Semana Santa -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from the Submarine, the cluttered circus tent I've shared with Tammo for three and a half months of my five months at The Forest. However, I'm in the Submarine alone tonight (alone is a strong word. There are numerous non-human creatures skulking around), as my tentmate has currently abandoned me for a climbing adventure/visa run to Mexico.

Which makes me a little sad. I miss his company and I miss sharing incredulous looks when folks at the Forest begin to discuss the health benefits of fasting on urine. Over dinner.

Only in the Yoga Forest. 

The scorpions and spiders also miss Tammo. Since he's been here, these abhorrent arachnids have experienced occasional salvation from my merciless shoe. The nimble scorpion waiting for me on the door of my tent would have very much appreciated it if Tammo had not gone off to Mexico.

I would have very much appreciated the scorpion not being on the door of my tent.

Morose music from the myriad of churches down in San Marcos fills the night. As do crickets, about a zillion dogs barking at the same time (dogs in San Marcos have a lot to say), and the occasional lizard scurrying across the damp roof of the Submarine.

Today was the first real rain of the season. I woke up at 1:00 this morning to the novel sound of heavy, steady raindrops splattering against the tent's canvas.

And I stayed awake. Listening to the pitter-patter, splish-splash until 5:30, when my eerily consistent intestines sent me racing up the stairs to use the composting loo. After which I sat in the common area, watched the sunrise, and mulling over how and why everything at the Forest seems to have gone horribly awry for me.

There were a couple months here... part of November and December, some of January... wherein I felt really, truly happy. And things didn't get to me so much. I could sit down with a table full of people discussing the possibilities of using menstrual blood as face cream, and not feel isolated. Just a little grossed out. But in a funny way. 

And now... all these discussions in which I feel like I really can't partake -- except as the consistent "what-the-FUCK?" er, make me feel like I'm not supposed to be here. Like this isn't my tribe, per se. 

Which is a very hippie thing to say.

I think I felt happy during those months because I felt like I had a role. I was the Forest massage therapist, and that probably helped my sense of belonging. Even though I didn't resonate with most of the hippie philosophies floating around, I could still talk massage. 

But then James came. People stopped wanting Thai massages and started wanting the Rolfing that James offered. Which is fair. He was/is a phenomenal therapist. But it didn't do much for my confidence to see how quickly what I had to offer was dismissed. That, plus a few belittling remarks James rolled off his sleeve served to leave me feeling like what I had to offer was worthless. 

People gradually stopped buying my postcards. So the incredible high I felt from being a working artist faded away to a pretty crap low.

Teaching yoga became frustrating as I seemed to NEVER feel well. Always something wrong with my body. Giardia, post-antibiotics fatigue, a sinus-infection, giardia again, more post-antibiotics fatigue, another sinus infection/nose piercing infection. 

Teaching yoga became discouraging as the amount of people who've rolled up their mats and left my class grew to a number I needed two hands to count. 

People in San Marcos want Hatha. Kundalini. Sivananda. Yin. 

Power Vinyasa doesn't seem to have a place in this town. 

And now Luna is here. Offering her intuitive massage and metaphysical counseling. And business is booming. Which is wonderful for her, and I'm glad she's having so much success.

But it just shows me, really shows me, that what I have to offer doesn't seem to be wanted here.  

...

It actually seems somewhat miraculous that I even had my two months of "fitting" in the Forest. 

I'll be incredibly grateful for those two months and take the others as a lesson. Of what I won't be doing again anytime soon. Of what just isn't a good fit for me, as I am right now.

What I won't do again (until I accidentally find myself doing it. And then read this blog again and do some serious face-palming):

 -- I don't want to live for an extended period of time without having access to a kitchen. Cooking is far too important to this lady. Also, having coffee the way I like it in the morning is important (this may seem trivial, but you try living for five months without having coffee the way you like it in the morning). 

