(This is the third installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)
Before leaving me alone in the guesthouse, Dionicio had given me permission to help myself to any extra bedding in the large cabinet. Wanting to be prepared for a long dark night, I grab three of the extra thin blankets before retiring.
“That should be enough for starters.” I tell myself as I close my eyes and snuggle up in the cool mountain air.
My brief middle-of-the-night scampers now take me to a small block building only twenty feet away. Rather than merely having a raised wooden platform with a hole on top, this tiny luxury cabin contains a fiberglass throne with an actual toilet seat. What more could I ask for?
As I lie in bed at 5:00 a.m., the idea of crowing roosters begins to lose its charming appeal. The guesthouse is only seventy-five feet up the hill from Christina’s place, and her several roosters seem to love crowing on the edge of the hill just a few feet away from my bed. The open-air construction of thatched roofs and board walls-with-gaps does little if anything to mute exterior sounds. Neither do pillows squeezed tightly around the head with an arm wrapped tightly on each side.
Nevertheless, I smile and do my best to restfully relax into the unpredictable bursts of repeated crowing that has already been going on for more than an hour.
As 6:15 a.m. slowly ticks by in my awareness, I wish I could sleep for three more hours. But knowing that very soon some happy young face will show up on my doorstep, I coax myself back into the present moment.
Ten minutes later, night number two in Santa Elena is in the history books, and I am ready to take on an incredible Friday. I am dressed, refreshed and alert, delightfully immersing myself into an amazing view from a chair on my front porch. The guesthouse is perched on a hillside, considerably higher than Dionicio’s small property. From here, I can silently observe much of the village—and the view is seductively addicting.
Fluid Flexibility
Ever so soon, Leroy and Elroy giggle their way up the hill, passing between Christina’s two buildings, not stopping until they are standing right in front of me.
“You’re early.” I tease them as I notice that my watch only reads 6:45. “It’s not time for breakfast yet.”
Soon I have my first real opportunity to interact with Heralda, Dionicio’s sweet wife. While Heralda and I briefly talk, Leroy and Elroy sit nearby—watching, giggling, and continuing to enchant me with their cute little grins. A very friendly cat, a delightful little creature with needle-sharp claws, also vies for my devoted attention—meowing, purring, climbing, and repeatedly relaxing her sharp claws into my jeans.
Breakfast turns out to be quite the interesting creation. A large bowl is filled with over-cooked Ramon noodles and a watery broth that seems to be missing the usual Ramon spices. Mixed in with the noodles are large chunks of a soft, green, meaty, flavorless plant that Heralda tells me is called ChuChu (pronounced choo-choo). Half immersed in one side of the broth is a large, peeled, hardboiled egg.
“What is ChuChu?” I ask inquisitively.
“It is a fruit, kind of like a cucumber, that we grow in our gardens.” Heralda tells me matter-of-factly, as if everyone should know that.
Soon, Dionicio walks into the room and joins the conversation.
“Tell me more about the caves in the jungle?” I eagerly ask Dionicio.
I had seen a cave hike listed on the flyer given to me by the tourist lady in Punta Gorda, and Dionicio had briefly mentioned the caves on Wednesday. My inquiring mind was yearning to know more.
“The caves are about an hour and a half, maybe two hours away on foot, out into the jungle.” Dionicio begins to answer. “Ancient Mayans used to live there. Sometimes, in the caves, you can even find pieces of old pots.”
“I would love to visit the caves.” I eagerly respond.
“When do you want to go?” He quickly replies.
“Oh, I don’t know, let me check my busy schedule.” I joke with him. “Today, tomorrow, sometime next week … whatever works for you … I have no plans and I am very flexible.”
“Let me see what I can set up for either today or tomorrow.” He tells me as he quickly exits the room.
I return to my conversation with Heralda.
“Did you enjoy church last night?” Heralda asks.
“Yes, I did.” I begin, “Even though I didn’t really understand everything, I really loved seeing how you worship.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I continue my inquiry. “During the part where the women were crying, what was happening?”
“They were feeling Holy Spirit.” She replies, not really elaborating.
I choose to not pursue my question further.
Very soon, Dionicio slips back into the room.
