(This is the first installment of a series of posts describing my experiences of this past week. I’m writing as fast as I can, and want to capture the essence of the entire experience. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)
A whirlwind of butterflies stirs in my soul as I slowly descend the stairs outside of my now-empty hostel room in Valladolid. Wednesday morning, November 18, has arrived at last. Pausing for a moment to adjust my backpack, I look around and inhale the gentle peace of my surroundings. The skies are a solid baby blue with hardly a cloud to be seen. The early morning sun shines brightly, warming the beautiful garden area at the base of these outdoor stairs. I smile as I glance back at the roof where my faithful bicycle catches my eye. My two-wheeled friend will not be making this short journey with me—it will remain safely locked up on the roof of the hostel, waiting patiently for my expected return.
In this moment, all previous fears are but a vague faded memory. A strong sense of peaceful and loving confidence radiates throughout my entire body. Today I am taking a giant step into the unknown, and a feeling deep in my heart tells me that the next five days will be a marvelous journey.
As I surrender my room key to Tania at the front desk, I also reconfirm my reservation to return on Sunday. A minute later, I eagerly slip through the front door, exiting into the fresh open air of Candelaria Park, a small but beautiful little oasis. Under the huge majestic tree in the center of this little plaza, several people are already seated on benches, visiting with each other, reading newspapers, or simply enjoying the cool morning shade.
But I have no time to stop and enjoy the park today. I am focused, anxious to move forward to discover what amazing treasures lie ahead. Within a few minutes, my backpack is safely secured in the trunk of a small taxi, and my five-day journey has officially begun.
The northbound highway is wide, straight, and flat. As I stare out the window, I begin to daydream, imagining myself returning to this same road on my bicycle, contemplating what I would do with the freedom of being able to explore nearby villages and jungle paths.
Thirty minutes later, my daydreams are interrupted as my taxi slows to a near stop and then turns to the east down a narrow paved road—a road that is barely wide enough for two cars to slowly squeeze by each other. The tiny road is crowded on both sides by lush green vegetation—a mixture of beautiful trees and a variety of thick underbrush.
After a few miles, we approach a small intersection. Large wooden signs indicate that the archeological ruins of Ek’Balam (pronounced eck-bah-lahm) are two kilometers straight ahead—but as we reach this tiny road crossing, my taxi driver turns left instead, once again resuming a northbound direction.
At just before 9:00 a.m., my taxi enters a tiny village. At the center of the village is a small park, surrounded on all sides by humble homes, most with thatched roofs, many with walls constructed from palapas (wooden poles). A quick glance around detects no initial evidence of any type of stores or restaurant, and my imagination briefly carries me away to a state of worry about where I will be able to find food to eat during my four-night stay.
But I don’t have time to concern myself with food quite yet—and I somehow know that all will be OK. As we reach the northeast corner of the town plaza, my taxi turns back to the east, passing down a small dirt road. Several hungry looking stray dogs move to the side of the road as my taxi passes by. A small goat is tied to a tree in front of one of the more humble homes on the left. In front of another, a small Mayan woman is washing clothes by hand in a large rectangular basin propped up under the shade of a large tree. A number of clothes are already drying in the hot sun, suspended on a piece of rope hanging between two nearby trees. While the woman works, several small children play on the ground nearby.
The rough and bumpy dirt road narrows to a single lane as I glimpse a large blue sign with white letters reading “Cabañas Ecológicas Uh Najil Ek Balam” (translation: Ecological cabins of Uh Najil at Ek Balam). As I read these welcome words, I simultaneously exhale a long sigh of peaceful relief. With the assistance of my kind and friendly taxi driver, I have successfully jumped over the first hurdle in my path. For the next four nights, I will call these rustic cabins “home.”
Soon I am exploring my new living space—cabin number five. The cabin is functional and simple. From the outside, the structure appears very rustic, with a tall peaked thatched roof, and with walls built out of palapas. However, upon entering, I discover that the interior walls are solid, appearing to be painted concrete or some type of plaster. Looking up, the thatched roof is indeed genuine, supported by strong wooden poles. The underside of thick bundles of long carefully arranged dry grass creates a unique and interesting pattern in the ceiling above.