-- I'd rather not call a tent "home" again. A month is okay, sure. But five months of shaking out sheets for scorpions, having no electricity, and peeing in the dirt has gotten to me.

-- I'll try not to live in a community wherein I don't have a comfortable space that's mine. Sure, the Submarine is technically mine and Tammo's, but our beloved little tent turns into a veritable sauna during the day, which makes it rather inadequate as a space for "chilling".

Not having a space for me, a space I know I can always go to and be alone, has been thoroughly exhausting and overwhelming while living this community life. Especially as an introvert. Holy bananas. Do my introvert batteries need some serious recharge time.

-- I don't think I should try to feel at home in a place wherein I disagree so much with the prevailing philosophies. At first, I'd hoped the vast difference in lifestyle and philosophies wouldn't bother me -- that it would only challenge me to question my own worldview. Which it did, and that's all well and good. But five months of feeling like the outsider, the one who "doesn't quite get it", has been very isolating. 

-- l won't live in an area that capitalizes so heavily on spiritual tourism again. It's too demoralizing and gross.

You will never visit the touristic cities in India, Bourget. Ever. 

-- I keep saying this, but now I mean it (I keep saying that too): I'm done with work exchanges. Especially work exchanges wherein the bulk of the work is comprised of things I actively dislike.  

If I am going to clean up after thirty people, I'd like to get paid for that. 

In other news, this is the week of Semana Santa. And Guatemala goes bonkers for Semana Santa. Today is Good Friday, and epic, dirge-like music has been wafting up from town all day.

All. Day.

I feel like this music could be used in Ben Hur. I expect to see Charleton Heston's rugged face appearing over the stairs at any moment. 

I had the morning and afternoon off, so I joined a Yoga Forest guest for a quick excursion to San Juan. Where we chanced upon a religious parade.

SO. SERIOUS.

 

Here comes Jesus.

It seems like similar to Day of the Dead in Mexico, for Semana Santa, Guatemalans design elaborate carpets out of colored sand, rice, flowers, etc.

I led the Forest guest to several different Women's Cooperatives in search of the one I'd visited with Kayla and Anna months ago. And didn't end up finding it (surprise), but happened upon a few other shops every bit as good. 

That's one nice thing about being in a country where everyone sells pretty much the same thing. 

We browsed the cooperatives together, but when the guest decided to take a tour of how the fabric was made, I opted to head back into San Juan and have some much needed alone time in a cafe. But as I wandered through the city, I noticed (it was hard not to) the resounding sound of pounding drums emanating from the main church. Drums and something else... something that made me think of what it would sound like to stick my head inside a beehive.

I should probably go in there, was my first thought. Which tells you something about my life.

The church was filled with ardent Guatemalans and speckled with a few, surprised and bewildered tourists.

Are they... are they nailing Jesus to the cross? 
 

They were. They were indeed nailing Jesus to the cross. While steadily pounding the foreboding drum, waving what resembled wooden flags (these were responsible for the head-in-a-beehive noises), lighting incense, and bearing flowers.

THIS IS SO INTENSE, I continued to photograph the event, trying to stay out of the way and to keep the look of shock/terror out of my face.

WHO does this? Nails Jesus to a cross as a ceremony?

 

With so much care. With so much gentleness. With so much precision. The Guatemalan men pounded nails into Jesus' hands (the cross already had its bloodstains) and decorated the arms of the cross with flowers.

While the Guatemalan women remained seated. As they do in church.

Ugh. 

I am literally the only woman standing right now, I looked around at the men surrounding me. With flowers and instruments and incense.

Fucking religion. 
 

I probably stayed in the church for half an hour. Mesmerized and slightly sketched out. Then I strolled down the hill, back to the dock, and headed to San Pedro.

Where I blissfully splurged on a cappuccino and an entire pan de chocolate. Sans remorse.

Also. Never again make a home in a country which lacks cheap, delicious cheese and pastries. You're too much of a hedonist to live off of beans and lentils for months at a time. 