“It is all arranged.” He begins. “Mateus and my son Timoteo will take you out to the cave this morning. I never send visitors out into the jungle with just one guide. We need to have two people with you in case something were to happen.”
“You probably won’t be back in time for lunch.” He continues, making sure that I am OK with that. “Why don’t you go prepare now. They will pass by the guesthouse in about twenty minutes to get you.”
In less than ten minutes, I am sitting on my front porch, wearing long jeans and hiking shoes, eager and excited to begin my next adventure. Mateus and Timoteo cannot arrive soon enough.
Machete Magic
After having admired his skills on the keyboard last night, I am pleased to finally have an opportunity to officially meet Timoteo. I am immediately impressed by his bubbly and friendly personality. One can plainly see that he is happy and comfortable in his own skin. Timoteo is wearing a t-shirt and old worn khaki slacks with rubber boots similar to those worn by his father Dionicio, on our trip to the farm.
Mateus is much quieter, but the glow in his eye tells me he is a genuine sort of guy, just a little shy around the edges. After learning that Mateus is Glenda’s husband. I am surprised by his youthful appearance—but then I remember that Glenda (my Wednesday dinner hostess) is only 25 years old herself. Mateus is dressed much more informally. Wearing a t-shirt and grass-stained knee-length khaki shorts, his footwear is some type of fake-leather high-top tennis shoe.
On seeing the relaxed manner of Mateus’s clothing, I feel a little more comfortable with my own hiking shoes. I even feel a little overdressed. With slightly overcast skies, I had opted to wear my long-sleeve sweatshirt—something that quickly ends up tied around my waist.
With no time for small talk, Mateus quickly takes the lead position, Timoteo follows a short distance behind, and I do my best to keep up with both of them. Their abundant youthful energy challenges me to push myself a little harder.
Within five minutes, we have left the boundaries of Santa Elena, and begin climbing a moderately steep path up a thickly vegetated hillside. Almost immediately, Mateus vigorously begins to swing his machete, chopping away at vines and branches that have fallen over the trail in last week’s windstorm. I soon realize that this chopping will only intensify throughout our journey into the wild.
Timoteo turns around and points out a long-stemmed plant with a small white flower.
“See that plant right there.” He begins. “This type of plant will make you sting and feel very uncomfortable all day long. Be sure to avoid them.”
Just like his father, Timoteo continues to turn around and point out other plants and vegetation, giving me additional insight into plants that can be used for medicines, food, and even for tying and binding things.
“I could get lost out in the jungle,” he tells me, “and never starve or go thirsty. There are so many things out here that you can eat, and various ways to get water.”
Thirty minutes into our exhausting climb, I beg for an opportunity to briefly rest. Keeping up with these young men is proving to be a challenge.
As we rest, Timoteo begins talking. “That over there was my brother’s farm last year. He cleared the land and planted corn. After he died, the rest of us came up here and harvested it for him.”
“You must have loved your brother a lot.” I reply.
“Yes, I miss him so much. He had so much ambition and so many ideas. Last year before he died, he wrote a proposal for the Rio Blanco National Park. They gave him a grant. He planned and built nature trails, constructed a cable bridge across the river, and was going to do so many more things to promote and increase tourism at the waterfalls.”
As I catch my breath, we walk ten minutes further, with both Mateus and Timoteo continuing to vigorously clear the path in front of me. Mateus, being in the lead, is by far bearing the brunt of the strenuous work. This part of the trail is seriously overgrown by rapidly growing jungle vines and shrubs. Without their chopping, we simply would not be able to pass.
As we reach the top of our forty minute arduous climb, we pause by another small cornfield.
“This is my uncle’s farm.” Timoteo chimes in.
“You mean he makes this forty minute steep hike every time that he goes to his farm?” I ask with astonishment.
“Yes,” Timoteo responds. “And when he harvests the corn, he has to take it down to the village one small load at a time. It is a great deal of work.”
“See that mountain over there?” Timoteo asks. “That is where the caves are.”
When I look in the distance I am awestruck by the beautiful view. There in front of me is a deep valley, and across on the far side of the valley is another medium-sized mountain completely covered by an incredible variety of thick green trees, plants, and vines—many of them appearing quite ancient and tall.
As we begin our descent into the valley, Timoteo casually remarks, “Now we are entering the jungle.”
