Del Lago, my go-to cafe, is currently experiencing a broken coffee machine and defective internet (hello there, Guatemala). So I've returned, reluctantly, to Circles. Two Guatemalan boys hammer bamboo into a weathered 2x4 in front of me, makeshift measuring the poles and chatting in Spanish in between strokes. A wet, gangly German Shepherd puppy playfully attacks a full-grown street dog (they're about the same size). The mother who won't vaccinate her baby because her "intuition says no" sits with a group of other mothers, babies climbing over laps, chubby fingers reaching out towards the yapping dogs.
I've been experiencing intense ups and downs, as of late. Many of which are related simply to the life of a work-exchanger, and many of which are uniquely related to San Marcos la Laguna, radical hippies, and life at The Yoga Forest.
I was relocated the other day. I didn't know when I'd be relocated until the day before. Just had to be ready to move... which makes it rather impossible to feel at home. Nor did I know where I'd be relocated to. Without bothering to check in about what option would work best for me, the manager just popped me down to the two person tent at the bottom of the stairs. And not at the bottom of a couple dozen, average sized stairs. At the bottom of fifty plus, gigantic stairs. The kind so steep that my damaged meniscus is already twinging from trudging up and down the absurd monsters once a day.
Now I'll have to do it two or three times per day.
At least my ass will be a work of art by the end of my time here. Holy bananas.
The three hundred hour teacher training started a couple of days ago. Eight women (some with boyfriends in tow) moved into cabañas and tents scattered around The Forest. Joining them is the owner herself, who's taken up residence with her fiancé and perpetually crying baby in a spacious room above the office. I led the six thirty am meditation and yoga class this morning, so I needed to quickly step into the office and grab the speaker (where the manager had requested I keep it).
"No one's allowed to come in here," Blake (another volunteer) mumbled from his bed in the office.
"Are you kidding?"
"No, it wakes up the baby," Blake gestured vaguely towards the room above us, where the owner, her fiancé, and their perpetually crying baby were sleeping. "You're not allowed to be in here now."
"But..." I trailed off, angry and confused.
The office is the only space at The Forest where volunteers are allowed to use their laptops. Their phones. It's the only space wherein we can write family, connect with loved ones, keep up with our lives. We're here for three to six months, for the love of all things dairy. Try to understand. Jesus. We're not here for a short silent meditation retreat, a three week yoga course, or any of that. We're here for an extended period of time, and as such, we have different needs.
I'm so. Fucking. Angry.
We're not paid. Which is fine, but we have to find another way to make ends meet. So because we're not paid, Blake has to teach English classes online. He needs access to the office. But taking it away without even listening to him... without allowing him to voice his needs... without discussing other options... is just... dehumanizing. And now the poor guy has to walk down the fucking mountain at five forty-five every morning or he'll lose his online teaching job. A job he's spent months pinning down.
So. Fucking. Angry.
I feel like we're unheard. Like management doesn't even care to hear us. This makes me wonder what they're going to take away next without letting us know. Without allowing us to be part of the discussion.
I just want to scream, "HELLO! WE HAVE TO LIVE HERE TOO!"
But do I have to live here?
Nope. I definitely don't.
I'm not gonna tolerate this.
I contacted a hostel in Antigua today. Asking if they would accept me as a yoga teacher, massage therapist, and artist. Letting them know I'd be available in March and April for sure, but that I might be available sooner, should my present situation not work out.
Something dramatic would have to happen at this point. I'm not happy. And I'm not living with meaning.
As a volunteer, sometimes I'm treated like a member of the family. A person with unique needs, wants, offerings, and with whom any changes should be discussed. To make sure, you know, the changes work with me. As a person with unique needs, wants, and offerings.
And sometimes, I'm treated like a non-human. A cog in a machine. Like I had to leave my soul at the door. Like I'm someone whose opinion doesn't matter. My unique needs and wants don't play into the decision making process at all.
'Cos I'm just a volunteer. Expendable. Replaceable. Whatever.
The Yoga Forest isn't the place it was when I was here last. Which makes sense. Nothing stays the same, and I didn't expect that it would. But the substantial shifts during the last two and a half years have destroyed the atmosphere that I loved so much. The Forest has virtually dropped its permaculture program (although it still advertises it online), which was what resonated with me so strongly in the first place (permaculture, not false advertising). The combination of yoga and permaculture created the most perfect harmonious kind of life in which I've ever participated.
