The Sauna Diaries: Part One

First, let’s clear something up, you fucks

When I say part one it implies in our culture that there will be another part. But there won’t be.

Here, the phrase ‘Part/One’ is a special two-word seed mantra known as a sang dzu for meditating on the indivisibility of form and emptiness.

But never mind that for now.

Normally I spend twenty minutes in the sauna. I’m almost religious about this. But today I stayed for thirty-six minutes.

There’s always an interesting mix of people.

There are two Australian blokes, both bald and fat, covered in tattoos with chains and giant finger rings. And they’re going at each other talking about football and suburban stuff. I can tell by the way they sit and talk and breathe that they were probably criminals or underworld figures back in the day.

And behind them is a thin Vietnamese bloke. He looks tranquil, like he is meditating, until he opens his mouth.

“You’re full of shit, you Greek bastard,” he says to one of the Aussie guys.

“Fuck off, you skinny Asian cunt,” says one of the Aussies. “And I’m not fucking Greek, he is…”

He’s pointing at this old guy that looks like Borat who smiles and starts shaking his head.

And they all piss themselves laughing.

Racism is null and void in this sweat hole because here just about everyone is a fucking immigrant—even the Aussies. 

We’re all fucking immigrants.

We all migrated into our mother’s womb at some point which probably felt a bit like this place, hot and humid and strangely safe.

Borat starts pointing at my sweaty chest and telling me how I have to eat more garlic. 

It’s random as fuck but I’m always open to health advice manifesting out of this sweaty universe.

I feel like I’m back reading The Alchemist. This Greek guy looks like the kind of guy who might have crystal balls and keep camels.

Is that racist? It doesn’t matter. We’re all immigrants.

I fucking believe him about the garlic. He has those eyes that don’t lie. And he starts saying how in his culture they snort raw garlic every morning and how he thinks it’s quite an extreme practice. An Indian guy pipes up and says he eats raw garlic every morning mixed with lemon juice.

I ask where the Greek guy is from and he tells me he’s from Iran.

He says that the Iran of today is not his country though. He says people he knows are just getting fucking shot on the street and anyone who has a problem with that also gets shot or beaten or tortured.

Then he tells me they shot his wife while she was pregnant.

My scrotum shrinks and I just don’t know what to say. I look around for help but everyone else is still talking about fucking garlic.

“Fuck,” I say and shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

He ignores my empty condolences. He’s probably heard them a million fucking times. And what can my sorry do to bring back his wife and unborn child anyway?

He says when he was young, Iran was the most beautiful place on Earth . 

Peace, diplomacy, beauty, happiness, prosperity, trade.

And for a split second, I get this fucking July 4th feeling that I’m thankful for American democracy and how they liberate countries from these oppressive regimes. 

But then I remember they were the cunts that overthrew the peaceful government in the fifties and installed that extreme one, just like they did with most of the countries they are now involved in wars with. 

“It’s the Shahs. They were put there by the British and the Americans,” he says as if he is reading my mind. “They wanted the oil.”

“The fucking Americans and their guns,” says the Vietnamese guy who is now listening to us since the garlic conversation ended. “The best army in the world supposedly and they haven’t won a fucking war in the last hundred years, mate.”

“Hundred years?” says George. “What about the fucking second world war, you Asian cunt?”

“It was the fucking Russians,” says the Iranian guy. “The Russians liberated Germany from Hitler. Without them, Hitler would have won.”

“And now the Americans are even fighting them,” says the Vietnamese guy.

I’m sweating my cans off now. I’m over twenty minutes deep.

But the Iranian guy keeps going at me. And I can’t leave because his wife and unborn child are dead. He tells me he came to Australia in 2007 as a refugee. He says he loves Australia but it isn’t his country. He doesn’t fit in here.

And I know what he means by that.

The Aussies are shouting at each other again.

“Speaking of Americans. Do you remember that fucking Texan, Rich Wilder, George?”

“Yeah, mate. I remember.”

“Well, he fucking carked it last week.”

“Oh fack. I remember in about ‘78 he came to a party at my house and my Dad answered the door. He fucking hated Rich so he told him to fuck off. And Rich just pulled out this shooter and Dad goes, Why don’t ya come in Rich? Wanna beer?”

Everyone pisses themselves laughing again.

I notice a tattoo of the Predator on the Iranian guy. It doesn’t make sense that it’s on a 75-year-old Iranian, but I realise he could just be a fan of Schwarzeniver who was also an immigrant. 

“Nice tattoo,” I say to him.

“Thank you,” he says. “It’s my wife.”

I look closer. It looks like the fucking Predator.

I want to say, are you sure?

But either he would know or he’s got a cracking sense of humour which I doubt.

“Well, she looks nice,” I say.

It’s been over thirty minutes now and I can't take any more.

My gonads are losing weight and I might just fucking pass out.

A beautiful Indian girl comes in. She must be around thirty. The Vietnamese man pats the wooden bench next to him and she happily joins him.

“Ya didn’t fucking invite me up like that,” says George and they all laugh.

Everyone seems happy, so I’m leaving.

I nod at the Iranian and mumble goodbye or whatever.

I open the door and the blast of cold hits me, and the sound of old people pissing in hot water.

And I understand why everyone talks shit in the sauna.

It’s because it makes the time go quicker.

And because it’s not like the real world.

And because it’s a safe space—that celestial sweaty uterus.

In there, there’s no racism.

We’re all fucking immigrants.

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