I'm feeling profoundly lost these days. Which isn't necessarily a bad way to feel. Just an exhausting way to feel. An unsettling way to feel.
On the 22nd of February, I said goodbye to Lake Atitlan and the Yoga Forest for two weeks.
I'm going to miss my community at The Forest, but I need a vacation. Desperately. I don't have the capacity to deal with guests anymore. To explain to flustered wi-fi addicts the reason we don't have internet available at the Forest. To clean dozens of abandoned mugs every day. To find creepy black scorpions lurking in my underwear (there are few worse things to discover lurking in your underwear). To NOT roll my eyes at the incessant hippie shenanigans. I want to go to a cafe and NOT overhear what the New Moon is up to, what the Full Moon is on about, or how someone discovered that their fear of heights if rooted in trauma experienced in a previous life.
Lake Atitlan.
You're great. Super pretty and stuff.
But you're full of giardia, hippies, scary street dogs, and shit/non-existent wifi.
I'll be happy to take a break from you for a bit. To Netflix it UP, eat SO MUCH CARNE, and just look at the moon and stars without wondering what they mean.
I hope I'll be happy to come back.
Cheers,
-Aimee
I boarded the shuttle for San Cristobal de las Casas at 7:00 on Thursday morning. And after a jarring, ten hour journey, I arrived in the colonial city, with an aching back and a pounding head.
Guatemalan roads. Are one thing I will probably never adjust to. And I doubt they'll get any better as I continue to travel south...
Central American roads are the destroyers of backs. No wonder Aleve is advertised on like, every other building in this country.
San Cristobal was cold. Much colder than Lake Atitlan. I shivered, and donned my puffy, polka dot jacket, wrapping my blue scarf around my neck and ears. The bustling main square smelled of roasted corn, coffee, car exhaust, and cigarettes. The somewhat frenetic energy of the tourists, the beggars, the street performers, the artists selling their wares (that mostly all look the same) came as a welcome surprise after months of retreating to my quiet tent for the 8pm Yoga Forest bedtime.
So much stimuli. Holy bananas.
My pounding head began to rage, so I retreated to Al Grano Cafe, ordered a mango chai and popped an aleve.
My much needed vacation started as a vacation, filled with street food, wine, coffee, and friends.
I even splurged and booked my annual tour (I think I go on one tour a year, excluding free walking tours). To Sumidero Canyon.
 |
| See the crocodile? Sneaky, sunbathing crocodile. |
The vacation stopped being a vacation about three days in. When I ate too much spicy quesadilla, triggered my weird case of acid reflux, and then had throat pain for the rest of the day.
That night, the throat pain turned into remarkably thick congestion, so intense that I felt like my head was underwater. Suddenly I couldn't hear, couldn't taste, couldn't smell.
...
awesome
...
This is like what I had last year. And it lasted for eight months, on and off. I'm encouraged that I can look back at experiences like trekking in Nepal while afflicted with this nasty sinus disease and have fond memories... but truth be told, I was miserable at the time.
I've been sick, UNFLAGGINGLY, for nearly two years. And I'm usually in environments wherein I can't properly take care of myself whilst sick. I just have to pop a couple of antibiotics and then go teach a yoga class. Or step out into the cold weather and hitchhike to the next town. I can't just make a hot bath, eat soup, drink tea, and see a doctor who knows me and my body.
And it seems... it seems like I have to wait for nostalgia to kick in in order to feel like many of my adventures during these painful two years were actually, you know, enjoyable. I have to wait for nostalgia to work its magic and erase the fact that my sarong was soaked with mucus (I ran out of tissues and was forced to... umm... improvise) after my Nepal trek, so that I can look at the gorgeous photos of that experience with a wistful sigh.
Boca del Cielo was the next stop. After a four hour bus ride, an hour wait, then an hour shuttle journey to the coast, I arrived at "Mouth of the Sky". To find a catch of a dozen sharks, bleeding on the dock.
One of the Canadians on the colectivo (in Mexico/Central America, there's always a Canadian around) spoke Spanish. She asked the fisherman how much they sold the shark for.
"28 pesos a kilo!" she shook her head in disbelief. "That's nothing."
The five days at Boca del Cielo were full of spectacular sunsets, mojitos, kayaking, and violent nose blowing. I hardly slept at all, couldn't focus enough to study Spanish, and was gifted approximately a bajillion mosquito bites.
At nearly every yoga class I teach, I ask people to explore their bodies with compassion and curiosity. To accept whatever it is they find. And then to do their best to meet their body where it's at, in that moment. To take care of their body where it's at, in that moment.
I don't think I've been giving myself that grace. For two years, I've been forcing my body to be where I want it to be, to carry me where I want to go, and not just accepting my body as it is. And working with it.
Can I keep traveling? Can my body handle not having complete autonomy over my diet and my sleep schedule? 'Cos it doesn't seem like it. Can I cope with being in countries wherein I don't understand the health care system and don't have a doctor who knows me?
I'm not sure.
Is it finally time I meet my body where it's at, and develop a home base in a place wherein I can take care of its burgeoning needs? Say goodbye, for the moment, to seeing sunsets around the world, relinquish this travel blog until my body regains its health, become deeply integrated into a long term community, instead of a floating in and out of hobo "families"?
Maybe. Maybe it's time I decide on a new home. And that can't be at The Yoga Forest, where I have to constantly worry about getting giardia and I share my tent with scorpions. It can't be in Colorado, where I make ten dollars an hour (if that) teaching yoga and struggle to find diversity and art. It can't be in Canada, because the winters would utterly destroy me...
I don't know what to do. Where to settle. How to take care of myself. None of my options seem to meet all my needs.
Keep brainstorming. Find new options. You're resourceful, Bourget. You're creative. Figure something out. Don't give in to these feelings of defeat. Of despair. Of feeling betrayed by your body.
I found a giant scorpion in my clothes the first day back at the Forest. The second day, I cut my hand whilst washing wax out of used, glass candle holders.
"FUCK!" I had a very yogic reaction. Then ran to the first aid kit by the office and took out a bandaid whilst cradling my injured hand.
So stupid. So unnecessary. Blurgh.
Noel, the interim manager ('cos Jonas is slightly occupied with having a baby), helped me disinfect the cut, put a couple of bandaids on it, and then slip into a glove to keep the blood from getting everywhere.
Well. At least now I won't get blood into the salad, I thought, as I scurried off to finish my shift, angry tears threatening to roll down my cheeks.
When I returned to the kitchen with a bowl of salad greens, Luna took one look at my hand and ordered me to sit down.
"You rest. I'll take care of this," she kissed my cheek and grabbed the greens.
And then I did cry.
Maybe this is a place I can be sick. With people like Luna around, maybe I can last here at least a couple more months.
I sent Jonas a picture of my bloody hand.
He told me I should make blood sausage. And to let him know if I needed anything.
"You Germans and your sausage," I wrote back. Then blew my nose violently with one hand, sneezed, and winced as the deep cut opened again and more blood oozed into the saturated glove.
So.
Maybe I do need to be in a place with a proper doctor.
Oof.
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