“What do you mean?” I ask with a teasing tone. “Are you saying that this first forty minutes of hiking through overgrown trees, vines, and shrubs has not been in the jungle?”
“Yes,” he replies with a laugh, “that is exactly what I am saying. The first part of the trail has all been cleared, and traveled extensively by man. The biggest trees are gone, many farms have been planted, and the vegetation is quite different. Now we are entering the real, unaltered jungle.”
“You will notice,” Timoteo continues, “that it has suddenly gotten cool, dark, and shady—and that the vegetation is much older and different.”
As I heighten my observations, I immediately realize that everything Timoteo is telling me is indeed true. The trees are much taller, and considerably older. The vines are much thicker, wilder looking, and gnarly. The entire energy of my surroundings feels different, ancient, and magically energizing. Less sun reaches the ground below me, the air is fresh and cool, and I begin to notice a wide variety of plant life that I had not previously seen.
Mateus continues his silent leadership, chopping away, busily swinging his machete at every turn. We begin to go slower, as Mateus’s job here is much more difficult and time consuming. The trail here, if you can really even call it a trail, is nearly invisible. I would never believe it to be a trail were it not for the fact that both young men seem deeply confident in where they are going.
Timoteo continues to point out more plants to me. Above us, he spots a large cluster of what looks like kiwi.
“You can eat those nuts.” He tells me.
Soon, Timoteo has picked one up off the ground and is chopping carefully on the hard exterior with his machete. Once broken open, the interior is remarkably similar to a young coconut. The interior is filled with a watery substance, while the outer edges contain a soft white meaty substance.
I scrape a tiny portion of the meaty substance with my fingernail and stick it into my mouth.
“It even tastes a little like coconut.” I exclaim.
Within thirty minutes we have reached the bottom of the thick jungle valley as we carefully step across a shallow, narrow stream. Almost immediately my climbing muscles are again bulging as we begin another long ascent up our final mountainside.
Eventually, after yet another thirty minute climb through additional magical surroundings, Timoteo proudly announces that we have arrived.
Our total journey has taken about an hour and forty-five minutes—crossing a variety of trail types ranging from clay to sharp rocks—all, of course, covered with thick layers of fallen jungle debris and leafy foliage.
Cave Crawling
There on the ground, just a few feet away, is a small jagged opening in the side of the hill. The odd-shaped entrance cannot be more than three feet across, perhaps even smaller.
Mateus crawls in first, disappearing down the small hole.
Timoteo then hands me a flashlight and says, “After you.”
With a feeling of deep confidence and trust, I turn my body sideways and carefully inch my way past the rough uneven rocks, being extra cautious to not bump my head. After a few feet of awkward twisting and maneuvering, I am once again standing on my feet.
As Timoteo joins me, I shine my light up to the top of a tall, but narrow, cavern. Near the ceiling, perhaps twenty-five feet above me, tiny black furry animals streak by, first in this direction and then darting off in that direction. Then I notice that some of the black streaks whiz by my head, some coming remarkably close.
“Don’t worry,” Timoteo reassures me, “the bats won’t hurt you.”
“I know.” I reply confidently. “My dear friend Jeanette would literally love this. She is fascinated by bats.”
The cave is lined by little stalactites and stalagmites—most of them quite small. Many little popcorn formations are also scattered around the walls and ceiling. While the formations are not especially pretty, most being a faded gray or brown in color, I still find them exciting, and very aesthetically pleasing.
All other caves that I have ever been in kept me on a cold dark path, sequestered behind railings and ropes. Here I am free to explore, to venture wherever I choose to roam. But still, I reverently respect my surroundings, making an effort to not actually touch or damage the more fragile formations in any way.
For about one hundred feet, we walk and explore a small winding passage.
“Sometimes, right here in this area, you can find pieces of old Mayan pottery.” Timoteo tells me.
The fact that none are presently visible tells me that any pieces that have been previously found must have been carried off by sticky fingers.
“Do you mind if we momentarily shut off our lights?” I ask.
Timoteo and Mateus gladly honor my request.
The momentary darkness is staggering—but not really much different than my first two nights in Santa Elena.
As we again turn on our lights, I ask, “It would be next to impossible to find your way in here without a flashlight. How did the Mayans ever manage to live in here?”
