De Sol a Sol -- Puerto Escondido, Mexico

A day at Casa Kei starts off with an abundance of cocks doodledooing and dogs bow-wowing.

But that is the problem of La Punta. Every single corner of the town has an abundance of cocks and dogs. And every single cock and dog greets the sun (and the moon. And the stars. And each other. And the vagabond yoga teacher from Colorado who just wants to eat her banana in peace) with excessively enthusiastic doodledooing and bow-wowing.

Come on, guys. Relaja la raja. 

I roll out of bed and stumble directly over to the coffee machine.

This is how a day should start. Con cafe. Con cafe con leche. Si. 

Sometimes Pepe takes me to see the sunrise.

"The world can end," Pepe says as we watch the sun. "I have a daughter. I have a house with an ocean view. I have this sunrise. I could die tomorrow."

Sometimes we just sit around the checkered table and enjoy our coffee.

I slow down. I breathe. I relax. It's impossible to move quickly in Pepe's jungle treehouse (as is evidenced by the construction that's been going on for ages. "I'd wanted it to be done before the holidays," Pepe wrinkles his forehead. "But I guess now we're just early for spring break. This is Puerto time.").

"Should I get another banana for breakfast?" I ask Pepe once we finish sharing the banana I'd saved from yesterday.

Pepe winces.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a real breakfast. Not a Sanctuary breakfast."

It's my turn to wince.

"They ruined me, didn't they?"

Pepe nods.

I sigh.

I nod.

"I'll go get some eggs."

Pepe hands me some money and I walk down the street to the frutas y verduras shop. Where they also have eggs, tortillas, beans, cheese and many other staples of the Mexican diet. The owner of the shop recognizes me as the awkward woman who always buys one banana for a peso and is slightly disconcerted when I purchase dos tomatos, cinco huevos and ask whether or not she tienes aguacates.

The woman did not have avocados.

This is Mexico. I didn't know that running out of avocados was possible. I thought it would be like running out of mountains in Colorado. 

"Do you want to impress me with your cooking skills?" Pepe asks as I gingerly place the bag of eggs and tomatoes beside the outside stove.

"Definitely."

We sit around the checkered table, pour Valentina over our eggs and scoop them up with tostadas.

I'm still getting accustomed to this lack of fork business.

"The quesadilla lady knows that I'm still figuring out my fingers," I confided in Pepe as I picked a piece of egg off my leg with a servilleta. "So she always brings me a fork. I lose Mexican points every time I go there."

I drain my coffee cup and settle back into my chair.

"Okay, let's pretend to do some work," Pepe stacks the plates and carries them to the outdoor sink. "You cooked so I'll clean."

I grab a plastic bag, a small hand rake and some gloves. The result of having a jungle treehouse is lots and lots of leaves to pick up. Every day. But having a jungle treehouse is totally worth any amount of leaves to rake.

"Have you seen the broom?" Pepe asks as I look up from the trunk of a palm tree.

"Over there," I point to the outdoor kitchen. "By the sink."

"Ah. Another Mexican saying from my mother. "No la viste torque no tine falda." It means, you do not see it because it is not wearing a skirt."

Pepe sweeps the path and rakes the road in front of the hostel.

"This is my meditation."

anything in this space is a meditation. It's just so stinkin' peaceful. Even with the roosters. 

In the afternoon, I sometimes go to Amoki. I sometimes go to the beach. I sometimes stay at Pepe's checkered table and Skype friends whilst reading Tina Fey's Bossypants and working on my blog.

Wipe Out passes out on my legs.

For the entire afternoon.

Yes.

This?

This is life.

This is how we roll at Casa Kei.

We make full breakfasts, pretend to do work and nap with kitties.

This sort of day suits me just fine. 

I teach a yoga class at Akumal Hostel in the evening.

For which I get paid. Enough to support my blossoming tlayuda habit.

Pepe gives me a Spanish class in the evening.

Yo pienso que -- I think
El regresara en un ratito -- he'll be back in a little while
El rato -- similar to mañana. Very important for Puerto Escondido
Que tipo -- what kind?
No entiendo -- I don't understand
No me chingas -- give me a break

Pepe usually makes a drink after the dinner.