The oval shaped interior is much bigger than I imagined, being perhaps fifteen feet across and thirty feet wide. As I enter through the front door, I note that two twin beds are situated on one end to my left, two more are on the other end to my right, and a fifth twin bed sits directly across the room from where I am standing. The beds on each end of the room are equipped with flimsy white mosquito nets that are suspended from poles several feet above. For some reason, the lonely bed in the middle has no such protection. The bed frames are homemade, being small wooden platforms supported by eighteen inch wooden legs. The mattresses are typical bunk-bed type mattresses, with a four-inch-thick foam interior. Every bed has a pillow, clean white sheets, and a lightweight white cotton bed spread.
My curiosity is peaked as I notice a door in the far left corner. The brown wooden door is difficult to open, being quite swollen from the constant barrage of daily humidity. As I force it open, the door squeaks and sticks as it rubs against the frame, and then drags across the concrete floor. I peak around a bundle of grasses that hangs down from the outside roof and discover a small hallway, open to the sky, lined on both sides by poles wired together. My imagination momentarily wanders to the thought “What types of interesting creatures might be found crawling around on this low-hanging grass when I am groping to find my way out to the bathroom in the middle of a dark night?” I dismiss the thought with a small laugh and continue my exploration.
On the other end of this short path is another door, through which I discover a tiny thatched roof structure containing a toilet, a shower stall, and a small sink with mirror. High above the sink, a single low-wattage light bulb provides illumination for the dark window-less room, barely emitting enough light to recognize my dim reflection in the mirror. Upon returning to the main cabin, I notice that it too is illuminated with only a single low-wattage bulb.
In spite of the squeaky, swelled-up doors and the dim lighting, I love my room—it is very clean, the beds are comfortable, and it only cost 350 pesos per night (about $27 US). What else could I ask for in the middle of the jungle near a small indigenous Mayan village?
The Quest for Kaxan Xuul
Briefly unpacking a few items in my backpack, I grab a skirt, a white blouse, and a towel—preparing myself for what I hope will be an opportunity to participate in a sweat lodge.
My immediate task at hand is a quest to locate a place called “Kaxan Xuul” (pronounced ka-shawn shool). As I lock my cabin door behind me and begin this search, I have no idea what Kaxan Xuul is, nor do I have any idea where I might find it. The only thing I know is that Kaxan Xuul is where I am supposed to meet up with the rest of the group. I pray that it is not far, because I am now on foot, and this little Mayan village does not appear to have any taxis.
One thing I have learned in Mexico is that when I ask for directions I rarely understand the answers—yet someone always steps in to help me. As I walk up to the cabins’ small guest reception building, I ask a young woman for directions. Her answer proves to be just as confusing as I expect.
I barely understand the basics of her response, which sounds something like this: “Go that way (back toward the town) … blah blah blah… turn right … blah blah blah … pass a school … blah blah blah … continue going straight.”
Having absolutely no idea what this young woman really said, I make a decision to begin by following the first part that I think I understand.
“Hopefully,” I tell myself, “I will find someone along the way that can help guide me further.”
As I pass by several homes, I notice people out in their front yards working with yarn and a large wooden knitting tool, creating what appear to be beautiful and colorful hammocks. Each artist has a different setup, but is performing the same basic tasks. With yarn stretched tightly between wooden poles, the hammock weavers use the wooden knitting tool to tediously loop one loose stitch after another, passing the yarn through one loop, pulling it back, and methodically repeating the process over and over again.
After observing perhaps ten or more homes with such setups, I quickly deduce that creating hand-woven hammocks must be an important industry in the lives of these beautiful local residents.
Amazingly, after a few blocks of walking and making several turns, I locate a medium sized building that is obviously a public school. Knowing that a village of this tiny size could not possibly have any other schools, I feel quite confident that I am on track with my quest—yet at this point in time I am absolutely clueless as to where to go from here.
As I stand by the school feeling helpless, a young woman passes by.
“Can you please tell me how to find Kaxan Xuul?” I politely ask.
“Go that way and keep following the road,” she answers, pointing down the road to my right.
As I look a block away toward where she points, I see the narrow paved highway curve off to the right, and I take note of a small dirt road that continues straight ahead.
“Do I go this way or that way?” I attempt to ask as I point at the two possible directions. The speech center in my brain cannot seem to find the correct descriptive words to clearly express my concern.
The only part of her answer that I think I understand is “that road is tiny and narrow (pointing to the dirt road), while that road is wider.”
As best as I can tell, this young woman’s hand gestures tell me to follow the curve to the right, but to be honest I still have absolutely no idea what she really said. I begin to walk away from the north end of the village in the hot morning sun. Intuition tells me to go left, but instead I choose to follow the main road—the one to which I believe she was pointing.
After about ten minutes and almost a half mile of uncertain footsteps, a gut feeling tells me that I am indeed lost. Stopping to contemplate my next move, I notice a lone man on a bicycle slowly approaching from the distance.
I walk out in front of him to get his attention, and when he finally arrives I kindly ask, “Please, can you tell me how to find Kaxan Xuul?”
“Go back that way and then turn right.” Is about all I understand.
The sweet Mayan man pauses for a few minutes while I begin to retrace my steps back toward the village. Soon, his bicycle catches up and stops right beside me. Then he begins to volunteer a few additional details.
“Turn right just past the preschool and then follow the little road,” he tells me before continuing on his way.
I vaguely remember seeing a large home with the word preschool, and realize that the man is telling me to turn down the narrow dirt road—the same one that I had almost taken ten minutes earlier.
As I return to the intersection of these two roads, I observe a short middle-aged woman weaving a beautiful bright yellow hammock in the shade of a large tree in her front yard. Still not being totally sure that I am about to take the right path, I approach the woman to confirm.
“Yes,” she replies as she motions with her hands, “you must follow the path of this small dirt road.”
After walking another half mile down this remote jeep trail, I again begin to feel slightly lost. I have already followed several turns in this continually narrowing road, the jungle is closing in around me, and I still have absolutely no idea exactly what it is that I am trying to find.
A short distance down the road I see a man walking up a path into a small farm home hidden in some thick trees on the right side of the road. As I near the home, I follow the same path up to his home, humbly asking for help one more time.
“Yes, Kaxan Xuul is very close. Just continue following this road,” are the kind man’s words.
Energized by the confidence of his words, I resume my trek into the jungle. Finally, after continuing another hundred yards, I notice some white rocks marking a wide dirt driveway that leads up a small incline through some trees to my right. Following my intuition, I enter the driveway. Part way up the incline to my right, I see a tall stone monolith with Mayan-looking carvings. Even though there are no signs, I sense that I am close to whatever it is I am looking for. Around the next bend I find a small parking area with several vehicles. On the left is a small meadow with a cluster of tents. In another small clearing just a little further on the right sits a permanent Temazcal (sweat lodge) structure. A handful of people are gathered nearby; several of them are dressed in white.
My heart tells me I am here … I have indeed jumped over hurdle number two. I have found Kaxan Xuul.
Old Awkward Feelings Revisited
I walk confidently over to the group of strangers, introduce myself, and officially confirm that this is the gathering place for the “2009 Fiesta de Chikaban (pronounced Chee-kah-bon).”
A man named Eric seems to be in charge as he briefly introduces me to several other people, referring to them as “Abuela (grandmother) so and so, or Abuelo (grandfather) so and so”. I express my interest in participating in the sweat lodge and Eric tells that they are not yet prepared, but yes, there is room for me to participate.
“Because there are so few people here,” Eric begins, “we are combining the two scheduled sweat lodges into a single one that will begin about 1:00 p.m..”
A quick glance at my watch reveals that the time is barely 10:00 a.m.. I begin to sit back and watch the others. Immediately, my insecurities begin to manifest. Old patterns of social phobia cause me to sink into an awkward feeling of separation. Everyone present seems to already know each other quite well. They are all busy, chatting rapidly in Spanish amongst themselves, each of them being immersed in a last minute rush of final preparations. My brain cannot decipher their conversations and I begin to feel invisible, insignificant, and awkward. I want to volunteer to help, but really don’t know what I could do.
I sit and briefly chat with an older grey-haired man, but after a few minutes the conversation reaches the limits of my language capabilities. We stop talking, and I begin to simply observe the others. All the while, I continue to sink into a deeper state of feeling socially stupid and inadequate.
“I think I’m going to go back to my cabin for a while.” I tell the older man. Then I ask him, “What time should I be back here for the Temazcal?”
After agreeing that 12:30 p.m. would be a great time, I make my quick exit, eager to spend some time alone—time to further check out my cabin and search out sources of potential food.
Throughout most my early life, being in social settings around strangers almost always caused me to feel great anxiety. In the past, struggles with my own self-concept had led me to believe that no one would be interested in a conversation with me. I had felt broken, defective, and un-loveable. In those darker days, I could never have dreamed of talking about my deepest struggles, and I felt totally incapable of carrying on a surface-level small-talk type of discussion.
Even with all of my deep spiritual and emotional healing, being around strangers can still, on occasion, trigger memories of such past feelings of inadequacy. Even knowing that such emotions are merely old tapes playing in my head, somehow, in times like today, these old voices still have a way of momentarily seizing control.
As I walk back toward my cabin, I become the observer, replaying the morning’s events and emotions, knowing that everything will indeed be OK.
“I simply need to regroup and give it another go when I return.” I tell myself. “I almost always start out slow with people I do not know … but a loving and genuine attitude consistently opens all the right doors in the end. This fact never ceases to amaze me.”
What About Food
As I reach the edge of the village, food is the main thought on my mind. While following a slightly different route, I notice a small home with the words “Community Store” painted on a small wooden sign out front. I immediately decide to explore my options.
This small store has a selection of snack foods, chips, and basic staples—but everything I see is either junk food or requires a functional kitchen to cook. Picking up a large bag of tortilla chips, I tell myself that if no other food source manifests itself, I can at least survive for a few days eating chips and snacks.
After a short rest back in my cabin, I opt to pursue a definitive answer to my pressing question.
“Is there any kind of restaurant here in the village?” I ask the young woman at the reception area.
My growling tummy seems to smile when the young woman answers “Yes … go that way … and blah blah blah … turn left.”
In spite of my continued confusion in understanding directions, I soon find myself on the east side of the city park staring at a tiny fenced home with a small sign in front that reads “Cocina Maya” (Mayan kitchen).
As I walk up to the open front door, a very kind woman approaches and greets me in Spanish.
“Welcome to our kitchen. My name is Trini. Are you here for the Fiesta De Chikaban?”
As I answer yes, Trini continues, “Today for breakfast we have Polcanes (mystery food) and frijoles (beans). Would you like some?”
I immediately realize that in this small kitchen there is no menu. There are only two choices: eat what is offered, or don’t eat at all. I choose the former. I find it a bit odd that a meal at 11:30 in the morning is being called breakfast, but just the same I answer “Yes, I would like both.”
As I enter the tiny restaurant, I observe that it also doubles as a small gift shop. The walls are lined with local souvenirs, many of them hand made. The large room is perhaps sixteen feet long and eight feet wide. A single large wooden table sits in the middle of the room on the far end, filling up more than half the room. On each side of the table is a long wooden bench, large enough for six adults to sit comfortably. The table has no table cloth, is covered with food stains, and does not appear to have been cleaned anytime in the immediate past. A collection of shared condiments sits in the middle of the table, consisting of a bowl of salt, a bowl of raw sugar, a tiny open jar of instant coffee, a few tea bags, and a small plastic container partially filed with green picante sauce.
Finger marks in the spoon-less salt container cause me to ponder “just what is the preferred method for salting my food?”
As I sit on the bench, waiting for my mystery “polcanes”, I observe that a small open door in the middle of the room leads to an additional outdoor eating area. In the dirt yard are several small round tables with thatched-roof umbrellas above them. Rather than having chairs, each small table has two or three wooden stumps on which people can sit while they eat.
I devour my delicious food. Even after eating a serving of four polcanoes, I am not quite sure what they are. They are about the size of large chicken fingers, but I do not believe they are meat. The exterior is breaded and appears to have been deep fried. The interior is slightly hollow.
Just after mid-day, with the blazing sun high above in the sky, I leave the cozy little Mayan kitchen and begin my trek back to the remote ceremonial grounds of Kaxan Xuul.
I am happy to know that hurdle number three has been successfully crossed. I may not know exactly what I am eating, but I will definitely not be starving during my upcoming adventures. I cannot wait to see what happens next.
To be continued …
Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved