Hot, Sweaty and Full-Body: The Art of Temazcal

Before I plunge into an explanation of the myriad and otherworldly benefits of Temazcal, I ought to set forth the following critical proviso for successful participation: you have to do it with a French girl.

Temazcal is another of those fabulous Aztec traditions of spiritual rejuvenation that has endured in the more indigenously-rich parts of Mexico. It involves ones marinating in an herbal steam bath heated by hot rocks to bring about the purification of the body and mind through relaxation, perspiration, meditation, respiration and near expiration. In the Nahuatl (Aztec) language, ‘temaz’ means bath and ‘calli’, home. With your French friend (in my case, the lovely Florence) you embark on a journey approximately twenty minutes from the center of Oaxaca and with a knock on the door simply labeled ‘Las Bugambilias’, are admitted to a garden paradise and the ethereal world of your bath home. Mariana, hostess, master temazcalera and a woman so serene I half expected her to evaporate before my eyes in a quiet effusion of light, explains the temazcal process to you: where you are to strip down and wrap up in a sheet, where you get down on your hands and knees and climb through a doggy-door of sorts to enter the cube-shaped bath, dark and wooden, large enough for only three people and a pail of rose water . . . and how the cleansing process will essentially cure any problem you have ever had.

Doing as we were told, Florence and I disrobed and crawled into the steam bath, which was heated to approximately four million degrees Fahrenheit. We then embarked on the first part of the process: seven minutes of meditation and perspiration. My knees didn’t really allow lotus-style sitting, so I tucked them up as meditatively as possible underneath me and tried not to think about my rapidly diminishing bank balance, my relatively imminent departure from Mexico, the exciting and crazy shenanigans of my family and friends, exactly how you conjugate caber in the third-person preterit tense, what sort of jazzy, life-changing job I was going to get once I returned home, the herd of goats that had passed by my apartment that morning, what was going to happen to Brisa, coveting Philbin Sunset and how I could really go for a bit more of that homemade granola from Cafe Brujula.

After this portion, we were joined by the temazcalera who began the more active part of the cleansing process. Dipping a bundle of herbs into the pail of water, she proceeded to beat Florence with it all over her body. Not exactly eager for my turn and trying not to giggle, I tried to focus on achieving a higher plane of being. Before I knew it, I was being slapped all over my body with a fresh, wet bundle of herbs. Rather than being painful, it was remarkably soothing. The chant-type melody being hummed by the woman as she covered me with the herbs combined with the ever-increasing temperature of the bath (or maybe the oxygen depletion?) did begin to alter my sense of being. By the time she had finished the first round of cleansing, I had lost all sense of time. The temazcalera threw the herbs onto the fire and the tiny room filled with a rich, enveloping woodsy smoke. As instructed, I breathed in deeply. The smell was intoxicating and though nearly as overwhelming as the heat, I couldn’t help but draw in more and more of the air, deeper and deeper each time. It was an incredible feeling—as if my lungs actually cooled with each, potently aromatic inhalation.

By the time the next cleansing process began, Florence and I had both lost our sheets and were completely soaked in sweat, but the fight to remain conscious overpowered my feelings of ridiculousness at being naked and drenched in a giant oven with two women, one of whom kept humming and whacking me with a shrub.

Finally, when I really was about to give way to a faint and Florence looked wrecked, but quite at ease in her semi-nudity as French girls can, we were doused in cool rose water and instructed to exit. We were given fresh sheets and shown to soft, plush, white beds surrounded by candles and allowed to nap a bit before our hour-long full body massage.

Later, sipping on enormous bottles of water, Florence and I exchanged a volley of “wows”, “no really, wow” as we headed back into the city. “You know, in Japan, I did something similar to this,” she reflected aloud. “At first I thought it was odd being naked in front of my friends, but in Japan, it’s quite normal.”

So, I guess my proviso warrants an addendum: when you take a Temazcal, be sure to do it with a French girl or a Japanese girl . . . or anyone with a healthy sense of humor who isn’t averse to a little chamomile action about his or her person.

Puerto Escondido . . . West Coast Perfection

Puerto Escondido is the most exceptional place on the west coast of North America.

Perhaps I should have prefaced this statement with the sheepishly-disclosed fact that I have never been to the west coast in the States, and my other experience with the west coast in Mexico (Puerto Vallarta) was cruelly clouded by, well, clouds. And lots and lots of rain. Enough rain to do Scotland proud, I thought at the time.

Anyway, that rain is all under the bridge and my faith in all things west coast was thoroughly restored the moment I arrived in simple, rustic, blue and white Puerto Escondido. This beloved beach getaway of the Oaxaqueños also boasts the well-earned title of surfer’s paradise. Boards and their masters dotted the enormous swells of Zicatela Beach from early morning to sunset, patiently awaiting the perfect wave, catching it and losing it without ever seeming to tire of the chase.

I traveled with a friend that I met in Guadalajara, who, of course, hails from none other than neighboring northern Virginia, two of her friends, both fascinating and unique, and a Swiss girl, blond, beautiful and in fierce pursuit of a freer existence. It was my first all-lady trip in ages and and I found the company both invigorating and effortless.

We stayed at literally the first hotel we encountered—German-run Hotel Innes—in a divinely-beachy appointed two-story room with red walls, crisp white sheets and a sturdy wooden footbridge between beds. Located a stone’s throw from the beach, the most satisfying part about the room, besides the cool, zen atmosphere, the balcony with a view encompassing the ocean, the pool and some soap star that I indefensibly failed to recognize, was the $15 a night per-person part.

In the weeks leading up to this impromptu escape, I had hit a serious wall in my Spanish-learning and was feeling positively defeated. I felt my work at the center for street children was grossly inadequate in light of the amount of help they needed in their lives. To top it off, various bits of news from home had me further preoccupied with the fact that I was too far away to be a part of anything or to be of help to anyone. Things were a bit rough.

It did not take long for me to realize that the greatest concern in Puerto is how long you have lain on your front and when you should roll over (and if, in fact, your bathing suit is still tied to your body when you do roll over). Or, if that rooster stealthily approaching your table has an eye on your last bite of mango. The release and tranquility afforded by a couple of days in this escondido (hidden) place . . . great coffee, breakfasts with yogurt, fresh fruit and granola . . . excellent conversation . . . perfect weather . . . the shocking inspiration to get up and go for morning runs down the beach . . . horseback riding through the waves . . . was more appreciated than I could ever sufficiently put into words.

Studded with nothing but palm trees and the occasional petite beach side cabana bar, Puerto’s minimalism is everything to one in search of an as-yet undiscovered beach paradise. People don’t go here to be seen, or to inadvertently fall into playing the dreaded tourist role, to hit it hard après-playa, or to later fret over any perceived gringo-induced price gouging. People go to Puerto to ride the waves and to wage a leisurely battle with the undertow reminiscent of those battles waged as a child. They go to eat incredible sushi at $6 a roll, drink beers that run $1 a piece and watch the sun set in shamelessly ostentatious red, oranges and peach stripes over a sleepy seaside village in absolutely no hurry to catch up with whatever so absorbs the rest of the world.

Guelaguetza

Apart from its mole and artesania, Oaxaca is probably best known for its Guelaguetza, a festival of epic proportions extending the entire month of July. The Zapotec word for ‘offering,’ guelaguetza represents a sort of communalistic system of reciprocity through the everyday interaction of individuals. The best description I have found of the custom is the following from oaxacainfo.com:

“The mason may build a brick oven for the baker with the understanding that the baker will provide cakes for the weddings of the mason’s three daughters (though at the time of the building they may be ages 8, 10 and 14). The town upholsterer might re-do the undertaker's furniture, thereby guaranteeing that his funeral will be take care of. The community might also come together to see that people in unfortunate circumstances are looked after.”

The festival brings together the region’s best artisans to peddle their handmade wares to the thousands that pack into the town. Dawn ‘til dusk the streets surrounding the zocalo are awash in gold, silver and turquoise jewelry, brightly colored woven rugs and enormous, brilliant still lifes of mangoes and watermelon. Vendors set up shop in church plazas, offering the dangerously addictive Oaxaqueño fare: tamales filled with mole negro, chapulinas (for those of you into spiced, lime-y roasted grasshoppers) and the legendary chocolate drink of the Aztecs, meant to be consumed cold and unsweetened as the wealthiest of those ancients did centuries ago in their quest for vigor and wisdom. In fact, the Europeans have the Aztecs to thank for their introduction to chocolate. Once Cortez brought it back with him to the Spanish court, they just sweetened, added water and popped into the fire for a few minutes. Voila, the first Swiss Miss and the point of no return for every female in the eastern hemisphere.

On the last two Mondays of July, there are two enormous Guelaguetza performances held in the amphitheater atop Cerro del Fortín, providing unique entertainment and a breathtaking view of the city. These performances showcase the respective dances and customs of the sixteen different indigenous tribes from across the state. Tickets closest to the stage are a staggering $50, but those who have begun to figure out the Mexican way (and who are prematurely destitute), will find that tickets for the top rows are free . . . if you don’t mind a bit of queuing and occasionally having people no taller than your chest inadvertently gain intimate knowledge of your person. My favorite exhibition involved a live, apparently indifferent turkey being tossed about like a rugby ball in the midst of a lively dance that involved lots of foot-stamping, bowing and skirt-twirling. The highlight of the show is the presentation of Centeotl, the goddess of corn, depicted by the teenager who demonstrated the greatest knowledge of local customs in a Little Miss Oaxaca-esque pageant held earlier in the year. In keeping with the spirit of offering and sharing, representatives from each tribe threw food and gifts to the crowd after their performance. The turkey, I noted however, was kept a close eye on in the revelrous melee.

What wealth the region lacks monetarily seems to be somehow amply compensated for in the Oaxaqueño culture of artistry, gastronomic distinction, effusive generosity and over 400 years dedicated to the study of throwing one hell of a party.

Centro de Esperanza Infantil (Oaxaca Street Children Grassroots, Inc.)

For a girl who knows almost nothing about kids, working with street children in a foreign setting and communicating in a language that, only on a good day can I delude myself into believing I understand, ought to be double the shock . . . but for some reason, I feel oddly at ease in the Centro de Esperanza Infantil.

The first order of business was learning the subjunctive, the friendly command tense, to ensure that the most important of my requests (‘come with me,' ‘oh no, let’s not touch that,' and ‘please, please leave the feral cat alone and come down from there before you fall and they charge me with negligence, lock me up in some remote Mexican prison with Carlos-the-assassin as a cellmate and threaten to succumb to a laughter-induced demise at my desperate American pleas to ring the American consulate and talk to someone who speaks American’) might have a chance of being acknowledged. The next trick was coming to terms with having to say ‘no’ to kids who have never heard anything else.

Oaxaqueño street children are incredibly resourceful and tragically wise. They are ceaselessly buoyant and open, immune to self-pity and ready to be wrapped up in a moment of delight whenever one happens to find them. They laugh uproariously at my attempts at Spanish, then in the same moment turn around and with rapid, ferocious chatter, defend me against any potentially impertinent interlopers. I help them write letters to their “godparents” (sponsors from the world over), distribute school supplies as needed and stay close when they crave closeness. They have shown me how to play dominoes, how a four year-old boy can mange with ease his two younger brothers (a skill he learned from his four older brothers) and how much it matters to have something, anything, to call one's own.

Family is Mexico’s greatest boon and its greatest downfall. In Oaxaca, women have children. Lots and lots of children. This is the combined result of a Catholic-majority view towards birth control and simple lack of sex education. Condoms are virtually non-existent and to look at the teenagers making out ubiquitously in the parks and on the sidewalks, one gathers that abstinence might not be the most effective alternative modus operandi. So, places like el Centro exist to provide what they can in terms of food, respite, education and the supplies necessary to support growth from the grassroots level.

Over 75% of the kids supported by the Center are Triqui Indians, one
of the numerous indigenous tribes in Oaxaca. The mothers are often
illiterate and the cost of school versus the cost of living makes it difficult for them to be able to afford to send their children to school (not to mention the added complexities of a school-system that sees the teachers strike annually). In many cases, the children are major breadwinners in the family—selling candies, trinkets and cigarettes on the street of the zocalo (the town center) at night and coming to the Center in the mornings for breakfast and for some, kindergarten.

I am not sure I have ever appreciated quite so much how much education can affect someone’s life. Seventeen-year-old Brisa, positively brimming with potential, is one of those people that make you think things really are looking up, uh, socio-economically for the region. We struggle through our respective English and Spanish studies with each other’s help and I can see in her a quiet determination to be bigger than her circumstances would naturally dictate. What future is there for these kids? From my point of view, the road is long and almost entirely uphill, but there is without question, esperanza.


For more information: http://www.oaxacastreetchildrengrassroots.org/.

Hola, Oaxaca!

Oaxaca is truly a city unto itself. So, so, so different from Guadalajara, it really could almost be a different country. Where Guadalajara is a modern, sprawling, cosmopolitan, world-business center of Mexico, Oaxaca is everything traditional, artsy, walk-able and pretty (if maybe a tad tourist-bent . . . but it is perfect, so who can blame them?). The buildings are an attractive mix of Spain's best influence and the streets are clean and wide. Churches can be found at nearly every corner and every one appears to have its own story, beginning, of course, with lots of gilt.

I have been searching for accommodation in the more unlikely places and have gotten an extroridnary peak of the “other Mexico”—the one that requires a gringo to get their feet a little dirty to see. I was invited to look at a room for rent by Irene, a woman I met on the way to Hierve de Agua, (a natural spring site high up in the mountains, with an incredible, multi-colored rock sediment "waterfall"). ‘Wild’ does not begin to describe it. Turkeys were running around, vegetables were growing around whatever they could find to grow around, the "house" had a sheet metal roof and a big bucket of water for bathing. She offered to bring a bed down from the roof for an extra $15 (bringing the total rent to $50 USD for the month) and to hang a poster over the hole in the wall (to keep the rain from coming in) in the room that would be mine. Needless to say, I was ready to move in immediately. Who could resist once she divulged that they were saving the biggest turkey for one of her grandkid's birthdays this coming month?

However, Pepe, my new friend and dear translator from Mexico City, suggested a bit of circumspection. So, we checked out several other rooms for rent, some of which were perfectly respectable furnished establishments for a perfectly respectable $100-120 USD per month, others of which were a tad more rustic, and possibly already inhabited by other people, maybe convicts, if the pictures of the young man wearing an orange jump suit and carrying two AK-47s in the picture taped to the mirror were any indication. The only way to find the perfect place (or indeed, to find anything) is through the intricate and ancient and not-even-remotely-foolproof Mexican grapevine. Here, I am learning, people are everything.

I asked everyone from little old ladies selling newspapers, to men with silver teeth smiling in doorways, to teenage girls with elaborate hairstyles and sky blue chucks working in trendy furniture stores. One woman my friend and I approached was standing in the doorway of her home, looking feisty and threatening to box her son's ears in terrifyingly rapid Spanish. We were certain that she had the ideal location in mind (if not also the answer to the meaning of life) as a knowing smile stretched across her face and she began to nod. Unfortunately, her classically machismo husband emerged from the house at just that moment and seemed bent on sending us away with no information at all. Dejected, we began to wander down the street when we heard a desperate hissing behind us. There she was, looking cheeky and full of information that might just lead to the perfect casa de Oaxaca for yours truly . . .

Of course, I make an idiot out of myself on a regular basis—apparently "soy tranquila" is a bit more appropriate than my unsuspectingly scandalous "soy facil" character testament when asked about my daily needs. So far, I have told people that I am pregnant and that I need to give them a bath, among other things. But, in the end, scandalous Spanish is still Spanish, no? Ándale!

I have faith that everything is going to work out in the end. The time is growing nigh to leave behind my hostel and sleepless nights cuddling my laptop and sharing a room with eight or ten exotic, lithe, wizened travelers of every sex speaking only remotely recognizable languages and wearing nothing but their underwear much of the time. Long live the world traveler!

Starbucks, The Event

Back in the motherland, Starbucks is the most popular stop-off for the harassed, office-bound proletariat seeking a pick-me-up. It is a casual gathering place and an ideal study spot for those needing just enough commotion to concentrate. Certainly, no one would bat an eye at a patron clad in Juicy sweats and Uggs, sans make-up and hair a little wayward from the previous night’s festivities.

In Mexico, however, Starbucks is not merely a place . . . it’s a destination.

In the cosmopolitan centers of our southern neighbor, you will be looked at askance if you dare enter this hallowed coffee ground without proper prior coiffing. Any day of the week, entry warrants high heels, designer jeans, suits, big earrings, shoes shined, hair down and eyelashes up. Estas listo? Don’t be surprised if the place is jumping at 10 o’clock at night and the people appear one mocha blanco away from the Latin Grammy’s. Don’t be surprised if the music picks up and the making-out begins. And don’t be surprised if that suave sophisticate you met out salsa dancing the night before asks you on a date to the site of the most recognizable café brand on the face of the earth. He isn’t insulting you, ladies, he’s wooing you.

Indeed, Seattle might have given the world something to help it endure the day’s ridiculousness, however over-priced and socio-economically controversial, but Mexico has made it pure legend.

A Little Crude, A Little Political

Well, after hitting peak oil production 40 years ahead of schedule, and falling into a rapid decline over the past six months, there is talk amongst the jefes de Mexico about the necessity of privatization for survival. The time span? Word on the street is two months, mas o menos, and then adios PEMEX (world's tenth largest oil producer) as we know it.

Technically, what has been polished off is the easily-accessible crude oil closest to the earth’s surface. Digging deeper, however, is expensive, so the most obvious, if not the most palatable recourse for the state, is to open up the bidding to foreign investors. Alas, as with anything in Mexico, there are two sides to the coin. In this case, the views of two presidents; yes, two. Like America’s Bush/Gore debacle of 2000, the Mexicans had their own almost equal split between Felipe Calderón, of the conservative PAN (Partido Acción Nacional) in the north and Andrés Manuel López Obrador of the uh, not so conservative Partido de la Revolución Democrática, or PRD in the south (Oaxaca, Chiapas, etc., read ‘the poorer states’). Rather than send one of them packing, it has worked out that Obrador essentially controls and governs the southern states. Needless to say, "las adelitas" (a group of woman who follow Obrador and carry a great deal of influence . . . named for las cucarachas de Poncho Villa—yes, our hero was quite the ladies' man and had many women supporters back cerca de 1810) are very strongly against the privatization of oil, seeing that the people of Mexico who need it the most will get even less of anything once control of the invaluable resource shifts to foreign hands. The PRD, painfully leftist, are said to be a little less corrupt and a little harder working than PAN, so they fight the good fight, but lack, of course, any real influence in congress.

Now, if one really wants to talk money and power in Mexico today, the only words to know are “Carlos Slim”. Carlos "Slim" Helu, originally from Lebanon, controls all telecommunication in Mexico, including Telmex and Movistar. In addition, he controls Banamex (banks) and the concessions for every Wal-mart in the country. On top of the telecom, the banks, the Wal-marts, and the other American stores, he also has his hand in the pharma industry and other consumables. If you drink a cup of coffee here, you are putting money straight into his pocket. Like Proctor and Gamble products around the world, practically everything one touches here in Mexico is somehow tied to Slim. He is reported to be the richest man in the world, making Bill Gates and Warren Buffet look like untouchables. His competition? Nada. Any student of economics need only to hop on a plane to see a big, thriving monopoly in front of their very eyes.

The best bit is that the people think he's great . . . a real philanthropist because he lives in Mexico City and pays taxes like a Mexican. Es muy loco, no?

Maybe if AT&T had been left to its own devices for a little while longer, the situation might have looked something like this? I just hope Slim decides that modern plumbing for all of Mexico is a viable investment. That space could be worth watching.