Something about the permaculture program grounded the yogis. The permaculture students weren't striving towards enlightenment, getting lost inside themselves and becoming unavailable to others. They were simply striving to understand how different organisms can work together in a way that brings out the best of each.
For me, that's the most important thing. How can we work together to bring out the best in each other? That needs to be the question we ask.
San Marcos la Laguna is making me lose my bananas. Not all of them, but... I'm getting awfully close. I have maybe one or two bananas left. Every time I overhear a Caucasian person introduce him/herself using some Sanskrit name, I lose another banana.
I was at lunch the other day with an Indian friend I'd met in Antigua; a chap named Nimish. We were scanning the menu (full of açai berries, turmeric, and spirulina) and noticed that the owner's name was listed at the bottom.
"Is this you?" Nimish asked the Caucasian fellow behind the counter, glancing quizzically at the name on the menu.
"Yes, that's me,"
"It sounds like an Indian name. How did you get it?"
"Yeah, I got it at a naming ceremony in Costa Rica. In Sanskrit, it means..."
I blocked the rest out. I couldn't bear to hear this American sounding hippie explaining Sanskrit names to my Indian friend.
So. Those are some of my downs.
My ups, what keeps me going and convinces me to stay for just another day, are the meaningful connections with guests and other volunteers.
A guest named Amanda, who shared her unbelievable story of living with Lyme disease. How she'd learned to find it fascinating instead of debilitating. How she'd stopped resenting the invaders in her body, re-framing her outlook as "this is a body that we all share. This body isn't me. It's just something I live in. And now we're all living here together."
A guest named Becca. Who opened up about her quarter-life crisis. Who sat and chatted with me for hours about the monumental decisions she was in the process of making.
A guest named Nacho. Well, a guest named Ignacio, but when none of us could pronounce it with the Spanish accent (Ignathio), he generously allowed us to call him "Nacho." I organized some Thai Massage workshops (I was feeling desperate to share), and Nacho decided to thank me with a trip to Cafe El Artesano.
I've traveled to 38 countries.
Cafe El Artesano may very well be one of my favorite places. In all 38 countries. And Nacho may very well be one of my favorite people.
"Did you make a reservation?" I asked Nacho, worried that he might have forgotten. Cafe El Artesano is one of the very few places around the lake which requires a reservation.
"I think so..." he absently replied, reading something on his phone.
Oh dear. Well, if he didn't make a reservation, the worst that happens is that I get to spend the afternoon with a very nice Spaniard in a fantastic little village. No cheese, but good company. It'll be fine.
We loaded onto the boat bound for San Juan at around 11:45.
San Juan and San Marcos are lakeside neighbors, so the journey across the quiet, polluted lake took a mere ten minutes.
"Can you smell cheese?" Nacho asked after we'd disembarked.
"Yes, Nacho. I smell cheese. Oof. I can't wait."
"I think this must be where we're sitting," Nacho led me to gingham covered table.
He had indeed made a reservation.
I'm... goodness... I'm going to cry.
I didn't cry. But I gave Nacho an enormous hug.
"Don't act too happy," Nacho warned me with a smile. "I wrote them that your cat just died and told them to be very nice to you. So if you act too happy... they might think...."
I had a hard time not acting too happy. Especially when the cheese plate arrived.
And the meat plate arrived...
It was all so delicious that I probably would have been this happy even if my imaginary cat had died.
Nacho bought a bottle of Tempranillo. We ate cheese, drank wine, tried over twenty different kinds of locally cured meats, and chatted for three and a half hours. After which we took the boat back to San Marcos, and then Nacho continued on to Panajachel.
Yup. It's connections like these that make me want to keep going. That give me energy and hope. That make me feel like I am indeed on a path that's good for me. And good for those around me.
But... I'm not going to stay in a place where I don't feel heard and where I have to wait for people like Nacho to arrive in order to experience meaningful connections. I want more of a community feel within The Yoga Forest. I don't want to look to the outside. I want to look to Bre, Kayla, Rachel, Blake, and Nele. Other volunteers who are absolutely lovely, brilliant, caring people... but with whom I still don't feel the sense of synergy or camaraderie I crave.
I'll give the Yoga Forest a couple more weeks. I'll try to discuss my issues with the new manager. I'll give this place space to change, not holding on to any of the resentment I've felt in the last couple of weeks.
And then we'll see. I won't stay at a place where I feel like I have to leave my soul at the door.
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