"Want a pińa colada for dessert?"

"Absolutely."

Yes. De Sol a Sol (from dawn to dusk). Life at Casa Kei is something I enjoy. Every single moment. 

The Ocean Won't Dry -- Puerto Escondido, Mexico

I'm starting this post from the checkered table of Casa Kei. Two Spanish acrobats discuss their plans for travel, I sip on a fresh "coco", Liz works on a painting and Pepe flutters about, attending to the needs of his new guests.

Well. Perhaps flutters is a strong word. I don't believe anyone in Puerto Escondido is capable of true "fluttering". Puerto Escondido is a land of moseyers. Of amblers. Of meanderers and dilly-dallying hippies.

I felt like I was a fairly slow mover (according to American standards...). And then I came here. And still find myself a tad surprised when Pepe taps me on the arm as we scuff through the sand and reminds me to take it easy.

"El mar no se va a secar."

(The ocean won't dry)

Maybe this will be the place that slows me down...like Devon. Devon slowed me to an absolute crawl. 

It wouldn't be such a terrible thing to learn to mosey again. 

I'm so happy to be at Casa Kei. To no longer be a part of The Sanctuary and participate in awkward morning meetings wherein we all sat in a circle and tried not to volunteer for work. We would look at each other and away and down. Then Pete or Noa would inevitably turn to Juan (a university professor from Mexico who speaks poor English) and say, "Juan? Will you dry out the cow dung for the morning meditation?"

Juan would always nod his head yes.

And I would always feel bad. But not bad enough to volunteer to dry the cow dung.

When you feel like you're being taken advantage of and sucked dry, you start conserving energy. Feeling protective of your resources. Feeling resentment for every bit that's taken from you. . I don't mind chores and I love helping out, but I didn't like putting my energy into a place like The Sanctuary. Where locals were expected to volunteer their labor (or fired right before Christmas) and employees weren't even given their Christmas bonuses (something expected in Mexico) until they asked for them.

This place gets no more of me. 

I'd originally planned on living and volunteering with Pepe, but continuing to teach at The Sanctuary. But after I heard the Christmas bonus story, I decided I wanted to give that business no more of my energy.

Minerva said something to me once that resonated profoundly.

"Aimee, you have a lot to give. But you need to make sure that the people you're giving to will continue to give. The gift can't stop with them."

I feel like I owe the universe a lot. A lot, a lot, a lot. I owe the universe for Jonas' kindness when my 300 dollars were stolen. I owe the universe for Cathy's kindness in filling her fridge with cheese and noosa yogurt and letting me live in her spare bedroom for a month and a half. I owe the universe for Janet and Dave and Troy and --

-- and I want to be giving back something.

But what am I giving to? 

I don't feel like The Sanctuary passes on the energy of its volunteers. But I feel like Casa Kei does.

This place is WAY more healing and restorative than "The Healing Haven." This is where I want to put my energy. 

Pepe cracks open a "coco". With a machete. Like a real man. It is my new goal to learn to use a machete like a real man. 

Liz works on her koi mandala. 

Mexican spices/sauces that make everything better.

The coco. I like that it has scruff. And is so delicious and refreshing. And costs about a dollar. Things like this make me want to live in Mexico forever. 

Pepe's cats scare off all the spiders. And cuddle all the guests. They're kind of perfect. 

 I'm finishing this post from the same checkered table.

It's been nearly 24 hours since I left The Sanctuary.

Girl's got no regrets.

Pepe took me to watch a sunrise this morning over La Barra.

(we made Casa Kei coffee to go)

This was my sunrise.

It doesn't need words.

"What do you usually have for breakfast?" Pepe asked after we'd returned to Casa Kei.

I glared at him.

"Let me rephrase that," Pepe laughed. "What would you like to have for breakfast?"

"Not a smoothie," I said.

"I usually have eggs. Do you want some eggs?"

"Pepe... I would love some eggs."

It's juice fasting day at The Sanctuary. It's eggs and coffee at Casa Kei. I feel like this is similar to Eddie Izzard's options of cake or death. Which I'm sure Pete does as well. But we just have very different ideas as to which is cake and which is death. Life lesson: always be on the same page about which is cake and which is death. 

