Surviving a Temazcal Ceremony in Tulum: A Sweat Lodge Experience with Alex Walker
I sit and look at half a coconut shell filled with dry corn kernels, lentils, and black beans. I am in the Mexican jungle and just had Montezuma's revenge in the bathroom. Now I sit in a circle of people in Tulum, blissfully unaware of what’s about to happen. I can’t feign being in squalor. My boyfriend and I are at a bougie yoga wellness resort about to embark on a Temazcal ceremony. These giant jungle holistic healing resorts are a dime a dozen in Tulum. This one is called Holistika and is close to the extravagant hotel complex we patronize. We ate the cactus ceviche and drank the lime coconut chia pineapple juice while swimming in the cenote. Is this me? These yippie luxuries are so nice. Pass the kratom drink. Give me my Free People foldable rancher hat.
The Temazcal ceremony is in a sweat lodge. “Beware!”, I was warned. People died in one of these in 2009 when an overzealous guru’s temperatures meant to simulate hell left people in comas in the name of spiritual cleansing.
The omnipotent fortune teller Google says it gets up to 120 degrees. I am nervous. I am expecting to be miserably hot for an hour. My boyfriend sits next to me. He is excited and encouraging. We make our offering. We set our intentions. We seek death says the shaman, but not literally ensures the translator. I am ready to get this over with. We file into the lodge.
There is a sermon/dharma talk about observation. An avid meditator, I am familiar with this concept. Then the hot coals come. “Caliente” the shaman says. I know this word because of a Pitbull song. I see the hot coals drop into the fire pit. They look like lava rocks. The thick steam starts to heat the igloo.
The bench I sit on is cool. It is a saving grace. The first session doesn’t feel too bad, definitely not 120 degrees, maybe not even 100. The steam comes when the shaman and his translator pour buckets of water over the coals.
It smells like vanilla black tea. I relish the aroma. The mild waters hit me as it pours. I have a fear of scalding hot droplets torturing me in the name of enlightenment. Why is pain necessary for samadhi? I have fasted, sat in hours contemplative silence, and now heat all to find this connection with the atman, my deepest self.
My boyfriend asks to go to the banos. He leaves almost immediately. The session continues as the curtain over the door closes and makes the clay hot igloo pitch black. I am wondering if he is okay, but I lay back. Between the darkness and the sermon, I am not getting out of here anytime soon. Call and response chanting starts. I enjoy this even though it’s in a Mayan language, and I have no clue what’s going on. I love kirtan. I love Bhakti yoga and using my voice to raise my vibration and show my devotion. I could be saying hail seitan for all I know, but it feels inclusive to chant in unison.
The next session my boyfriend comes back in. He said he couldn’t breathe and panicked. The instructor tells him to lay on the ground. The shaman asks him if he really can't breathe, if the blockage is real. “Oh it’s real”, he says. Everyone laughs, and he leaves again.
I feel bad that he left, but I feel a pull to stay. My intention is to let go of anger and resentment towards someone from my past.
We start the second session. I am still nervous about my boyfriend being gone. He was more into signing up than I was. I wonder if I should leave too. At the end of this session, I tell them I want to check on my boyfriend. The shaman says if I leave, it is for me. We do not say sorry, and we do not justify or judge our decisions. Am I martyring myself by thinking I need to be with him? The shaman yells to him, “Está bien?” he asks him. “Si.” “Your boyfriend is fine,” says the translator. I stay. I must finish. Everyone claps when I return to my position.
We do four sessions. In the beginning of the third, he asks us to think of an image of love. My kind boyfriend’s face at my door when I am upset comes to mind.
I let myself marinate in the feeling of metta. The sensory deprivation is essential, but the total darkness overwhelming. I have no idea how much time has passed. 30 minutes, 3 hours, who knows?
I breathe and try to relax. Laying down helps. She asks us to expand our arms and receive love into our hearts. I am happy to have more surface area touching the cool clay.
It is not as hot as I had pictured, and this soothes me. She opens the door and says it’s the last session. There is no breeze, just light and more lava rocks. I decide to stick it out. We chant and sing in English. “Mother I feel you beneath my feet”. I try to chant, but my voice is gone. This makes no sense. Don’t singers steam their vocal cords? Nothing comes out when I open my mouth. What is going on with my throat?
The shaman reminds us it is night outside, but a new day for us. They open the door to leave, and I am the first to go. I drink some juice and shower. I am soaking wet. He says we lost two liters of water. I believe it as my entire body is sticky.
Did I see god? No. Did I achieve nirvana? No. Was it a novel and bucketlist experience? Si.