You're lucky, Bourget. You have the freedom to choose which path you want to take. What kind of community you want to surround yourself with. So use what you learned here and actually implement what you've learned. Don't just think about it, write about it, sleep on it. Don't just know what works for you, what doesn't work for you, and then disregard it. 

Which is an unfortunate habit you seem to have. You've got a shit-ton of self-awareness, Bourget. But you don't take as much action on this awareness as maybe you could. 

Work on that. 

Sincerely, 

~Someone who has to live with you

Adventure to Chichi Market! -- Chichicastenango, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from Shambala Cafe. The same foreboding "AUUUUUMMMMM" music, interspersed with bells, plays in the background. I listen to an indie/folk compilation on youtube, trying my best to drown out the extreme hippie with the moderate hippie. 

But the "Auuummmm" permeates everything. As do the snippets of conversation about sound healing, numerology, the Mayan calendar, and astrology. 

This just isn't the place for me. And that's okay. I've learned a lot about myself here, and now it's time to move on. 

Tammo, my tentmate/badass climber/German politician, helps keep me sane. When I need a conversation about things more down to earth and relevant to now, I know I can talk with him. 

Which is comforting. Without Tammo, I'd feel so damn isolated. 

 We shared an afternoon on the dock the other night. Drinking beer and watching a delicate, pink sunset over the surprisingly tranquil waters of Atitlan.

 

An unsurprising un-tranquil Guatemalan youngster, who introduced himself as "Axel," interrupted us to tell us he was hungry. That his mother couldn't feed him.

"Tango hambre..." he rubbed his belly. "Tango mucho hambre."

When it finally became clear that we weren't going to give him a Q, Axel relented to just asking Tammo if he could take some photographs.

And because Tammo is a better person than I am, he carefully supervised Axel for about ten minutes, as the candid Guatemalan snapped a couple pictures with my friend's analog camera. 

Tammo and I returned to San Pedro the next day. Tammo needed a haircut and I needed to leave San Marcos.

And Sunday. Sunday was a glorious day. A needed day. Sunday was the best day in weeks.

I woke up without congestion in my face. My infected nose had healed over. I felt okay.

And my stomach, I observed my cantankerous belly for a few moments. My stomach feels... fine. No rumblings. No portentous gurglings.

I feel GOOD right now, I thought, immediately rapping the wooden floor of my circus tent with my superstitious knuckles.

Tammo and I packed our bags with baguette, a stick of butter, and a plastic container full of honeycomb. Our roundtrip ticket to Chichi and many quetzales were stored safely in my wallet.

TENTMATES BE GOING TO CHICHI! 

I happily hurtled down the mountain towards San Marcos, for once sort of keeping pace with my long-legged German friend.  

We arrived at the dock of Del Lago at 6:20, just in time to watch the sun peek out from behind the dry, smoking mountains and cast the first glimmering rays of gold on the rippling lake.
 

Tammo and I ate our divine breakfast of baguette, honeycomb and butter, while watching the hillside above San Pedro burn.

It seems like there's never a day without fire, I thought as I unabashedly smeared giant wads of butter onto my overtaxed baguette. This is what jungle looks like near the end of the dry season. A giant tinder box. I hope everyone's okay.

We finished our breakfast (sadly) and then briskly walked to the basketball court, where we were to catch our shuttle to the Chichi Market.

"The road is blocked," our driver told us in Spanish. "You need to take a tuk-tuk to San Pablo, then take the shuttle to Chichi."

"Bueno," Tammo and I nodded, then climbed into a tiny tuk-tuk with two other people and two large suitcases.

We arrived in Chichi at around ten o'clock, and were told to meet our shuttle back in the same place at 1:50.

That gives us almost four hours to wander. Which will be more than enough, I'm sure. 

Tammo and I looked at each other in excitement. The colors, smells, and sounds of the market (plus the coffee I'd refused to share with Tammo) were already making me jittery.