Lunch was chorizo tlayuda at Amoki. I met with "my people" from The Sanctuary and chatted about goings on.

Goings on = mass exodus. Only one or two volunteers plan on staying.

And while it is somewhat validating to understand that I'm not the only one who feels the experience was disappointing, it is somewhat heartbreaking to see such disappointment.

But it's also inspiring to see that these sassy ladies (and Clinton) don't take no shit, either.

Relaja la Raja -- Puerto Escondido, Mexico

I'm starting this post from Cafe Amoki. Soft music plays in the background, roosters crow and blackbirds screech. It's before ten, so the day is still fairly cool and a soft breeze blows through the palms.

Paradise. So much paradise happening right here. Even with roosters. 

Seven guests/volunteers from The Sanctuary are gathered around two of Amoki's plastic tables.

I'm being tremendously antisocial. Writing my blog and occasionally chiming in with a, "wait, you're leaving today? nooooo...."

The main reason I came to The Sanctuary was because I wanted to create a community. But everyone I connect with seems to take off immediately. I'm not used to being on this side of the relationship -- the one who stays. I don't think I like being the one who stays. 

I might have been the saddest lady in the world when Minerva left me.

Thanks for sharing Christmas morning rainbows.

I'm repacking Ellie and leaving the Sanctuary tomorrow. I was scheduled to stay and volunteer until May 15th, but the rigid structure of the facility doesn't quite jive with my hairy hippie self. I'm someone who needs more room in her life. I need to feel free to enter the kitchen whenever I'm hungry and I'm put off by the idea that my hunger is the result of some emotional problem.

umm... have you BEEN to my yoga classes? Girl needs calories. Girl cannot survive on spinach smoothies alone. 

I don't function well with a curfew and I don't want to feel pressured into participating in The Sanctuary's healing activities. Because many of the healing activities are simply not healing for me. Which is okay. We all heal differently because we've all had different experiences, developed different coping mechanisms and were born with very different bodies. I think that people who believe that they possess the perfect panacea for the world are full of ego and bologna.

Unless they're vegan. Then they're full of ego and tofu.

The Sanctuary is a place for sick people to come get better (although I'm not sure anyone here is actually qualified to treat sick people...).

I'm not a sick person. Sure, I struggle with psoriasis and joint pain here and there, but I know how to keep it under control. Sure, I struggle with feeling overwhelmed and  anxious from time to time, but who doesn't? So although I do understand that many of the rules are put into place for a reason and with healing intentions, they are not having the desired effect on me. They make me feel belittled, out of control and like I'm not allowed to know and act on what's best for me.

Example.

I'm someone who functions best late at night and super early in the morning. Much of my work is done online. The internet here is shut off at 10:30 pm and doesn't come back on again until 6:30 am. For some, this might prove helpful and healing, but for me, it just rankles my nerves.

I'm not permitted to operate in the way that's best for me. And it's not even taken into consideration -- no compromise. 

I need to be in a place where there is space for compromise. So perhaps making a rule about lights off in the dorms, but internet available in the main room. But here? 

No compromise. No space. The rules are the rules are the rules. 

This is where the modem is kept. A timer is plugged into the cord and shuts off the power at 10:30. One of the other volunteers had to plan for a morning meditation class, so she unplugged the timer. This is The Sanctuary's solution. To put tape on the cupboard to keep us from opening it. There was no discussion -- just tape. This is when I felt so belittled that I no longer cared at all about my commitment to volunteer at this facility for five months. Screw that. Chafa. Muy, muy chafa. 

Which is kind of just filling me with resentment. I would understand if the place just didn't have internet -- I would go off and find an internet cafe and realize that the whole world isn't plugged in. Like Albania. But internet IS available here and the only reason we can't access it is because they don't believe it's good for us. 

Ach. Dislike. SO much disliking. 

The Sanctuary's rules are posted on the website, but the website is massive and fairly inaccessible. Whenever I tried to sift through all the little blog posts, my brain was so occupied not exploding that I didn't really focus on the bits of vital information.

Such as not being allowed in the kitchen after 8:00 pm. Such as the small portion sizes.

At The Sanctuary, we probably consume about 1200 calories a day -- if we're lucky. In order to get enough nutrition, we have to harass the tamale lady or purchase tlayudas at Amoki.

I work four hours a day, six days a week. I should be able to have my room and board covered. I should not have to leave the house and use my own money to buy extra food.

Nor should anyone else.

But even if you're aware of rules, you never know exactly how you're going to fit into a facility with such structure until you live by the facility's rules... and it didn't take me long to realize that the Sanctuary's rules are some I can't live by. Well... I could, but I'm not in the mood to try. I don't see the purpose in tolerating things I know aren't good for me at this point of my life.

I had a perfectly gorgeous life back in GJ (and I was in the process of developing a perfectly gorgeous life in Europe). A splendid place to live, dinner parties, an acro yoga community... if I'm leaving that gorgeous life, I want to be leaving it for something that is also a) spectacular or b) something that will help me learn and grow in a gentle way. I'm so done with violent learning curves. 

Maybe a program like this would be beneficial during a stage of life wherein I'm moving more slowly, meditatively, contemplatively... but now...

Girl's got passion. Girl wants to move. Girl wants to leave space for spontaneity.

And sometimes girl just wants to work on her blog at midnight and eat a fucking piece of cheese.

Nope. This isn't the place for me. And I'm not doing a good job making it the kind of place Pete wants it to be. It would be better for everyone if I packed up Ellie and moseyed on out. 

And although I do take responsibility for not sifting through the miasmic website more thoroughly, I don't take responsibility for the toxicity that permeates the grounds. Pete understands that a hearty percentage of his guests are unsatisfied with their experience at The Sanctuary, so he demands payment upfront. And if you leave early, your refund is a mere 30%.

I met several girls who were remarkably miserable at the Sanctuary, but couldn't leave because they knew they wouldn't be reimbursed and didn't have the funds to cover another place to stay.

My dorm was a roomful of women who were counting down the days until they could pack their bags and leave the Sanctuary in the dust.

And this is supposed to be a place of healing? 

To me, this seems like a place where volunteers are milked dry of energy, money and patience in the name of "healing".

Example.

Your first and final day at The Sanctuary are counted as "days off". I'm only permitted one day off a week. I took a sixteen hour bus ride from Puebla to Puerto Escondido, arrived after noon and was told that that afternoon was counted as my day off. Even though I was absolutely knackered and unable to do much of anything but nap for the remainder of the day.

What? 

And when they tell the organizers that their program is actually making them ill, the grand rebuttal is that the volunteers aren't being open enough. Or that their ego is getting in the way.

Or maybe... maybe your program has a few flaws that you might like to hammer out. 

So I'm moving into Casa Kei on Monday. I've experienced a few unpleasant volunteer situations in Europe, so my promise to myself on this trip was that I ever found myself in a situation which I didn't feel comfortable relating on my blog, it would be a sign to move on.

Girl's moving on.

I'll volunteer with Pepe, cleaning up around his hostel, greeting his guests and offering the occasional thai massage. I'll meet with some of the other volunteers for coffee at Amoki every now and again. I'll keep the acro jams up at the beach and I'll teach evening classes at a hostel down the road. I might bring yoga to a community library and teach to acro to kids every Saturday.

Which (because I can't speak Spanish) I will call, "superhero yoga".

Because when I tell kids to open up their arms and fly, I say, "Superman! BE SUPERMAN!"

Ach. Spanish. Needs to happen. 

Pepe has been helping with Spanish.

This was my lesson from yesterday:

Pues = so
Chafa = lame
Cruda = hungover (too many mojitos... crudas are definitely muy chafa)

Three very important verbs:

Ser = the permanent form of "be"

yo soy
tu eres
el/ella es
nosotros somos
ustedes son
ellos/ellas son

Yo soy Aimee. Yo soy una mujer. Yo soy enamorada con el queso.

Estar = impermanent form of "be"

yo estoy
tu estas
el/ella esta
nosotros estamos
ustedes están
ellos/ellas están

Yo estoy en Mexico. Yo estoy feliz. Yo estoy... umm... yo estoy... yo estoy...

I have SO much to learn. 