“They were like animals.” Timoteo casually responds, exhibiting an air of complete belief in his voice. “They could see in the dark. They could even change into birds and other creatures. They had many magical powers and abilities.”
I really want to believe. In many ways I do believe.
I know in my heart that this whole world is an illusion, a projection of the mind, yet a tiny stubborn part of me still hangs on to crumbling threads of logical-left-brain doubts—doubts based on the very beliefs that formed the foundation of my youth.
As my heart calls out for me to believe, a tiny part of me continues to pull in the opposite direction. But I know that my heart will one day win this tug-of-war.
Soon, we come to the end of our walking space. Down in one corner, I spy a three to four foot tall opening, perhaps six to eight feet in width.
“Where does that passage lead?” I ask curiously.
“It keeps going forward.” Timoteo replies. “Do you want to find out?”
Soon I am hunched over, attempting to climb through the passage on all fours, determined to keep my jeans clean. After fifty feet or so, the passage again narrows and grows more shallow.
“We can turn around now if you would like.” Timoteo volunteers.
“No, I can do this.” I stubbornly insist. I did not come this far just to turn around.
As we enter the next shallow passage, I realize that there is no way that I will manage to keep my jeans clean. Timoteo lays his machete on the ground, and I follow suit by discarding my small shoulder bag and my sweatshirt.
“We can get them on the way back.” Timoteo reassures me.
Eagerly I crawl forward, this time on my knees, releasing all concerns about the moist muddy soil that begins to coat my jeans and shoes. Yet the crawling is not easy, as the floor is quite uneven with many jagged rocks. Each knee must be strategically placed.
Suddenly we all pause. Mateus and Timoteo exchange a few words in Mayan (something they have been doing frequently all morning), and soon Mateus sets off on his own.
“Wait here for a minute.” Timoteo tells me. We heard a noise, and Mateus is concerned that it might be an animal, perhaps even a jaguar.
After listening to Timoteo’s words, I am quite content to briefly wait.
Soon, Mateus calls out, and we again continue forward. After approximately ten more minutes, I see a small spot of daylight.
Soon, the three of us are sitting in sunlight, by the edge of a beautiful small stream. The opening out of which we just crawled is even smaller than our entrance. Mateus hands me a package of cookies, and Timoteo hands me a small Tupperware container with some type of cinnamon coated sweet bread.
“My mother made this for us.” He lovingly states.
After grabbing a few of each, I begin to munch on my delicious treats while scanning my beautiful surroundings. The stream is only a few inches deep and perhaps eight feet across. Small rock ledges form tiny terraces in the fresh clear water. A huge downed tree forms a large bridge a short distance downstream. The air feels cool and moist. Only bits and pieces of the sun manage to reach the ground through the thick canopy above.
I am in paradise.
“Does Mateus speak English?” I ask Timoteo.
Immediately, Mateus turns and smiles. “Yes I do.”
“Oh,” I reply, “I’m sorry for the question. It is just that all day you two have spoken Mayan to each other, and I have only spoken English with Timoteo.
After perhaps twenty minutes of much needed resting and delightful conversation, Timoteo tells me, “Mateus will go back through the cave to get our stuff. I will take you around on the outside.”
“No, I reply. “I would actually like to go back through the cave again, if that is OK with you.”
The adventurer in me just would not quit. I was having the time of my life.
As we slowly maneuver back to my bag and sweatshirt, I ask Timoteo. “So … how many of your visitors come this far back into the caves.”
“Actually,” he replies, “None. I think you are probably the first. Some are even afraid to climb down inside the cave once we arrive at the entrance.”
A grin crosses my cheeks as I mentally pat myself on the back—trying not to feel too prideful.
Shortly before we exit the crawlspace, I feel the wings of a bat brush up against the hair on the back of my neck. The feeling is gone in an instant—before I even have time to react. Without the slightest feeling of panic, a sense of peace rises in my soul.
“All is well … there is nothing to fear.” The feeling whispers to my soul.
Just then, I feel a sharp thud on the upper and forward part of my head. In my exuberance, I inadvertently fail to notice a small stalactite directly overhead. As I place my hand at the site of impact, I feel no blood. Again I sense the feeling.
“All is well … there is nothing to fear.”
