Snorting Chiles and Heatstroke.
“This is a sweat lodge ceremony steeped in traditions of the local indigenous peoples of the region. There is an amazing continuum of unbroken culture here that goes back thousands of years. This is modern Christian Mexico, but it is bonded to its ancient heritage by these ceremonies and old world gods.”
BLOG POST #015 - Snorting Chiles and Heatstroke
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
It turned out Antonia was going to her niece's wedding in the next few days, and she was stressed about buying a dress. At the same time she was confronting the usual human feelings like; age, weight, and overall health. I tell her that I'll go shopping with her, and we'll figure it out together.
Never mind being objectively pretty, Antonia is such a good soul and a kind human. From her big hugs, to her big laughs, to her big boobs—everything about Antonia is big. She is full of passion and love for everything around her. She is truly beautiful. We just needed to find something that matches her energy and style.
I'm a good wingman in these situations. I am not in the business of patronization or insincerity. If it looks bad, I'll tell her it looks bad. The trick is helping her highlight her own strengths and exercising the gentle art of supporting her own natural self-confidence.
I do love getting myself into odd situations, out of my own element and norm. A month ago, I would not have foreseen myself shopping for just the right gown that conveys "elegant, yet modestly sexy Latina auntie."
Before long, we have made the selection, and Antonia is poised to shine at this wedding. In the words of Andy Cohen, "Checkmate, chica."
Antonia looks ten years younger, and has a penchant for men fifteen years younger. Her open attitude about sexuality is on-brand with the rest of her emotional candor.
I have a great photo of her, mid-roar, laughing hard after telling me, "I used to be a slut."
I don't think she has any romantic ambitions at this wedding. She has always said that she is not terribly motivated to find a lover. But insists with confidence that there are no end of offers. Still, it is nice that she will have the opportunity to carry an aura of confidence and beauty at the big event.
She tells me, "Cuerrrrrro. I love you."
Antonia has promised to take me to a Temezcal about an hour outside the city where her friends run a healing center.
This is a sweat lodge ceremony steeped in traditions of the local indigenous peoples of the region. There is an amazing continuum of unbroken culture here that goes back thousands of years. This is modern Christian Mexico, but it is bonded to its ancient heritage by these ceremonies and old world gods.
Before anything starts, there are various enhancements and psychedelics on offer. A few I wasn’t familiar with, and of course, the world-famous ayahuasca was on deck for a more enlightened experience. I recognize its place in these traditions and I know of its rising respect within medical science. But that stuff is not for me. I don't like the idea of mixing chemicals in my brain through such aggressive and artificial means, when there is so much wonder to be found before me, in everyday ordinary life. Maybe I'll try it one day, but not today.
However, I do participate in the short cleansing ceremony while we all wait for the main event. This involves a rapid-fire burst of coffee and some other herb blasted up the nostrils. It feels like a punch in the nose, but five times more intense. My eyes water and I am a little dizzy. After the initial shock wears off, all sorts of things start happening to my sinuses, ears, throat and lungs.
I have a good puke. My nose flows freely for the next thirty minutes. I need an urgent bathroom run. I begin to see why it is called "cleansing" when everything comes out of everywhere all at the same time.
Everyone was hanging around waiting as the fire pit heats up rocks that will be used for the sweat lodge later. The group has grown to fifteen or twenty people, when a ritualistic dance starts up. Several participants in traditional Olmec dress play drums and wave rattles, alongside every manner of percussive seed pods.
This is a spiritual event among spiritual people, one of which is me. So, without being disrespectful or disruptive, I join a few of the other onlookers to participate in the dance for a few minutes. It is very moving to be a part of a ceremony that has been practiced for many generations.
Then, it's time for the actual sweat lodge meditation.
The building is the shape of a five-foot tall cinnamon roll, about the same diameter as a small above-ground pool. I can sense everything about to go down is going to be intense. There is a door on one side, but no windows or holes, or so much as a vent on the ceiling.
I follow the instructions and ask for permission before entering, then crawl inside. I move around the edge toward the back, following the person in front of me. There is plenty of height for me to hobble on all fours, but not nearly enough clearance to stand, even if I was bent at the waist. Everyone takes their own spot around the curved wall, as the rest of the people behind us fill out an inner ring.
Once everyone is situated, the superheated rocks are brought in one by one. They glow bright with fiery orange veins and throw up sparks as the sharp corners roll across the ground to the center.
The door is pulled shut and the entire vibe shifts with a jolt of darkness and silence. A flood of heat rushes over my body as the rocks do their job. After a minute, the leaders start a rhythmic chant in a mix of Spanish and ancient languages.
I am suddenly reminded of how much I hate bagpipes. They are part of a fine tradition in Gaelic countries. But for complex reasons relating to my family's fake claims of Scottish-ness, and the strange ceremonial enthusiasm America has for the instrument, they very much annoy me.
However, even at a "fake-Scottish-themed," funeral in Ohio, the overwhelming wail of bagpipes conjures sadness from my core that I cannot hold back.
They must hit some resonant frequency that vibrates the human spleen just right to release some ancient despair hormone. All I know, if that first note takes me by surprise, I will burst into tears.
For some reason, this experience has that same emotional lightning-rod connection to my spine, but on many more levels. The resounding base of pure human voice rolling through this earthen cave makes me instantly sad, and I cry like a baby.
But I also feel euphoric, grateful, strong and heartbroken...all at once.
Most of all, I feel at peace.
I sat straight-backed against the outer wall with my legs crossed, trying to relax and taking deep breaths. The heat is intense enough to make me worried about suffocating. I am aware of my diaphragm muscles expanding and contracting, but the air is so hot that I can't feel any flow passing in and out of my lungs. It is a freaky sensation, but I sense that I am ok.
Voices fill the space and surround our bodies with solemn mantras, as they echo off the walls. A river of sweat flows down the middle of my back. My nose runs and tears pour out of me as I cry, and then cry some more.
There are moments when I panic, and I think I cannot take it any longer. I do a side-eye self-system check, decide I am doing fine, and I stay the course as the anxiety passes. Then I am back in my zone.
I have brought in a few things with me;
I have a stone that my oldest kiddo gave me as good luck. I brought the spare part of a snake hook from my middle son. I have a little race car that my youngest and I used to play with. Finally, and like always, I have a Red Wings hockey puck.
This is a running joke. But it is also dead serious. It is a cultural symbol of my hometown, my sport, my team and my tribe. But it is also a spiritual symbol of humor and connection to other people. However, this can come off as disrespectful sometimes. I get it, I suppose.
But, what is more spiritual than laughter and joy?
A wave of activity pulls me from my thoughts as the rocks are turned to stoke a fresh wave of heat. More prayers and mantras are read.
The door occasionally swings open with a burst of blinding light, as some people seek to get away from the heat. At one point the door is kept open for a while and I open my eyes to discover that most everyone is gone. It seems like this thing is winding down, and I definitely got what I came for.
In order to leave, I must first recite a blessing to ask permission from the god Ometeotl.
Since spirituality transcends language, I feel entitled to make it my own. One after another, everyone said it in Spanish, but I did mine in English.
I crawl to the door, bow low and recite, "With permission to exit, and good tidings on all of my relationships, I will now exit, Ometeotl."
I have no concept of time, but my phone says I was there for two hours. I feel like I just woke up from a year-long coma, participated in a five-hour orgy, then ran a marathon. I am physically and emotionally exhausted.
The experience in the ceremony left me with an untroubled mind and allowed me to sleep like a baby that night. I carried that sense of peace with me for the next few days.
BLOG POST #014 - The Border and Some Good People Too: Part 4
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
NEXT POST COMING SOON: December 18, 2024