Hacer = to make/do

yo hago
to haces
el/ella hace
nosotros hacemos
ustedes hacen
ellos/ellas hacen

Hay = there is/there are

Hay muchos gallos en La Punta. MUCHOS GALLOS. Hacen un chingo de ruido.

(There are many roosters in La Punta. MANY ROOSTERS. They make a shitload of noise)

And special words for acro yoga (so I don't have to tell kids to be superman...):

Feet = pies
Hands = manos
Head = cabeza
Legs = piernas
Chest = pecho
Arms = brazos

Lift = levanta
Lower = baja
Open = abre
Close = cierra
Relax = relaja

Pepe is full of sayings. I love Pepe's sayings. After he taught me "relaja" (relax), he shared yet another saying from this part of Mexico.

Relaja la raja.

This is what you say to someone who's stressing out. Someone who's losing their bananas all over the place.

It literally translates into "relax the butt crack."

"Relaja la raja..."

Maybe that's what I don't like about this place. I feel like I can't relaja my raja. Even a little bit. Maybe that's why enemas are encouraged in this joint. To aid in relaxation of raja. 

Pepe took me for a swim in the ocean the other day. For those of you who know me (or have been reading my blog), you know that swimming is, ahem, not my forte. I climb rocks. I eat cheese. I do badass yoga arm balances.

I do not swim.

I do not sink, but I neither do I swim.

I especially do not swim in oceans.

But Pepe loves the ocean almost as much as he loves his hostel treehouse with an ocean view, so he wanted to introduce me to the waves.

And because a) I would very much like to be acquainted with the waves and b) I love experiencing the loves of other people, I went swimming with Pepe.

And I had a bit of a panic attack.

Pepe did his best to calm me down, but the current had swept me out much further than I'd thought. One moment my feet were on the sand and the next, solid footing was ages away. AGES.

And girl lost her bananas. And her breath. And control of her body.

Pepe waved down some surfers and asked if we could rest on their board.

I struggled to find my breath. Even though I knew I was safe with the board, I couldn't stop hyperventilating.

What's happening to me? Why... can't I... control this? 

Fear flooded my body and I coughed and sputtered saltwater.

I did not relaja my raja.

A lifeguard ended up taking me to shore on his board. Where I sat on the beach with Pepe and did my best to stop shaking.

This is a fear I want to explore... but gently. So gently. Slowly. Softly. I need to be able to let go and not fight the current. I need to learn to flow with the rhythm of the ocean. And I won't be able to hear the rhythm of the ocean if the irregular pounding of my frightened heart drowns out the sound. 

Girl might be wading for a while... while she learns to relaja her raja. 

MANOS AQUI! -- Puerto Escondido, Mexico

It's Christmas.

Christmas evening.

I sit on my bunk, propped against the small headboard and right leg trying its best to wriggle down between the wall and the mattress.

When I get lonely, I like to wriggle myself into crooks and crannies. I grab the nearest Barbara and lose myself in the cushions of the closest couch.

I haven't got a couch in my room, though. I've got a bunkbed and a wall. Which makes for interesting snuggling.

I hear the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore.

It's like breathing. But more violent. And salty. Or a heartbeat... but one that seems to always and forever be a) in love or b) running away from a very large, voracious mammal. 

I hear the sound of dogs barking. The only time one does not hear the sound of dogs barking is during the heat of the day. During the heat of the day, dogs only glance up at you dolefully (when the sun isn't too strong). They whine pathetically (when the sun isn't too strong). And occasionally glare at each other (when the sun isn't too strong).

They only lift their haggard, skinny bodies when they need to flee the sun in search of new shade.

Only in Mexico. 

Today was my third Christmas spent away from my family. It was harder than Copenhagen but easier than Istanbul.

It didn't feel like Christmas.

The familiar makes Christmas feel like Christmas. Spending Navidad in Mexico robbed me of just about every familiar Christmas feeling.

Cold? 

Not even a little.  

Snow? 

See above. 

Stockings? 

I don't think I've seen a single person wear socks since I've been in Puerto Escondido. Sand and socks do not make good friends. 

Christmas tree? 

...mmm.... no... but there are all those trees bursting with coconuts. Coconuts... are Christmassy... yes? 

No. No, girl. That would be chestnuts. 

Oh man... I miss Istanbul's chestnuts. Turks may not celebrate Christmas, but GOD, they have divine roasted chestnuts. 

My boy sent me a Skype video of his family's beautifully decorated Christmas tree.

I sent him a video of my sunrise.

"I don't have a Christmas tree, but I do have this."

I've spent the last few days obsessively practicing yoga on the beach with Minerva.

And anyone and everyone else whom I can coerce into playing with me. Including small Mexican munchkins.

I'm learning bits and pieces of Spanish through trying to communicate with the strangers on my feet.

"AH! No! Manos aquí! MANOS AQUÍ!"

I am so clearly professional. And so totally worthy of the trust those giggling Mexican mamas are placing in me right now... 

The tamale lady (and her tamale family) hosted a community dinner on Tuesday. We met my acro munchkin from the beach and exchanged a very brief, "Hola! Feliz Navidad!"

Because I am incapable of anything else. Except for "manos aqui!" and "chido, wey".

Chido = cool

Wey = dude

Many of these events are hosted in the few days preceding Christmas. The whole community gathers for food and music and piñata busting.

This is our group from The Sanctuary. Juan, Lena, Maria, Kimmie, Cynthia, Clinton, Diane and a random creepy dude who crashed our Christmas dinner. But random creepy dude did help me tidy up after the meal (EPIC amount of dishes), so, I was somewhat grateful for his creepy presence.  

The tamale people! They branched out and made two cauldrons of pozole. They then told me that if I married their son, I could have access to pozole and tamales whenever I liked (although they did warn that I'd get a rather large belly). I told them that yoga would combat tamale belly -- so that wouldn't present a problem -- but that the boy I have in the states might present a problem. At this, they pointed to their smiling son and said, "No. No problem, he's not jealous." 

 Bill drove over from Mazunte to spend Christmas Eve with Minerva and me in La Punta. We went out for brunch tlayudas, did a bit of acro on the palapa at The Sanctuary and then strolled down Brisas de Zicatela for yet another jam.

I'm doing more acro here than I've done anywhere else. In my life. This. Is good. 

It was my last evening at the beach with Minerva, so although flying through poses with Bill and Malachi filled me with such joy, the thought of "last" pushed some of the joy out of my heart.

Minerva.

I've never met a woman with whom I've felt so deeply connected so quickly. She encouraged, inspired and loved all over me for the week and a half we spent together.

I'm the big sister of my family.

A big sister is something I've always wanted.

Minerva.

You might have just become my big sister (whether you like it or not. You don't get to choose family, right?).

I'm going to be thinking about you a lot in the weeks and months to come.

And I'll be happier to see you again (which is definitely going to happen) than I am to see a tlayuda on juicing day.

Bill. With swimsuit. Bill didn't wear his swimsuit for his swim the next day. I approved. I generally always approve when people don't wear clothes. 

A guitar was procured (along with a very nice fellow to play procured guitar) and hippy happened all over La Punta. 

And hippy kind of got out of control when a professional hang drummer appeared.

And created a video of yoga, ocean and drumming.

Bill doing therapeutics with Cynthia

Mmm... this is definitely where I belong. 

Minerva and Kimmy

Christmas Eve dinner was quite the event. Ayla and a few kitchen fairies had spent hours preparing sweet potatoes, raw cauliflower mash, some manner of raw nut balls, salad, mushrooms and a raw cheesecake.

Diane and Lena

Pete and Noa

Ayla, Juan and Clinton.

The meal was as tasty as meals can get with minimal help from the oven and zero help from animal products and alcohol.

Cleaning up after dinner was a beast, but a beast I had volunteered for (and as I mentioned previously, creepy dude did help me out for a few minutes... and then Juan helped. And Juan is a kitchen cleaning wizard. I believe that Juan is secretly a wizard of many things).

Desert and singing happened on the palapa.

A tlayuda with Bill.

A walk to the beach.

A Skype date or two.

It still doesn't feel like Christmas Eve. Nothing about this is familiar. No nostalgic chords were struck today to make me reminisce about my family and gifts and our exquisite lamb dinners. 

But damn, it was a fine day.