After we finally exit at our original site of entry, I am both exhausted and energized at the same time. At my request, Timoteo checks the top of my head.
“There is a tiny bit of blood, but nothing to be concerned about.” He reassures me.
Then, I am totally caught off guard when Timoteo asks, “So, Brenda, do you want to go to the second cave?”
“Second cave?” I ask with surprise. “I thought there was only one!”
Round Two
Twenty minutes later, after a grueling uphill climb through newly-machete-chopped paths, Mateus informs us that we have arrived. My legs and hips are exhausted, but I am determined to see it all.
“It is just up there.” Timoteo indicates, as he points about two hundred feet above us on the side of the steep hill.
“Aargh,” I think to myself, before trying to convince myself that, “I can do this.”
Soon, we are looking down through a medium sized opening. My heart sinks when I see what is before me. Immediately after climbing through the short, wide entrance, there is a 75 foot descent down a steep rocky slope—a slope that must be at least 70 degrees.
“Once we get to the bottom, how far back do those passages go?” I ask with an exhausted sigh. “And are the passages level at that point or do they continue dropping steeply?”
Mateus tells Timoteo (in Mayan) that he can’t quite remember—so he quickly scales to the bottom to investigate. Soon he returns into visibility and calls back up in Mayan.
“He says it is mostly level down there.” Timoteo relays the message.
Slowly and carefully, I muster my strength, and using my mountain-goat-like balance, I skillfully scale down the rocky obstacle course. As it turns out, the passageway is indeed level, but quite short. After squeezing through a few tiny openings, I realize that I have literally seen all there is to see. Nevertheless, I am grateful that I took advantage of the opportunity.
Ten minutes later we are again back on the steep hilly surface.
In my mind I wonder how I will possibly gather the energy for the return hike, but somehow I mange to continue putting one tired foot in front of the other.
A light rain soon begins to fall. The refreshing moisture cools my aching muscles, energizing me with each small drop. I reach out and touch many trees, hoping to share in their magical energy.
About halfway during our return rip, Timoteo pleasantly reassures me by saying, “Brenda, you are one of our faster guests. Some people walk very slowly, and insist on breaks every five or ten minutes.”
Somehow his unexpected compliment fuels my energy just enough to keep me pushing forward.
Our conversation switches to schooling, namely Timoteo’s education. He tells me that he graduated from high school several years ago. His main focus was mechanics, but he proudly tells me that he also took two years of computer classes, learning Microsoft word, Excel, and many other useful skills.
“What are your plans for the future?” I ask inquisitively. “Do you want to remain here in Santa Elena?”
“Absolutely.” He replies with confidence. “I love it here. It is so peaceful. The jungle is my home. I love working on the farm. I want to get married and raise my own family right here.”
“Some youth leave the village for bigger cities.” Timoteo continues. “A few join gangs, others get jobs and work for money to buy things. But I love the simple life. I definitely want to stay here. I want to live my whole life here.”
“What do you think will happen to the village when electricity comes?” I ask.
“It will change many things.” Timoteo responds. “Sadly, change is inevitable, but we will adapt … I only hope that our village can remain mostly the same.”
As the final minutes of our hike fade away, my heart is filled with joy and gratitude for the opportunity to get to know such a genuine and loving young man—a man of strength and character, a man of honesty and integrity, a beautiful man following in the footsteps of his father.
A Bath To Remember
Five hours after beginning our journey, as I eagerly unlock the padlock on my front door, I have only one thing on my mind. Carefully removing my muddy clothing, I throw it all in a pile. Soon I am dressed in my swimsuit and a small cover-up swim dress, carrying shampoo, conditioner, soap, and a small plastic bowl. My destination is the shallow stream running through the center of town.
Everyone in the village is always so clean and well groomed—and as I understand it, they all bathe and wash their clothes in the stream, usually on a daily basis.
So, with enthusiasm, I march forward out of my front door, determined to fully immerse myself in local customs.
“Where are you going?” an unseen voice asks, as I begin my descent down the small hill.
Looking up and around, I suddenly recognize Filimon’s smiling face.
“My mother has made lunch for you.” He tells me politely.
“I thought I would have to miss lunch today?” I ask with a puzzled look.
Soon, I am sitting in Heralda’s kitchen for the second time in one day, enjoying an unexpected and delicious meal of beans, jippi jappa, and tea.
As I finish my last bites, Heralda comments, “Why don’t you just bathe in the stream right here below our home?”
Minutes later, I am standing knee deep in the water, scooping small bowls of water onto my hair, shampooing, conditioning, rinsing, and then lathering my body. It is truly a bath that I will never forget.
Wishing I had brought my dirty clothes to the river for washing, I soon come up with a different plan. Once I am dressed and groomed, I carry an empty bucket down to a well in front of Christina’s home—one of only two hand-pump wells in the whole village. Once my bucket is filled, I return to the guesthouse, wash out all of my clothes, and hang them on a nearby piece of rope.
Feeling quite proud of myself for a wonderful day well spent, I treat myself to an hour and a half of relaxing language study and meditation while resting in a small folding chair. I love the porch of my delightful little cottage. I love looking out on a village that I will never forget.
After my second meal at Glenda’s lovely little home—a delightful treat of rice, beans, and spicy eggs scrambled with tomato, I am soon resting on my bed, utterly exhausted in a wonderful sort of way. As darkness settles in, my warm cozy bed claims hold on my body, refusing to let go until morning.
My Temporary Home
Last night, as I enjoyed an inspiring Skype conversation with my dear friend Lori, she asked if I had heard the new Carrie Underwood song titled “My Temporary Home”.
As she told me about the words and the message of the song, shivers ran through my body, sending tingles through my spine while goose bumps began to cover my arms.
After finishing my writing for the day, I searched out YouTube for a rendition of the song. I was not disappointed. Tears of joy and inspiration flowed down my cheeks, as I realized that today’s writing would end with the words of this beautiful song.
I highly recommend listening to the official YouTube video at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_SR3BlsmH4
My Temporary Home
Sung by: Carrie Underwood
Written by: J-Rice and Shan Malaika
Little boy, six years old
A little too used to being alone
Another new mom and dad, another school
Another house that’ll never be home
When people ask him how he likes this place
He looks up and says with a smile upon his face
This is my temporary home
It’s not where I belong
Windows and rooms that I’m passin’ through
This is just a stop on the way to where I’m going
I’m not afraid because I know this is my temporary home
Young mom on her own
She needs a little help, got nowhere to go
She’s lookin’ for a job, lookin’ for a way out
Because a halfway house will never be a home
At night she whispers to her baby girl
Someday we’ll find a place here in this world
This is our temporary home
It’s not where we belong
Windows and rooms that we’re passin’ through
This is just a stop on the way to where we’re going
I’m not afraid because I know this is our temporary home
Old man, hospital bed
The room is filled with people he loves
And he whispers
“Don’t cry for me, I’ll see you all someday”
He looks up and says, “I can see God’s face”
This is my temporary home
It’s not where I belong
Windows and rooms that I’m passin’ through
This was just a stop, on the way to where I’m going
I am not afraid because I know this was my temporary home
This is our temporary home
Along my own journey, as my heart deepens with spiritual insights and conviction, the fact becomes increasingly obvious to my inner soul that this world is indeed just our “Temporary Home.”
Every place that we go, every experience that seems to happen to us, whether we judge it as good or bad—each and every one of these experiences is simply a collection of windows and rooms that we are passing through.
Whether it be our birth or death, a new job or a layoff, a marriage or a divorce, winning the lottery or going bankrupt, buying a new home or being homeless, visiting the grocery store or visiting a Mayan village—every event in our life is simply a stop along the way to where we are going.
No matter how such events may look on the outside, if we learn to look for the blessings in everything that simply is, we can learn incredible pearls of wisdom from each of these stops along the path of our life.
When we truly know that this world is just a temporary home—a place where we live until we wake up and remember our divine birthright—all fear melts away. We will no longer be afraid in any way. We learn to trust our instincts. We learn to trust the passions of our heart and soul.
It matters not whether we live in a mansion or a one room hut with dirt floor, wooden board walls, and a thatched roof. It matters not whether we have a professional chef in our employ or whether we cook corn tortillas on a metal plate over an open fire. What matters is the love in our heart, the connection with the infinite universe that flows continuously through each of us.
It is my prayer that each of us, in our own unique way, can indeed learn that this world is indeed just our temporary home.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved