. At the same time, a nasty little voice in some lobe of my brain is piping up: ‘Get a grip, man! Just grab a bite to eat on the side; no one will notice. It’ll make for a good story, too. Just pull a fast one—who cares? Surely one glass of wine is okay—what’s one glass, really? You must be out of your mind to sit around guzzling nasty juices in the land of fado, fish, and wine. Stop this madness!’

We are staying in a small villa at the beautiful Hotel Vale d’El Rei, near Carvoeiro. Feeling a bit drowsy from the early morning flight, we step into the ‘juice cottage,’ where we are welcomed by Fanette Ligthart of Health Holidays—a friendly woman with grey hair worn up and bright blue eyes. ‘The Herb Lady’ becomes my affectionate nickname for her. It is busy in the juice cottage, as it is a changing of the guard: the previous group is leaving, and the new juice-fasting clients are arriving. I see a woman walking blissfully down the stairs after completing her ten-day cleanse. She was weighed at the end of the program and has lost nearly seven kilos. ‘My skin is absolutely glowing. I feel so good, so clean!’ the lovely weight-loss success story says enthusiastically.

Fellow sufferers

We are served our first fruit juice. Fanette explains that all the fiber has been removed. ‘That’s to give the stomach a rest. Digestion takes a lot of energy from our bodies. If you remove the fiber from everything—including the vegetable juices you’ll be getting later—the stomach has nothing left to do. All peristaltic movement stops, and the juices are absorbed directly into the system. You don’t chew anymore, so there’s no saliva production to trigger hunger pangs. The urge to eat essentially disappears.’ I find myself yearning for the delicious squid with garlic sauce I always eat here, along with those thick, curly fries I drown in homemade mayonnaise. What on earth have I gotten myself into? I see Blond chuckling. ‘I’m going to have a proper lunch in the restaurant later; otherwise, I’ll waste away to nothing,’ the wretch says with a laugh. It’s the moment of truth: time to get weighed. At 1.84 meters tall, I tip the scales at a whopping 101.4 kilos. I’m mortified. Statistically speaking, I’m obese, even though I’ve never thought of myself as a grossly overweight man. Like a beaten dog, I shuffle out of the juice bar. There’s work to be done—a lot of work. The participants in my juice-fasting group are almost all middle-aged women. The oldest participant is 71, the youngest 45. There are—believe it or not—only three men taking part. Neither Blond nor I are fans of group trips. As a reporter, I’m surrounded by total strangers every day, so in my free time, I prefer a bit less company. But to my great surprise, they are all incredibly sweet, sociable people with the most diverse professions: a teacher, a health boutique owner, two dietitians who run a weight-loss clinic, a couple who sell fish, a consultant, a writer, a lawyer… We’re in this together. We’re going for it!

Deep sleep

At four in the afternoon, we gather at the hotel’s heated pool for an aqua-jogging session. I briefly think of the men back in Weesp; if only they could see me now—waist-deep in the water, surrounded by fourteen women. Clutching a pair of small plastic dumbbells, I feel like a chubby little dolphin performing all sorts of antics in the water. The class is led by a gorgeous, blond Apollo with a washboard stomach. Everyone falls for this charming, likable man who brings out the best in us. I become a fan of aqua-jogging—it’s gentle on the joints yet requires a tremendous physical effort. And all this on just the two juices I’ve had so far: a fruit juice in the morning and a so-called ‘turbo’—my afternoon juice served in a cool thermos—made from freshly pressed, peeled tomatoes diluted with cucumber juice. In the evening, we sit down for our ‘dinner’ at the juice bar. It’s time for our first vegetable juice of the day, which always has a base of carrot and cucumber juice. To this, a fresh raw vegetable is added via the juicer—zucchini one day, watercress the next, or perhaps red bell pepper on another. Fanette explains what to expect this week and doesn’t sugarcoat things. We might experience constipation, in which case the special herbal tea works wonders. At some point, we might also feel nauseous; ginger tea is recommended for that. And yes, we’ll almost certainly hit a slump at some point during the week—a state known as ‘juice dementia.’ Taking it easy is the best remedy. Exhausted from all the new impressions, I fall into a deep sleep…

A feast for the eyes

And then the miracle happens. The next day, I hop into the van, fresh and full of energy, ready to start a beach walk on an empty stomach. We walk in small groups, chatting away as we make our way along wooden boardwalks through a beautiful nature reserve. The return journey takes us along the beach. ‘I’m not hungry,’ I say to the woman next to me, completely amazed. ‘Me neither—strange feeling, isn’t it? And you should know, back home I sometimes have massive binge-eating spells. I’ll just keep stuffing my face all day long. I can gain kilos in a month. My ex-husband once told me: “You suffer from bulimia without the purging, haha!”’ We just keep chatting casually like that. We also drink our first juice of the day. Forty-five minutes later, we’re on the tennis court, ready to start an hour-long body-shaping session. That turns out to be a tough workout, too—targeting muscle groups I never even knew existed! By now, the sun is shining from a brilliant blue sky. This is the Algarve I know and love. An hour later, we take the bus to the coast for another strenuous hike along a rugged, difficult path. You don’t even get a moment to fret about your metabolism, for heaven’s sake. The route follows the jagged coastline, featuring limestone rock formations carved out by the turbulent sea. The landscape is a feast for the eyes. I still have no appetite. I drink liters of water and feel fantastic. How is it possible? Just how much can you handle on three juices a day? A lot, it turns out. With a touch of masochism, I join ‘Blond’ for the evening meal. She had strongly advised against it, but I’m doing it for the company; eating alone isn’t exactly fun. I sit at the table with a glass of cool water. Blondie chooses the Chinese noodle soup as a starter, followed by crispy chicken breast with thick-cut fries. She washes it all down with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. I could strangle her right now, but really, I’m doing this to myself. By dessert, I want to jump out the window. She orders “The Sweet Secret of the Vine in Sparkling Wine Sauce”—a cake roll soaked in sparkling wine. I sit there openly drooling, on the verge of tears.

Party

And then it hits on day four: the dreaded slump. Apparently, a severe one. As we stand waiting in the morning for the van to take us to the beach, a woman sticks out her tongue at me. “Do you have this too?” she asks, looking a bit frightened. Her tongue is completely coated in white. That, too, turns out to be part of the body’s detox process. “You look just like a Chihuahua!” I blurt out—tactlessly. Of course, I’m confused: I mean a Chow Chow—a dog with a blue tongue—whereas hers is white. It is the first sign of my impending juice-induced dementia. With the courage of despair, I drag myself out of the van and begin my walk, practically stumbling. Two lovely fellow participants decide to walk with me at my pace. We shuffle along those damned boardwalks like snails. *There seems to be no end to this ‘long ladder,’* the thought deliriously runs through my mind. The ladies strike up a cheerful conversation about preparing a spicy fish dish and then swap various recipes on their mobile phones. I can no longer recall how I got back into our van. All colors have faded; I see nothing but white shapes. I am hallucinating about food. In my waking delirium, I somehow find myself thinking about my liver, too. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol for four days. I start to visualize the organ and picture the poor, liver-colored wretch cowering miserably under an umbrella, sheltering from yet another acidic downpour of alcohol. Cautiously, my liver emerges from its hiding place and welcomes the fruit and vegetable juices with open arms. The organ unfolds a deckchair and leans back lazily. For him, this juice cleanse is a party. I’m losing my mind…

A nice little herring

Once inside the juice hut, I explain my situation to Fanette. ‘That’s perfectly normal. Your body is busy flushing out all the toxic rubbish. That can make you feel a bit nauseous. All your energy is going to your organs; your brain is essentially put on standby. That can make you feel woozy. Just take it easy.’ I fall into a deep sleep that morning and put the body-shaping routine on hold for a while. I hear from some of the other participants that they, too, succumbed to a slump of sorts. We’re all losing weight, wandering the hotel corridors with hollow cheeks. The weight loss is happening incredibly fast for me: my belly has completely vanished! But the strange thing is, I still have no appetite, even though our mentor says we’re consuming no more than five hundred calories a day. ‘But your body is getting all the essential minerals and vitamins from our juices, you know. It’s a bit less than usual, but still enough. Your body isn’t missing out on anything,’ Fanette promises. ‘Believe me, when you start eating again, you’ll be bursting with energy—though you do need to ease back into it. Have fruit for breakfast, and eat as much raw, fresh food as possible. Avoid processed foods. And make sure to vary your diet. Just let your body slowly get used to all that food again.’ The week is almost over, and despite all my bold resolutions, I haven’t cheated once. The moment arrives. I step onto the scale and get the shock of my life. I’ve lost 6.1 kilos in a single week! Of course, a large part of that weight loss is water weight, but I still feel on top of the world. I’ve also lost 7 centimeters off my waistline, and I leap out into the garden like a jubilant toddler! I’m holding a meager strip of bacon between my thumb and index finger. Just look at me. This juice fast has been a life-changing experience. According to the rules, we’re allowed a light lunch after seven days—a salad or something similar. But suddenly, a very different, mischievous little voice pipes up in my brain: ‘Are you sure you want to do that? It would be a waste of that week of hardship, wouldn’t it? Just hold off a bit longer, mate—take it easy!’ My wife looks at me with a sympathetic smile. She actually finds me a bit more attractive with a fuller face, yet she’s proud that I stuck it out. ‘I’ll buy you some delicious herring tomorrow,’ she says affectionately. And so she did.