Stimulation! Stimulation other than dogs barking at any hour of the day and night! Stimulation other than obnoxiously loud church music being played at any hour of the day and night! WAHOO! How I'VE MISSED YOU. 
 

I left Tammo in a cafe to get his coffee (as I wouldn't share mine), and happily plunged into the chaos of  Chichi's main market street.

Other tourists looked uncomfortable or overwhelmed.

I grinned, ear to ear, as a small kid pushed at my butt to get me to move faster, as an old man carrying a load of chicken wire almost clobbered my head.

I returned to Tammo's cafe, out of breath and jubilant. Where my friend was calmly sipping his coffee and smoking a cigarette, Guatemalan newspaper waiting for him on the table.

"It's SO BUSY OUT THERE!" I sat down to drink my fake orange juice. "So much fun to navigate," I declared, imagining the rest of our afternoon swimming through the sea of people. 

Tammo and I abandoned the peace of his cafe, both venturing out into the pandemonium of Central America's largest textile market.

"Mmm..." the tantalizing scent of fried food wafted under my nose. "Can we go in there?" I motioned towards a narrow alley which led into the food portion of the market.

"Wherever you want," my tentmate responded amiably. My tentmate rarely responds with anything but amiability.

This kid. Haha.

We spent the next few hours ducking in and out of alleys, popping in and out of shops, hopping over buckets of miel (so many people selling honey), and dodging low-hanging textiles. 

I was a very practical hobo and bought a notebook, a case for my paintbrushes, some honey, and a bottle of contact lens solution (see? Practical). Tammo was a very practical German and bought a cover for his couch, some souvenirs for friends, and a pork pie hat.

We drank cocktails at a restaurant/bar with a view of the market, scarfed down a quick lunch of fried pollo y papas, then made our way back to the shuttle.

"I needed that," I commented to Tammo as we waited for the rest of the group to arrive. "A day of easy, fun, colorful adventure."

Back in San Marcos, we bought some coconuts and sat on the old pier, watching lanchas arriving from San Pedro, heading to Pana. Watching lanchas arriving from Pana, heading to San Pedro. 

 

We walked back to The Forest a couple hours later, happy, tired, deeply satisfied, just as the sky grew dark.

Thank god for days like today, I thought as I piled my plate high with the Forest's vegan dinner, overhearing intense conversations about astrology and the significance of the 25th of March as the end of the Mayan calendar.

Aaaaaaaand, here we go again.

Life is a Dance -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

Everything gets under my skin these days.

Everything.

I look forward to nothing except crawling into bed at night. And the reassuring thought that I've survived another day at the Forest. 

Which is never how I want to live. 

Folks at the Forest would say that my downward spiraling temperament is a result of a recent solar flare, but I'm trying to discover something deeper and more personal than that. A specific reason I'm so tormented by San Marcos and its spiritual tourism and spiritual trinkets. 

Because I had hoped that the yoga community would be different. I'd hoped that life wouldn't be all about money in places like this. 

But it is. There's so much fucking greed and opportunism in this hippie village.

And I don't believe that greed is about making money. I believe that greed is about sacrificing the well-being of others in order to make money.

Which is how I feel every time I see a sign that says, "intuitive massage," "intuitive chakra healing," or intuitive anything else. To me, "intuitive" just means, "without education."

But maybe that's just me being jaded and cynical with the spiritual community. I wouldn't be surprised.

Every time the Yoga Forest hosts a teacher training and a dozen people show up to pay thousands of dollars to become yoga teachers, it feels like greedy opportunism.

Three weeks. Is not enough time to learn what's necessary to bear the responsibility that comes with teaching yoga. It's utterly absurd to expect that three weeks is sufficient. But people run teacher trainings all the time because that's where the money is. 

So thousands of yoga teachers (such as myself) haven't got the proper education to teach people about their bodies.  Which results in injuries. All the time.

This. Is greed.

And I'm a part of it.

Which is probably why this town and all of its goings-on get under my skin so much. I'm participating in something I don't agree with. And living in San Marcos makes it painfully obvious. 

I have no enthusiasm to teach yoga these days. In fact, I dread each class. I dread each class because I don't feel like what I have to offer is complete. I don't have the education to truly understand physical problems which can arise in class, and I don't have the education to carry emotional trauma that can arise during class.

Then what the fuck am I doing leading this class? 

Is a thought that pops into my brain with remarkable regularity.

I need more education. 

Is the thought that always follows.

I need money for more education. And stability. Neither of which I have right now. 

Fuckballs. 

Are the thoughts which follow that thought that follows.

I don't know if I'm able to stay here until the 20th of April. I don't know if it would be good for me and good for those around me. 

But if I leave now, would I be escaping something I need to work through? In my yoga classes, I nearly always tell my poor students, "Healthy stress is necessary in order to grow. Give your body the gift of healthy stress. Stay with this stress. Sink into it. Breathe into it. Relax into it. But your body does not need pain. It's your job to recognize the moment stress transcends into pain, and to then give yourself some grace, some compassion, and come out of the posture." 

Is this healthy stress? Should I sink into it, explore it, see what it has to show me about myself? 

Or is it pain? Is it time to give myself that grace, pack Fat Ellie, and head to Antigua? 

...

I just don't know.  

I'm not forcing myself to feel gratitude anymore. I'm just allowing myself to feel whatever it is I happen to be feeling. And telling myself that it's okay. I'm sinking into my frustration and my anger. My resentment and my disappointment.

"Life is a dance. Mindfulness is witnessing the dance."

 - is the quote by Amit Ray I wrote on the Yoga Forest board this morning.

Just witness this dance.

Witness without judgement. But notice when your negativity affects others, and try to find some kindness to offer. And some context. Let people know that you're struggling, and make sure they understand that your reactions have nothing to do with them. 

You're just in a funk. 

Something you always say in Acro Yoga is that the base cannot support the flyer if the base cannot FEEL the flyer. The flyer must surrender all their weight, all their trust to the base in order to be supported safely.
 

So. Bourget. Surrender your trust to the community at The Forest. Let them know that you're struggling so, if they choose, they can support you. 

If they don't feel you, they cannot support you.

Mmmm, vulnerability. Is that what I'm running from? Real vulnerability in a community, not just on the internet? 

Could be.

 

If Emotions were Colors -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm struggling. And it isn't pretty. I wake up every morning (if I've managed to sleep) feeling angry. Angry at my body for never being okay. Angry at myself for not taking better care of it.

Bourget. You KNOW you have chronic sinusitis. And yet, you bloody CHOSE to pierce your nose. Nobody forced you to shove a needle through your face. You decided you wanted a nose ring, even though every month or so, your face becomes an infected disaster of mucus and extraordinary swelling. 

Who does that? WHO? 

You do. For some reason.

Through my haze of anger, I vow to focus on gratitude. Gratitude for a body which has carried me to 38 countries (albeit many of them with great reluctance). Gratitude for a passport which opens the world to me. Gratitude for the people I've met along the way who've shown such support. 

But gratitude doesn't come easily these days, even if I have so much for which I could be grateful. I catch myself complaining more oft than not, and my belly is a simmering pit of pissed off. Pissed off the moment I catch a whiff of exploitation. Or if someone asks if I've tried homeopathy on my face. Pissed off the moment I hear another person tell me how they don't believe in vaccines or antibiotics. Pissed off the moment I notice that yet another guest or volunteer has fallen ill at The Yoga Forest.

WHY? Why don't they hire ONE person to wash all the dishes? It wouldn't 100% prevent us from getting sick, but it would certainly help keep sickness from spreading. However, since in this caring community we all wash our own dishes -- putting all our hands and all our plates in the same four filthy bowls of water -- we lovingly spread our diseases all around. 

I'm not a manager. I don't know how difficult it would be to hire someone to wash dishes. 

But fuck. It can't be that hard. Can it?  

I've been at the Forest nearly five months now. And girl be over it. Girl be counting the days until she packs Fat Ellie and escapes to Antigua to study Spanish in a homestay through Antiguena Spanish School. And has a toilet adjacent to her bedroom, a refrigerator she can use so that she can have milk in her coffee, and isn't living in the space she also works.

Five months is too long to live at my job. A few weeks is a challenge. Five months... oof. Five months has been over-fucking-whelming.  

I went up to the common area to try to study Spanish this morning. And the volunteer on shift wasn't in the kitchen (which is fine -- we all need to flee to the toilet every now and then. Some more often than others), so the kitchen ladies came to me with all their questions.

"Aimee?"

"Si?"

"Cuantas personas para la desayuno?"

"Un momento, por favor," I put down my tarea and scampered into the office, quickly scanning the board to check how many guests were currently residing at The Forest.

"No mas de viente," I popped my head into the kitchen to inform Magda.

As soon as people know that you are a person with answers, you get barraged with questions. Regardless of whether or not you're "on shift." You're just always on shift. It's just part of your reality. 

I'm trying to observe my state of perpetually pissed and not relate it too strongly to other people. Sure, there are some folks who trigger the anger more than others, but in the end, these are my emotions.

What can I learn about myself and my behavior by... by observing my anger? By being present to my anger? By not judging myself for experiencing this extreme emotion and not blaming others for inciting it? 

I photographed Tammo and Noelle climbing the other day. And in order to get more than butt shots, I had to climb the wall first, lock in with a life-line, and then snap my photographs from above.

It felt so fucking cathartic to scream my way up the rock face. 

If emotions were colors, I think anger would be a secondary color. Or a tertiary color. It feels like a combination of primary emotions. 

Primary emotions such as fear. 

Love. 

Sadness. 

So. What emotions am I brewing together to create this stew of anger? 

Where does my anger have its roots?
 

In betrayal. Feeling utterly betrayed by my body. 
 

In fear. In feeling like I can't trust my body to not give me pain ALL THE TIME, and like I can't trust myself to take care of my body. 
 

In frustration. I'm bloody frustrated by a life wherein I can work thirty hours a week not make a dime. Sure, I have my circus tent and three vegetarian meals a day -- 

-- but I want money now, thank-you very much. I want to be paid for my work. In dollars, quetzales, pesos, euros, or any other manner of currency I can use to become a more independent lady. And this does not include "hugs," "love," or three vegetarian meals a day.
  

 In sadness. In feeling like I've lost another home in The Forest. There was a moment, a rare, fleeting moment, wherein I thought this place could be a home for me.

But I don't feel that way anymore. I feel like this is just another place from which I can't wait to run. 

So. Betrayal + Fear + Frustration + Sadness is what I've got burbling in my pot of anger. 
 

I'm leaving the Forest before they close in May. I'm leaving April 20th. And my Spanish school in Antigua starts on April 23rd. And Girl won't be returning to her tent in The Forest anytime soon.
 

One more month. 

So. Bourget. How are you going to accept this anger without allowing it to negatively affect those around you? How are you going to get the most out of your final month here? And, more importantly,  how are you going to continue to give the most? 
 

Good question, Bourget, good question. You... uh... think about that. And get back to me. 

Also. Maybe ask someone else. Mulling over things in your own mind is all well and good, but get some perspective from people who know and love you.
 

I paint to deal with my anger. I study Spanish to keep myself occupied and feel productive. I buy plane tickets to find direction.

 I bought a ticket from Costa Rica to Colorado for August 23rd. From Colorado to Quebec on September 25th. From Quebec to France on October 15th.

Girl be going back to Europe. To the land of cheese, wine, limited giardia, and unlimited (for now, at least) hot water and electricity. 

Thank. God.